Olympus: It's Not Just a Game

Chapter 11

Karl pushed back the empty plate, leaned back in the rough-hewn wooden chair and rubbed his stomach. To live in Olympus, he thought to himself. To eat, drink, and sleep Olympus! He looked around at the room. The raftered ceiling was lost in the haze of smoke that escaped from the roaring fire pit. A dozen wooden tables served revelers all around him. Ms. Sparrow had apparently deposited him at an inn. He wondered if he should get a room and spend the night. He hefted the gold bag at his belt. Nine hundred and sixty drachmas. It was not nearly as much as he'd like to have, but, if he was frugal, it should do. He began to compute what he would need. A sword for sure ... that would be at least a hundred drachmas. He thought about armor. Probably too expensive to get a good suit, but he would need a helmet of some sort.

There was a piece of parchment on the table, with "House Special—All You Can Eat—Steak and Pie" hand-lettered on it. He charred a bit of twig in the guttering oil lamp and wrote out a list of items and their prices. It added up quickly, but he figured he could just about make it.

Then the innkeeper came to his table with a smiling face. "Good evenin' to ye, sir," he said. "You're a new face around me tavern."

"Good evening, my host," said Karl genteelly. "You serve a tender steak and a sweet apple pie!"

"Oh, it comes only of picking the finest ingredients," said the innkeeper. "We pay top drachma for the best we can get, and of course, our customers are always happy to pay for quality."

"Pay?" said Karl, sounding surprised as he looked down at his empty plate. "Oh! Right, pay," he conceded. "Well, what's the bill?"

"You ordered our special, tonight," answered the innkeeper, "and the special tonight costs nine hundred and sixty drachmas."

"Nine hundred and sixty drachmas?" Karl gasped. "That can't be right!"

"Only the finest ingredients," the innkeeper repeated. "Look, the price is right here in front of you." He pointed to the paper Karl had been figuring on. It clearly read, "House Special—All You Can Pay – 960 drachmas."

"But that's everything I've got!" shouted Karl.

"What a coincidence," chortled the innkeeper. "I guess that's why it's the special."

"Well, I'm not going to pay!" roared Karl.

The innkeeper's eyebrows lowered. "Now, young man," he argued, "Here's a sign that makes it perfectly clear what the price is of the food you just ate. Here's the plate that is clearly empty. And here you sit with nine hundred and sixty drachmas at your belt, and you tell me you're not going to pay. I am shocked — shocked! – that this new generation has no sense of obligation or responsibility. Ivan! Fritz! Come here!"

Two enormous attendants lurched out of the kitchen, one wiping his hands on a filthy towel, the other carrying a stalk of celery and a glittering knife. "Boys, this customer is having a little trouble loosening his wallet from his belt. Would you mind assisting him? Ivan, give him a hand. Fritz, cut through that pesky cord!"

Ivan gave him a hand, all right — a meaty fist to the jaw which knocked Karl backwards, sprawling, onto the next table. Dishes went flying in all directions. Karl grabbed a chair and tried to smash it over Ivan's head, but the towering cook snagged it with one hand, effortlessly hoisting chair and Karl off the ground. Then he hurled him backwards, toppling several customers who were scampering out of the way.

Karl lay limply on the dirty floor, surrounded by bones and half-eaten vegetables. Fritz stooped over him, the point of the knife at his throat. "Vot vas it you vanted me to loosen for him, Boss?" he grunted, hopefully.