14-2: A Tail Of Revenge [continued]

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Tailfin had grown weary over the years. Being the meanest guy in the city was a tough job – a stressful job – and his migraines were becoming worse as the years passed. He had plans to retire soon, to get a nice place up on the hill overlooking the bay, and live out his days reading books instead of breaking bones.

A week below the water had been calming, if a little boring. He still didn't know how he had survived for seven days without air, and he wasn't particularly interested in pursuing the topic – there were likely some fairly dangerous answers at the end of that quest.

He strolled along Sevryne Street, bearing away from the markets, heading towards a bakery that he had visited a number of times over the years. The sweet old lady always refused to serve him. Probably the only person on Renryre Island with the guts to do so.

"Good morning, Nelysse," said Tailfin. "How are you today?"

"Morning, Tailfin," said the old lady. "I am very well, thank you for asking. How are you? I heard you were dead?"

Tailfin couldn't help but chuckle at that. He supposed that word had travelled around town quickly after his disappearance. Nelysse looked a little disappointed to discover it wasn't true.

"As you can see, that's not the case," he shrugged, glancing at himself. "But I am peckish. How about a little cake?"

"As you know, it's against store policy to serve lowlife criminal scum."

He wanted to laugh, but the cake actually looked rather enticing. He drew his dagger, almost uncontrolled.

"There are two ways this is going to happen," he said, allowing Nelysse time to deduce her options.

She stepped back with a shocked look on her face. Tailfin had never bothered threatening her before. Why now? It wasn't like him.

"What happens next?" asked a voice behind him.

Tailfin turned to find The Scribe sitting at a table in the corner, casually scribbling on a parchment.

"You?" said Tailfin.

"I heard you were looking for me," said The Scribe.

Tailfin looked around cautiously. Yes, he was looking for The Scribe, but he hadn't expected The Scribe to find him first. Nelysse was still nervously watching him, and he decided to put the dagger away.

"What can I do for you, Tailfin?" asked The Scribe.

Ignoring the bakerwoman, Tailfin walked over to the table.

"I have a job for you," he said. "I am retiring soon, you see. And I need someone to write my biography. A memoir, if you like. How I became what I am, and how it gradually comes to an end."

"I don't tend to write things retrospectively," said The Scribe after a moment's consideration. "But I suppose I am interested. Any thought on what this book will be called?"

"Yes, actually," said Tailfin proudly, "A Tail Of Revenge."

"A Tale Of Revenge?"

"Tail, spelt t-a-i-l."

"A Tail Of Revenge?"

"Yes. As in, Tailfin."

"That's... just silly."

"What? Why?"

"Well, anybody who reads the title will think you can't spell. And then they won't bother to read it."

"They will read it."

"Why?"

"Because I'm Tailfin, and I will bloody well make them read it!"

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