The storm raging outside was barely heard over the raucous, drunken laughter of the brothel, shutters tight against the few glass window panes there were, a gust of cold, salty wind coming from the sea every time the door was opened. It was warm inside with the joint fires and candles, body heat of the prostitutes up against various men of all shapes and sizes, and of course, alcohol.
One particular man had had quite a bit of the substance as he sat at one table of cards on that cold, stormy night in Marseille, a woman with rouged cheeks and a ratty dress on either side of him, they cuddled up fondly to his sides and patting him as he had been winning for the past hour.
Blond eyebrows furrowed as one of the prostitutes stroked through chin-length hair, they both ignored completely as there was a drunken, toothy grin, and all his cards were set down on the table once more.
There were groans all around, one man’s forehead hitting the table as apparently he had been asleep for a while and had just passed out, while a fatter man looked like he might explode. Red in the face, he huffed for a moment before he did just that. “Impossible!” he yelled at the blond man, looking suspiciously like a sweaty beetroot after he’d just lost his entire wage (and apparently needed it to pay some bookie or another).
“C’est possible, mon ami,” came the blond’s reply, and he grinned in a drunken manner to the prostitutes who squealed with glee over how much money he’d won—in hopes that he would spend it on them. “N’est ce pas, chéries?”
While they were agreeing with him and trying to sweeten him up to take him and his money to bed, the red man stood up suddenly, table bouncing off his stomach as his chair fell backwards, a pistol aimed at the blond man’s amber eyes. “Cheat!” he complained, knowing well that he was wrong, but hoping to intimidate the stranger out of his winnings.
Amber eyes rolled as he complained, “Alors, this again…”
