Greg bumbled himself down the lane, teetering back and forth on unsteady legs. He waved back at the scattered “Hello!’s” and the numerous “How ya doin’?’s”, keeping his goal ever in his mind’s eye. It was a long walk from the quarry to Broomsedge, and Greg’s short legs often had a hard time carrying the rest of Greg all the way there. Every so often, the legs would call for a rest, and they would change places with the head or body—always with much lambasting and cursing from the other two. By the time Greg reached the tavern, none of them were sure of who’s turn it was to be the head, and all of them were irritable.

Greg placed his gnarled hand on Broomsedge’s door and the fumbled for the handle, finally wrapping his stubby fingers around it and pulling it open so the legs could stumble inside. “Hiya, Greg! The usual three?” called out the barkeep. Greg grunted in response and hauled himself up into a chair at the bar, pulling his hat lower and collar higher.

“Better make it six, Hal. Been a long one.” Greg pulled a pouch from a coat pocket and slid it across to Hal. “The others found these around West End. Dunno ‘xactly where. Good thing they’re more interested in finding than keeping.” Hal nodded and took the pouch behind the bar, stacking it up with all the other trinkets Greg had liberated from his light-fingered brethren that week. He slid the six mugs of pale, amber beer down the counter, and Greg caught them with practiced ease, taking the first one to his lips and drinking deeply. As he did so, two more sets of hands emerged from the long coat and groped around for the mugs, pulling them inside and closing the coat back.

“West End, huh?” Said a gruff voice behind him. Smacking his lips, Greg turned a pale yellow eye toward the voice and found a burly man with a bushy black beard. “Had some things go missing from up there, I did.” Greg shrugged and turned away.

“Might wanna keep a tighter lock on yer valuables then,” he muttered, taking another pull from his mug. The man snarled and grabbed Greg by the shoulder, spinning him around and leering into his face.

“Next time you go pickin’ through my barn, I’ll…” the man trailed off as he got a good look at Greg’s swarthy green skin and too-wide mouth, the needle-like teeth bared.

“I’ll…” Greg stared back at him and calmly sipped his beer. The man glanced up at Hal, who stared him down.

“I’ll…” Between the coat’s buttons, four more yellow eyes peeked out, a low hiss emanating.

“I’ll… be going,” he finished, releasing Greg and backing away. Greg snorted and turned back to the bar.

“Another three, Hal.”

“Coming right up, Greg.”