The World Turned Upside Down
Bruno Dias
Multiple clubfloyd transcripts
It's just shy of closing time on the last Saturday before Christmas; only a handful of regulars left in the bar. Peaceful, even, in spite of all of the city's damage. And then he walks in with some messed-up story about a costumed vigilante.
You examine the regulars
There's Skóa, of course, with the hat; and Jamessin smoking sullenly
in the corner. Chow reads quietly in her wide chair, silently enjoying the presence of her friends Ramos (with the centipede familiar) and Grin (with the oversized scarf).

The floorboards crack and pop underfoot.
You examine the centipede
A tube of flesh hidden beneath an armature of mottled red and black, studded with numerous sharp yellow legs, clinging to Ramos' shoulder and neck like the worst/greatest feather boa. Sometimes it taps his collarbone with one of its scraping limbs, as though to remind him of something.

A cat perches outside one of the windows, then disappears again.
You examine the hat
You force your eyes to focus on the hat for a moment: It's shaped like an abstract paper chrysanthemum, perched on her head at an improbable angle. It moves, not with the drafty air inside the bar but of its own volition, like a breathing flower.

The floorboards crack and pop underfoot.
You look at the scarf
It's pretty much ever color at one point or another; it looks very
much like someone finished a scarf, then just started the next one by continuing that same scarf, several times over, until they had a beast that resembled six or seven different scarves joined end to end into a cozy chimera.

A cat perches outside one of the windows, then disappears again.

The door swings open to let someone in from the outside; given the hour, and the events of the last few days, you can't help but set your fingers behind the bar into an unpleasant pattern, readying some curse or another. But then you see the man's face and your apprehension is replaced by mild annoyance.

"We're closed," you say.

"Didn't come here to drink," he replies, giving you the look that
tells you he's about to rope you into something.
About yourself
Much like the bar: A little rough around the edges, a little worse for wear.

The table of regulars laughs together; except, of course, for Grin.

You fail to contain a sigh. "Why are you even here?"

"Oh, just having a look at the old place. Didn't know that I would still find it." He talks with an odd lilt that you've been told is Welsh.

"What's that supposed to mean?"
You look at Grin
So named because he doesn't. Grin likes to hang around, listen, figure out where the wind is blowing. He has a tendency to disappear for
weeks at a time. Other than that, all you know about him is that he's from someplace warmer than Yeats; right now, in the middle of winter, his head barely pokes out of the enormous scarf wrapped several times around his neck and face.

Skóa takes a drink out of her glass.

"Didn't half the wizards in this city get killed or worse last year?"

You shrug. "They weren't my customers."

"Still. Must have been some trouble."

(You could INTERJECT here)
You look at man
(Ainsley)
Ainsley is one of those people who always looks like he's lost weight, skin hanging slightly too loose off his bones like there used to be more of him; but you've never seem him any thicker. Maybe he puffs up when he's back across the ocean where he's from. Wears a professorial-looking argyle sweater vest and a calculated two-day nonbeard. Though you've never seen him do actual magic, of all the joints in all the cities in the world he likes to roll into yours,
once every few months, when he's in town.

Ramos nods silently in response to some unseen signal or message from his familiar.

"Come on, Ainsley," you say, getting plainly frustrated now. "Just
tell me what this is about."

He cocks his head and stares you down curiously, for a moment. And
then he pulls out a slightly oversized phone. He flips through
pictures of what looks like a blur smeared against the night sky;
after a few of them, though, it resolves itself in your mind as a vaguely human figure, leaping across rooftops; or maybe flying. You can't quite tell.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you?"

(You could INTERJECT here)
Interject
"Yeah, okay. There's some rumors going around. A lot of them. The incident with the keener left a bit of a power vacuum. What was left
of the cabal is now wrestling to see who comes out on top. Let's just say I don't cross the bridges no more."

"I can imagine."

"So there's this person going around Blaise sending people to the hospital. Some people think it's just a weird mundane in a costume, some people think it's a player. Fucked if I know how to get in touch, though."

He purses his lips; the smell of Jamessin's cigarette must be giving him cravings.

"Better than nothing, at least. Thanks."

The table of regulars laughs together; except, of course, for Grin.
Inventory
You are carrying:
a rag
a crow cameo

Ramos takes a drink out of his glass.

"What's your real angle here?"

"Trouble back home. I'm putting a team together. Figured whoever's
been beating up drug dealers is the kind of person who can help."

Your eyes leap into the back of your skull faster than you can stop yourself.

"You flew all the way to Yeats to recruit a latex fetishist to go fix one of your fuck-ups."

"It's serious. Scary shit I hoped I'd never see again."

(You could INTERJECT here)
Interject
You shake your head, more at yourself than at him. "Fine. If it gets you off my back. You see the one in the corner with the oversized scarf? That's Grin. He might know what's up."

"Don't suppose you might serve me a drink, now?"

"Don't push your luck. And I hope you don't plan on staying in town
for more than a couple days."

"Wouldn't dream of it."
Notes
December 2015, as a brief thank-you note to everyone who's read, supported, or helped my IF work over the course of the preceding year. It is small and wholly self-indulgent; as always, you can reach me on Twitter @notbrunoagain.

Special thanks in no particular order to Jason McIntosh, Doug
Orleans, Caleb Wilson, Tory Hoke, Etienne Vouga, Emily Short, David Cornelson, Carolyn van Eseltine, Aaron Reed, Neil Butters, Cat
Manning, Kerstin Hall, and surely many others who have read, played, contributed, and helped me in 2015.

December 24th, 2015
You drop the cameo
Dropped.
You look at your surroundings
Closing Time (behind the bar)
It's three minutes to three on the last Saturday before Christmas; the green glass light fixtures hanging over the bar have been dimmed,
dirty frost speckles the windows, and the hazy scent of alcoholic
vomit emanating from the toilets has subdued to a minor note in the
far background of the olfactory panoply that fills Herrig's.

The last few regulars left in the place have coalesced into a single group, huddled around the corner table.

You can also see a crow cameo here.
Clean bar
You rub the bar.
You examine rag
You don't strictly need it, but it helps people read you as the bartender.

Your eyes drift inexorably to the group of regulars huddled around the table, taking stock of them.

There's Skóa, of course, with the hat; and Jamessin smoking sullenly
in the corner. Chow reads quietly in her wide chair, silently enjoying the presence of her friends Ramos (with the centipede familiar) and Grin (with the oversized scarf).
You look at Chow
Chow is Skóa's physical opposite: Short, brown-skinned, slightly round about the cheeks and quite round about the body. But the two have the same cold, frighteningly perceptive eyes in common. Chow seems to
enjoy mostly the vague warmth of others' company; she fills space by reading a book. You didn't quite glimpse its cover.

Ramos nods silently in response to some unseen signal or message from his familiar.
Examine book
You force your eyes to focus on the cover of the book: It's not old as in really old, just weatherbeaten and outdated. It's some pulpy thing with a screaming woman on the cover and a suitably absurd title:
The Return of the Worm.

The floorboards crack and pop underfoot.
You examine the skoa
She is built much like the human version of an ancient birch tree: pale, tall, and slightly ominous-looking. This isn't helped by her propensity for a sort of post-post businesspunk wardrobe, though tonight she chose to break her somber figure by wearing a curious fascinator that you can't quite resolve with your eyes.

Someone's phone squawks with a notification; nobody looks.
You examine the fascinator
You force your eyes to focus on the hat for a moment: It's shaped like an abstract paper chrysanthemum, perched on her head at an improbable angle. It moves, not with the drafty air inside the bar but of its own volition, like a breathing flower.

The table of regulars laughs together; except, of course, for Grin.

The door swings open to let someone in from the outside; given the hour, and the events of the last few days, you can't help but set your fingers behind the bar into an unpleasant pattern, readying some curse or another. But then you see the man's face and your apprehension is replaced by mild annoyance.

"We're closed," you say.

"Didn't come here to drink," he replies, giving you the look that
tells you he's about to rope you into something.
You examine Jamessin
Jamessin is the youngest one in this crowd, though she's eager to make it clear at all times that she's nobody's apprentice. Tonight, something has her nervous; she's on her third cigarette now, still fiddling with the flame she produces from a slightly singed fingertip. Plenty going around to make someone rattled, of course.

Someone looks at their phone and laughs at a private joke.

You fail to contain a sigh. "Why are you even here?"

"Oh, just having a look at the old place. Didn't know that I would still find it." He talks with an odd lilt that you've been told is Welsh.

"What's that supposed to mean?"
You examine Ramos
Gruff-looking and punkish, but ultimately good natured. Of course,
then there's the chihuahua-sized centipede clinging to his neck and shoulder like a suckling infant. You still remember a time before familiars turned into a sort of shock fashion competition, though
Ramos seems to have put an end to that; nobody cared to try harder
than the giant centipede.

The floorboards crack and pop underfoot.

"Didn't half the wizards in this city get killed or worse last year?"

You shrug. "They weren't my customers."

"Still. Must have been some trouble."

(You could INTERJECT here)
Interject
You look askance for a moment, but decide to spill anyway: "So maybe there was an attack. So maybe a bunch of rich assholes are in the ground or in hospice care now. Maybe some of the people responsible were my customers. They're not any more."

"You're only telling me this because you know I know."

You give him a practiced glare.

Chow takes a drink out of her glass.
You examine table
The corner table is round, with a plush bench that wraps around it, fixed next to a window.

Someone's phone squawks with a notification; nobody looks.

"Come on, Ainsley," you say, getting plainly frustrated now. "Just
tell me what this is about."

He cocks his head and stares you down curiously, for a moment. And
then he pulls out a slightly oversized phone. He flips through
pictures of what looks like a blur smeared against the night sky;
after a few of them, though, it resolves itself in your mind as a vaguely human figure, leaping across rooftops; or maybe flying. You can't quite tell.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about this, would you?"

(You could INTERJECT here)
You wait
"Is that the weirdo in a costume that all the papers are up in arms about?"

He nods, eyes bobbing up in his head like they want to roll.

You continue: "Why do you assume a wizard is behind every weird thing that happens?"

"Used to be a good assumption to have in this town. Now I'm not so sure."

Jamessin blows a smoke ring, though it comes out weirdly deformed.
You wait
"Sorry," you say, not sorry. "Can't help you there. What's your real angle here?"

"Trouble back home. I'm putting a team together. Figured whoever's
been beating up drug dealers is the kind of person who can help."

Your eyes leap into the back of your skull faster than you can stop yourself.

"You flew all the way to Yeats to recruit a latex fetishist to go fix one of your fuck-ups."

"It's serious. Scary shit I hoped I'd never see again."

(You could INTERJECT here)

The table of regulars laughs together; except, of course, for Grin.