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[b]Valeford In The Morning[/b]

[section=Description from FA]

Wall paneling you’d barely know is wood from the spotty lighting of tender marigold and searing bands of neon. Music from a radio that mocks the jukebox with a broken arm. A TV that needs to cycle around the full listing just to go back a channel due to a cracked button nobody talks about. And a long mirror behind the bar with its various bottles of spirits specifically positioned so patrons don’t have to look at themselves. If you find a small flock of briny shorebirds perched on its stools, you’re probably in the Bar Knuckle-- aptly named for its subterranean location beneath a ship chandlery.

Among the many shorebirds and occasional otter and turtle who patronize the Bar Knuckle, you’ll find a few who always sit on the same seats in the same order: a heron, a seagull, a pelican, and an osprey. And if you’re sitting on any of those seats when it’s nearing five o’clock in the evening, the bartender will kindly but earnestly suggest you relocate your bum to some other seat. Failure to do so will probably get your collar pinched by the wing of the pelican, a veritable boulder with feathers, as he casually plucks you off your stool for he and his mates to take with about as much attention as a discarded peanut shell. It’s okay. You’re obviously from out of town. And as long as you pay your tab first, feel free to keep it that way.

They’re coworkers from the nearby dock, and they’re thick as thieves. Some of the adjacents will tell you they’re just “thieves,” but if you ask the local ordinance, they’ll say they cannot legally make a statement on the matter one way or the other. You might hear talk of “contraband,” “forgery,” “aiding and abetting”, but it’s all hearsay. Though if feeling ballsy, you can ask the osprey yourself and get in return, “‘Alleged trafficking?’ How about ‘proven assault?’ Piss off, ye tadger!”

As you’ve surely guessed, it is bit of a challenge getting in with the boys.

It is possible to make an in with one of them, though-- emphasis on “one,” as in “one at a time.” Anyone familiar with that osprey up to this point knows the answer to that: you can open him up with a nice, stiff… drink. It might cost you a pretty penny if you want to get him sloshed enough to spill the beans about anything of substance, though. What substance might that be? Not the inner workings of his life as a dockworker, that’s for sure! Nooo, that’d be just soooo terribly boring and mundane! And he’s smart enough to keep his beak shut about that, even shitfaced.

Maybe ACTUAL substances. Like, those of his coworkers. More specifically, how pungent, how vinegary, and how damn much of it his avian tongue has to slurp up when he gapes his beak around the long, plump asshole of that pelican who just threatened to piss on you when you realized the restroom at Bar Knuckle doesn’t have a lock.

Speaking of piss, that’s another substance you may learn about-- particularly that of the seagull, who likes to “paint the town yellow” when his public fetish crosses wires with his urination one by lying back pantsless on a park bench and pissing all over himself while wingin’ it openly at 2 am. And how that’s the best time and place to make out with him when Valeford really wants to get frisky with ol’ french-fry-breath.

Or how the heron’s desire to be used, abused, and totally humiliated can range from anything involving verbal degradation, to squeezing his long neck tightly while splaying legs with a vigorous powerfucking, to having his drink spiked when he least expects it and waking up somewhere else with a thoroughly-soaked crissum and an asshole so gaped and achy those long, slender legs of his are wobbling all the next day. Valeford always gets to hear every time that heron’s spent talking about masturbating afterward, wondering what depravity could’ve been inflicted upon him while he was out-- better if he can still feel their slimy essence leaking from his ass and smell their juices on him. Don’t tell him, though! He loves a good mystery.

But how does any of that get you any closer to Valeford? Well, maybe that’s just something you’ll have to learn yourself, if you’re willing to tell him some of your “secrets.” What do you imagine doing with him? What do you WANT to do with him? What do you want to see him do? How much are you willing to spend on another fifth of fine bourbon to do it? If you can, maybe you’ll make your own secret with him!

But you’d better be ready for a seafood buffet without the seafood. That bird has an almost entirely fish diet, and if you’re willing to let him clamp his beak around your mouth, that buffet will be all-you-can-eat. From his spit to his breath, you’ll be getting doused in humidified mackerel every second he squishes his briny cock into you. Speaking of which, facing the other direction won’t help. He’s got the kind of foreskin that makes a sound when you peel it back, and it smells like it goes inside every fish before he eats it. Because it does.

What other strange secrets does the dirty bird hold? Will you be the one to coax them out of him? Will you understand them through all the slurring? Will you have the stomach to bear witness to the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind? At the very least, it won’t be anything worth mentioning. Not because it isn’t interesting! Because whatever happens in that drab seaside shanty stays in that drab seaside shanty…

If you know what’s good for you.