The Atlantropa Articles

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What an absolute waste. Such a fine drink was now spilt onto the floor, mixing together with an ever-growing pool of blood from a Marian whore. Imagine that whiskey’s journey. The time and effort it must have taken to reach perfection. Brewed and bottled, then put into a crate and transported all the way south to the edge of civilization… simply to be ruined in such a callous manner. It was an expensive bottle, and I’m certain the price matched the work. I was quite looking forward to enjoying such handiwork. Yet instead, all of it is now a puddle of glass and blood at my feet.

Dumb bitch.

I sit here in this booth waiting for somebody to settle the matter. Few patrons in the bar glance over, and those who do quickly turn back to their drinks. An injured bar-whore on this ferry is not a tragedy to warrant more than a few seconds of curiosity.

She will just not stop shrieking. The shaking mess is curled up next to the table she clumsily knocked over. She’s wailing like a banshee, and it’s getting on my nerves; her good hand is clutching the Reichsmarks that she stole from my pocket.

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