They were a rowdy bunch, this lot.
At midnight they had crashed the tavern, sober and hungry and tired. Now they were drunk, fat and rejuvenated. A belching, swearing, stinking passel of pigs.
Bring us another, the pigs bellowed at the barmaid. In no time there were fresh pints of ale on the table. Equally quick their groping hands were fondling the maid’s tits and ass.
She said no. And then again. But they wouldn’t take that for an answer. They’d bed her. One at the time or all together, the pigs didn’t care. Nor did the publican. He was used to this. He had seen it happen to all his girls.
He knew that when the rooster crowed at first daylight, the tavern would be trashed and the barmaid ravaged. The pigs would be leaving plenty of silver on the counter to buy off their debauchery.
And only then they’d set out to die.
For an army doesn’t march on an empty stomach.
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