Drag St. isn’t so bad, at least not in the “I could die at any moment” kind of way. Not that you couldn’t. Hmmmm, double negative there, I gotta stop thinking in those, just confuse myself. Anyways, what I mean is that you can die at any moment walking down Drag St., it just doesn’t feel like you can, as much as most of the other streets in the district. My exit off of Drag St., well that was a different story. Luckily for me I didn’t see many people on my way to the address, but “What the hell are you doing here!” did manage to scream it’s way through my skull several times. Pesky brain, trying to keep me alive. I’ll show it!
The address was a restaurant. Italian joint by the looks of it. Funny, I didn’t know orcs were big on Italian food, but then again maybe they aren’t. The place looked deserted. It was open, I found as I tried the door, but it was practically empty. One large greenskin sitting in the corner stuffing his face with what I assume was spaghetti and meatballs, and the greasy, sauce-stained lug behind the counter. I think his eyes nearly popped out of his skull when he saw me enter the shop. I wandered up to the counter and took a gander at the menu. Even though I’m in the middle of a war zone, in a restaurant that has probably never seen a pink-o customer before, I’m still gonna use the one and only weapon that the private eye really has. Money.
“Can I get a meatball sub and a coke.” I ask the proprietor-cook. He gets over being amazed and leans in to me a little.
“Listen mate, I don’ think this is tha’ kinda place ya wanna be, if ya catch ma’ drift.” he said in a low tone.
“I’m just looking for anything you might know about a guy by the name of Grog the Mac, Stormbrew Clan.” I say quietly, putting some money on the counter. He looks down and then looks back up.
“Yeah, ahight. Let ma’ get tha’ sandwich for ya.” he says taking the money I had laid down. He disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes and came back with a wrapped sandwich and a can of coke.
“Tha use’ ta hang here, ‘fore movin’ on ta da Druggart zone. Grog was a youn’ tough guy, more muscle tha’ brain, but more brain tha’ mosta’ tha’ other greenies ya meet. He’s still ga’ a place round here last a checked, still comes in once a week for ma’ chicken parmigiana.” he says.
“Any idea where this place might be.” I ask.
“No clue. An’ you best be leavin’ na. Afore they come in.” At this he pointed at a large gang of orcs slowly making there way up the street towards the store. I tipped my hat at him, left the store and tried to get as far away from the place as fast as I could without actually running.
