The Jockeys Nostril

[Gemini]

Ahhh...the bar was deathly quiet, save for the low, rhythmic thrumming of a bassline vibrating through the floorboards—coming from what sounded like an underground rave, or perhaps just a very angry radiator.

Mups adjusted the angle of her merchant navy cap, her weather-beaten brow furrowed deep enough to trap a passing gnat. The stuffed parrot on her shoulder gave a sudden, unsettling twitch of its glass eye, which I chose to ignore. We both knew the golden rule of establishments like this: never acknowledge the taxidermy is restless.

'Something's shifts, mate,' Mups muttered, peering into a half-empty pint glass of what appeared to be pickled onion juice. 'Smells like trouble on the starboard bow. And not the fun kind with the accordion.'