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Fates of the Fateless Ch 10: Service with a Grimace
it ain't much, sanitary, humane, dignifying, well paying, or fun. But it's honest.
This is a mature story, this is where themes start to become mature and trigger warnings are relevant from this point forward. You have been warned.
TRIGGER WARNING!!
violence against women, graphic description of body horror and violence, implications of rape/non-con
ao3
wattpad
“Hey! Girly, pay attention! I got dishes that need cleaning and customers that need servin’!”
“Yes sir Mr. Roper! On it!” Struggling to corral the mob of drunken men out of your way to reach another soiled table. Quick to wipe it down as quickly as possible while juggling a plethora of shot glasses piled nearly over your head. Dashing to and fro through a crowd with absolutely no regard for your wellbeing. But then again, they were probably too shitfaced to even comprehend anything beyond shoving even more booze contaminated with who knows what down their gullets. Bumping into each other exchanging foul words and even more foul bodily fluids. Leaving you with various questionable stains along the hem of your skirt and shoes. It was dirty work. But at least it was honest work.
“Heeeee—eeeey llady! Me ‘nd my buddies need shomore drrrrinks. Pronto!” Another one of your regulars who you’ve never actually seen leave the saloon slumps against the bar top slapping his hand into the wood to emphasize his pronto, soaking his shirt sleeve into a puddle of mystery liquid that went flying in every other direction upon impact.
“Ok, ok! Give me a second Albert!” You scrambled around the bar quick to deposit your load of dirty dishes into Mr. Ropers hands as you scramble down the cellar door ladder, shuffling through the sawdust to grab as many bottles of cool liquor as you can while still being able to climb back up. “Money first! Then you get your drinks.” You scold the many grabby hands that lamely flop to their pants, creating a pile of rusted coins that you then swept into your apron’s skirt and over to the large old cash register.
“Hey! Hamish, I’m not paying you to sit around!” Mr. Roper screams over the mob, wiping down glasses with an old rag before deeming them “clean” enough to be served back into the masses. Hamish who was most likely skimming drinks and used cigarettes began an upbeat tune on the old piano, stirring up the group of men even more into a mass of dancing bodies. Busy pouring shot after shot you felt yourself seize up with dread as you watched one particular man lose a boot, soaring through the air before landing a straight bullseye into one of the unemptied spittoons. Pouring it’s viscous and rancid contents all over the floor, only to be stepped in and dragged across the rest of the wooden planks as you felt the start of sick sour the back of your throat.
It’s honest work. It’s honest work. It’s honest work. It’s honest work.
________________________________________________________
It wasn’t until well into the night did the masses finally decide to call it a day, slowly filtering their way out the saloon’s swinging doors leaving anything and everything undesirable for you to clean up. The scene was the same every night. Chairs and tables were strewn across the room, usually not standing and in the wrong places. Playing cards strewn every which way, never adding up to a full 52. Shattered glass shards were to be expected. Vomit was the norm. Someone’s forgotten hat or boot or… shirt? Cigarette butts everywhere but the ashtray. And you’d clean all of it for the hefty sum of $1.42 a night.
But it’s the most fucking honest $1.42 you’ve ever made.
“I’m gonna call it a night Mr. Roper… I’ll uh… see you same time tomorrow.”
Mr. Roper was sucking on a cigar while satisfyingly counting out his piles of cash. “See you then, you too Hamish.” He nods the two of you off with an exhale of white smoke before going back to his counting.
The night air was cool and crisp. A slight breeze brought a light shiver as it passed through your soiled layers. Ones you’ve had to wear for the 3rd week in a row. Now with a full-time job that sucked every ounce of energy and time you had, left you with no time to clean your only other pair of clothes. Your feet barely leave the final wooden step when you hear someone call your name.
Your eyes drift upwards toward the balcony to find a woman. One of the working girls. “Madame Penelope wants a word with you.”
“Look I’m not interested or will ever be interested in that kind of work so-”
“I’m just the messenger. As far as I know she just wants to talk.” She gives you a once over with her eyes, face blank and tired. “I’d at least listen to what she has to say.” She turns her back to you, walking a few steps before stopping and turning her head in your direction. “She’s the only one looking out for us girls, not just her whores.” She then disappears from your view. You almost don’t go back in, far too tired and dirty to really socialize any more, but against your better judgment your feet find themselves climbing up the main level of the building, down a luxurious hallway and finally to the lavish door guarded by the most popular ladies of the night, who swept you inside quickly.
There was low light inside, a lantern hidden behind a red curtain cast everything in a rose-tinted glow. You spot a large woman scribbling away at a desk, a deep baritone voice finally acknowledged your presence. “Give me a moment darlin’.” A moment passed with only the sound of pen and paper.
“I’m sorry but…I’m not interested in your line of work. And I’m not going to change my mind about it.” You break the silence.
“Oh, yah’ve proven that much, turnin’ every generous offah me and mah girls throw your way.” She chuckles deep in her chest, she collects whatever paperwork she had into a stack, tapping them into uniform order before placing them to the side, eyes now falling upon your person. “Hm… Young. Pretty little thing.” she eyes you up, taking a moment to really take you in. “Make the sweetest little pet.” She stands, pulling a cigarette from a little metal compact. Lighting it as she comes ever closer. A flick of her hand and the match is extinguished, a deep inhale and a musky cloud of burnt tobacco fills your lungs causing you to cough. “How’d yah end up here?” The wispy smoke clears and you finally get a good look at the mysterious and powerful woman you’ve heard only through whispers and gossip. The boss of the boss. Her hair was a vibrant red, styled in those classic old fashioned sausage curls, perfectly shiny and uniform. Stripes of white and grey could be seen amongst the fiery locks. Her eyes were a deep green, bloodshot, framed by sagging lids and heavy makeup. Lines deep in her face evidence of a long life lived. She was large in stature and frame, ruby colored lips sucking in another puff awaiting your answer.
“Life happened.” You wave her second puff out of your face. “Are we done here? I’ve got a long day of work tomorrow.” She smiles, another laugh billows past her lips.
“Ah yes, the stable is where yah sleepin’ ain’t it?”
“Can’t afford anything else.” You cough into your elbow, trying to dispel the tickle in your throat. It practically shakes your whole body in the process. She makes a grab for your arm, pinching your wrist and clicking her tongue.
“Haven’t been eatin’ well either. Gettin’ skinny.” Her bright eyes give you a knowing look just past the dark strands of her lashes. Caked with far too much mascara. “Yah could be liven’ bettah if yah come work for me.” As if to rub it in your face she tinkers with the heavy gold set necklace resting along her freckled throat. “Make thrice the commission. A roof ovah yah head. No longah sleepin’ in that filth and gettin’ by with scraps.” Her nails clinked against the shimmering metal.
“I’d be sleeping with the filth instead.” You snatch your hand back. Mr. Roper may be the manager. But she was the boss. If she really wanted to, she could increase your pay without trying to traffic you into sex work.
“Hm, still have that naive vigor of hope in yah eyes.” She taps off the excess ash building up on her cig, “Just haven’t learned the lesson all women come to learn eventually.” She toys with one of her curls, pulling on it before it springs back into form. “We don’t get a choice.” She’s deliberate to blast the next exhale straight into your eyes, causing them to burn and tear up. She glides to her velvet couch, decorated with fine pillows threaded with bright colors. “I didn’t call yah up here to recruit yah.”
“No?” You give her a confused look.
“A man came by, flashed a big bag of money in mah face askin’ about the new flowah servin’ the devil’s nectah at the bar. Got real haughty when ah told him yah weren’t one of mine.” He. A man has noticed you, the last thing you want in a time where men are free to do whatever they want without regard for someone like you. “Don’t know him, just know he comes through every once in a while.” Her face scrunches up in annoyance. “Don’t trust his kind…” she taps off the extra ash accumulating at the end of her cigarette. “Got that air about him… used to takin’ what he wants. Don’t care if he gotta hurt others to get it.” Her fingers tap aggressively against the velvet arm of the couch, leaving little divets in the fabric as they land.
“Yah got a gun?” you nod your head and a small “yes” leaves your lips. “Good, ah suggest yah keep it on yah person from now on.” She turns away from you, her cigarette a nub in her fingertips now snubbed out into an empty glass cup. She remains transfixed on the ashes. “By the way, I had mah girls fix yah a bath.” She turns to look at you, lids heavy and gaze uninterested. “What’s been said stays between you and ah, undahstand?”
_______________________________________________________
You can feel the cold metal of the gun pressed against your stomach, engulfed by extra fabric and held there by the ribbon on your apron. A poor attempt at a makeshift holster. It’s odd comfort nonetheless. Your hyper aware of every new body that comes in through those swinging doors. Eyes critical and intense, attempting to take in every single detail of each new face that enters your eyeline. Picking apart how their looking at you.
Uninterested.
Annoyed.
Shy.
Dazed.
Lecherous.
Drunk.
But which one has put a target on your back? Who could be so interested in some nobody? What do you have that they want?
You’re vulnerable.
You’re scared.
You’re alone.
You’re an easy target.
You’ve been nursing the same sleep deprived headache since you got the horrible heads up from Penelope, it throbs just behind your eyes. Making you slightly nauseous. Unable to stomach much and in turn low on energy.
Your hands are shaky causing you to spill a whole 2 shots worth of liquor onto the floor. “Dammit.” Swooping down to wipe up your mess. Low to the ground and preoccupied. A large shiny black shoe enters your vision, fancy and expensive looking, deliberately steps right on your rag. Catching a couple of your fingers.
“Ow! What the hell!?” You angrily snap your head up to chew out whoever felt the need to make your already terrible day even worse. The curse words catch in your throat and your blood runs cold. Deep set brown eyes stare down at you. Hair parted down the middle. And a stupid pencil ‘stache sits atop a smirk.
It was Samson.
“That’s a good look on you.” His eyes narrow and his smile extends up the corners of his mouth. “On your hands and knees, all domestic like.” He grinds his foot down harder, you rip your hand out from underneath the force. Taking some skin off as you do. Standing quick and several steps back, cradling your hand as you gape at him angry and shocked.
Your eyes dart across the many bodies within the saloon, looking for the familiar faces of the gang. But none appeared.
“Don’t worry, none of Van der Linde’s other strays are here. Just you and me.” He puts his hands behind his back, taking you in with a long and tortuous stare. “I for sure thought you’d be dead by now. From what the others said about you.” When he smiles, his eyes remain cold and dead. “Useless. Stupid. And a waste of a pretty face.” Your heart twists a bit, and you ponder why you feel the sting at the thought of the others saying such things.
“What do you want?” You tried to sound strong and confident. But it comes out exhausted. “I got drinks to serve.” Surely with so many people around he wouldn’t dare do anything.
“By all means, serve me up a whiskey.” He shoves a man aside to take his place at the bar, throwing a couple coins carelessly in your direction.
“Hey what’s your-!“ the customer turns in anger, ready to throw hands before taking in the sheer size of Samson. “uuh- ‘scuse me.” Scurrying away. You’re quick to grab a bottle and a glass. Tempted to dump his drink in a dirty one but think better of it with his eyes watching your every move. Slapping the drink down, deliberately causing some of it to spill.
Samson eyes you up, grasping the glass and taking a swig. Tasting it on his tongue before his face twists.
“Don’t taste like 50 cents worth to me.” Despite his seemingly dislike of the liquor, he throws the rest back and downs the glass. “Now you on the other hand-”
“That’s not part of my job description so save it.” You blank at him, monotone. His smirk drops. Staring you down without a word. He slides the glass towards you aggressively.
“Another.” He says. As you pour he continues to feel the need to speak. “And with a smile this time.”
You deliberately force an even deeper scowl onto your face. Slamming the drink down harder this time, causing the liquid to splash up his shirt.
“Hey! What the hell-!” Before he can get his words out you slip away to the opposite side of the bar where other degenerates await your service.
“What can I get you?” in your peripheral you can see him marching over to you. You stubbornly keep your eyes forward.
“Yeah, let me get a gin.” Your current customer requests. Slipping you the cash, before delving into his pockets again. “And something for yourself.” He utters with a smile.
“Thanks, but I don’t touch the stuff.” You counter, sliding the extra money back to him.
“Hey! I wasn’t done talking to you!” Samson shouts, bulldozing his way directly into your view, knocking the man you were just serving out of the way. However, unlike the other patrons, this one seemed much more daring. Jabbing his elbow into Samson’s side and shoving hard, retaking his place at the bar.
“Watch yourself partner, be nice to the lady…” The strangers face appears calm, but there’s a look in his eyes that says otherwise. Samson eyes him up, smirking. Standing up straight to accentuate his clear advantage in size.
“I had my eye on her first. So, how’s about you run along and find some other whore to disappoint.” Samson jabs his finger into the man’s chest.
“Shut your fucking mouth!” You holler, drawing his gaze to you once more. With the focus now on you the other man took the opportunity to roughly grab Samson’s finger and twist him into the bar top. There was an audible pop along with a shout of pain. The stranger is quick to then grab the glass of booze and slam it down hard onto Samson’s face, shattering on impact and leaving a large bloody gash on his brow. Samson whimpers helplessly against the cold hard bar top, held down by his throat.
“A gentleman would apologize to the lady.” He says it in such a casual manner, as if he was simply talking about the weather and not breaking fingers or nearly gouging a man’s eye out with glass.
“I-I’m sorry okay! I’m sorry!” Samson’s cowardice surfaces with whimpers and misty eyes blinking back the blood that edges dangerously near his lash line. The stranger tilts his head curiously at you.
“That good enough for you?” he asks.
You glare down at Samson, “No. I want him gone. I want him to leave. Me. Alone.” You growl.
“That gonna be a problem for you? Are you gonna be a problem?”
“Nono! I’ll go, I promise I’ll go and never come back!” Samson squirms, the sight leaving you with a disturbing feeling of satisfaction.
“I wouldn’t mind if you hurt him some more…” you spoke, staring directly into Samson’s eyes. And there it was. That look of desperation.
“By all means, it would be my pleasure.” The mystery man smiles, slamming Samson’s head down on the bar top. HARD. You can practically feel the force shake the floor boards. He does it again before finally letting go, allowing Samson to fall to the floor. In a flurry of panic, he scrambles to his feet and barrels out of the building. Slamming his shoulder into the door frame painfully hard before disappearing. “I think the next time he looks in a mirror he’ll be sure to remember what he’s been told.” Wiping down his jacket, smoothing out the edges.
“Shit…” You mumble, “He didn’t pay for his drink…” You rub your eyes, no doubt the unpaid tab would be coming out of your paycheck.
Guess I’m skipping dinner again…
“Well, I’ve got plenty to spare,” The mystery man digs around in his pockets, a glimmer in his eyes, a handful of bills placed on the damp bar top in a neat pile.
“That’s too much I don’t-”
“Please, for your troubles.” He begins to pick up his mess of glass and whips out a handkerchief to wipe down the table.
Your tongue stumbles around in your mouth, only able to muster up a simple “Thank you…” Scooping the bills into your hand.
He pats his hands dry onto his dusty coat, extending one to you. “Daniel.”
Your hand finds his giving your name, his grip squeezes yours firmly and lingers a bit too long before finally pulling away. “You new to these parts?”
Before you can utter a reply, one of the working girls sidles up to the scene, nestling herself into the crook of Daniel’s side. “Hey honey. Lookin’ for a good time?” Her hand slides up his front as she flutters her lashes. Pressing her bust up towards his face. She shoots you a sneaking glance that said “Beat it.”
“Um, thank you again Daniel.” You give a small wave. Slipping off to the other side of the bar.
Keeping your eyes laser focused on your dirty dishes. Lingering on an already clean plate before daring a glimpse upwards only to have your eyes meet Daniel’s stormy gray ones once more. He was watching you. A group of men, each of them taking peeks in your direction, linger with him near the entrance. He finally waves with a smile as he departs out the saloon doors.
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It’s the next day. No sleep, but for once some food to put in your belly. Up bright and early for another day of saloon work. You notice the stable owner isn’t around hauling hay, nor his farrier that usually lingered on his old rickety chair, reading the day away. Only Big Enough and his new friends to spend breakfast with. You find them farther in town, along with practically half the town as well clustered together in one spot.
They’ve all gathered around the opening between one of the buildings. Chatter and concerned looks are exchanged as they continue to gawk at whatever has such a grip on their attention. You drift closer, eyes trying to peek through the small gaps that form each time a body moves. Soon a lawman arrives and attempts to dissipate the crowd, ushering them further back and finally revealing what was once hidden.
A woman lies dead in what was once a puddle of her own blood now soaked up by the sand leaving a damp dark halo around her head. She was facing the sky when she died, eyes glazed and pale, deep bruises around her throat, practically engulfing her whole neck. Blood coating her fingertips and clothes torn from her form leaving her naked and vulnerable for all to see. Even worse, you recognize this girl. Someone you’d seen often around the saloon, always smiling and with a light in her eyes that is now extinguished. Taken away in the night.
No one saw anything. No one heard anything.
Your breakfast doesn’t stay down for long.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
You’re at the bar somberly serving drinks. Unable to manage even your worst half assed customer service facade.
“Was she a friend of yours?” you recognize the voice. Eyes slowly trailing up to a face half shrouded by a gray flat billed cap. Gray stormy eyes peeking out.
Your head shakes. “I just… She was just a kid.” What else is there to say? Just a fucked-up situation.
“Well whatever friends she had have a strange way of mourning.” He remarks, eyeing some of the other girls laughing and flirting. Like it’s just another Tuesday.
You watch one of the girls caress her hand down a man’s vest, fingers slowly plucking away buttons before she reaches the bottom. Hand subtly cupping his crotch, her lips find his ear. Whatever is said causes his eyebrows to skyrocket to his hairline.
“She isn’t making them money anymore so why should they care?” You spit out in frustration. “Sorry,” you sigh out “Did you want anything?” He eyes you for a minute before he leans away.
“How’re the grits today?” He asks, eyeing the menu and its minimal options. After all, this was a brothel not a bed and breakfast.
“Don’t know, I’m not allowed to eat on the job.” You eye the back room to the dingy stove at the back wall, couple of old and likely dirty pots and pans lingering on a low flame. “Probably a little burnt. And I think there’s some beans and rice stewing away.” He knocks his knuckles on the wood bar top.
“I’ll take a plate.” He fiddles in his pockets, money in exchange for a dingy plate of food. And as you predicted, the grits had charred bits in it. He saunters off to a table to eat. You find there to be a few extra bucks thrown in, just for you.
Your day goes by as usual. At one point Daniel brings up his empty plate, exchanging it for a drink. You spot him later playing a game of cards. He comes back up to you for lunch and dinner. And when it’s closing time. He’s helping you turn the stools upside down as you sweep.
“How’s about I walk you home?” He asks. He notices right away how rigid you get at his proposal. He throws his hands up in a mock surrender. “Now I ain’t being forward or nothin’ but I wouldn’t feel it right to allow a vulnerable young woman to walk alone after…” He pauses, eyes turned upwards in thought, “Well, it just wouldn’t sit right with me.”
Your hands grip the broom, twisting it in your palms. “I don’t live far.” You dismiss. Pushing the pile of dust and cigarette butts towards the entrance. “Besides. I imagine you’re tired of hanging around here all day.” You turn to him with a reassuring smile. “You can head on home. I’ll be fine.” You brush the remnants of dirt and debris off the porch edge.
Daniel cocks his head. “I suppose your mama and daddy wouldn’t be too keen at the sight of their daughter coming home with a stray mutt like me at her heels.” He chuckles to himself. Leaning against the wooden beam. You remain silent a moment. Standing with the broom nestled in the crook of your elbow, resting against your shoulder as you gaze out onto the dark empty street.
Daniel clears his throat, “Pardon me, I didn’t realize- I shouldn’t have assumed your family situation.” He apologizes. You remain silent, eyes watching someone across the street dim their lantern in the window. “Do you have… Is there anyone waiting for you?” He asks. He’s met with the same silence. You hear the scuff of his boots on the hard wood as he pulls away from the beam. “That settles it, I’m walkin’ you home.” You finally turn to meet his eyes, dark stormy gray eyes bearing deep into yours. “I insist.”
You awkwardly lead the way, walking at a brisk pace, keeping just ahead of him. Your hands nestled securely atop the hidden pistol, pressing it into your belly. “I noticed the other girls don’t seem too friendly with you.” He comments.
“No, not really.” You blank.
“Don’t like the competition I suppose.”
“I only serve drinks. Nothing more.” You curtly correct. “I guess… they probably assume I think I’m better than them to do… well what they do.”
“Jealous at your conviction.”
“I don’t know about that.” You both fall quiet; you can practically feel his eyes on the back of your head.
“And your boss. He treatin’ you well?”
“I don’t get breaks, I don’t get meals, and I don’t get to keep my tips.” You tilt your head just enough to see him in your peripheral. “So not really.”
“That include-“
“Yeah.” You interrupt, “It was very kind of you to give me all that extra cash but, you’re just lining his pockets.” Or more like Penelope’s. Her girls watching you like a hawk; you’d seen the beatings that came with disobedience.
The two of you had finally made it to the big green wooden door of the stable. You see the farrier smoking a pipe and reading by lantern just outside of the side door. He pays you two no mind, but his presence is a comfort none the less. You turn to finally face Daniel; he slows with a confused look on his face. Eyeing up the stable barn and then back to you.
“I told you; I don’t live far.” It’s true, the barn itself was well within sight of the saloon. Really just a pleasant stroll down the street. “I um- I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.” Daniel calls your name.
“Things’ll get better. I promise you that.” He smiles and winks. You only huff a small laugh.
“I sure hope so.”
The next day Mr. Roper, walking a bit strangely, silently hands you an envelope with your name written in elaborate cursive on the front. There are various bills inside along with a hand written note in the same cursive.
I keep my promises.
D.O.