From the author: I wrote this for my Friday Flash Fiction project a few years ago, and it's one of my favorites. It will go out free to my mailing list.
Hollis the Half-Ogre had to crouch inside the cart because of his tremendous size. He didn’t normally venture inside the cart, but his boss Fackelstrand was deathly ill and there was no way they could pass up the opportunity to serve Dragon Steaks to the outdoor attendants at the Prince’s Wedding Celebration. So Hollis, the butcher, was forced to interact with customers.
It was not an ideal situation, as far as either of them were concerned. But Fackelstrand had given Hollis three rules. First, all meat costs a crown per quarter-weight. Second, no free samples, ever. Third, if a customer gave Hollis trouble, he should put on his smock and step out of the cart so they can see that he’s only the butcher, not a salesman. They’d be more understanding after that.
Hollis carved a slab of rib meat off the dragon carcass beside him and put it on the scale. “Three… crowns,” he said.
The young man buying the meat placed a few gold coins on the counter. Hollis counted all three of them. Slowly. Then he added them to the pile of gold coins under the dragon carcass. He didn’t worry about thieves. One of nice things about dragon meat was that even a dead dragon cast magical protections over the pile of gold it sat on.
Hollis took the slab off the scale and put it on a wooden block where it began to sizzle. That was another nice thing about dragon meat—it was self-cooking. He handed the wooden block to the young man and grinned toothily.
“Thank you,” said the young man.
“Have… day,” said Hollis. He was pretty sure he’d forgotten a word or two in that greeting, but it seemed to get the point across.
“Excuse me!” came an angry voice from the next patron in line. “Excuse me, I am Sir Roderick of Thistleborn and I demand to speak to the proprietor!” The customer was a well-dressed human with a fine silk shirt and a neatly trimmed beard. Noble, probably.
“Problem… sir?” asked Hollis.
“I ordered a dozen steaks and was dismayed to find them all well-done,” said Sir Roderick. “I never eat burnt meat. It’s not civilized. I eat medium rare or I do without.”
“It’s… dragon,” said Hollis. “All… well-done.”
“Be that as it may,” said Roderick, “I spent nearly fifty crowns and what I received was not to my satisfaction. I demand a refund.”
“No… freebies,” said Hollis, remembering the second rule.
“Don’t make me get the Prince involved, ogre,” said Sir Roderick through gritted teeth.
Hollis hung his head. What a predicament. Then he thought of the third rule Fackelstrand had given him. “Moment… sir,” he said. He squeezed out of the cart and pulled his gear out after him. He pulled on the thick leather smock, streaked with crusty dragon blood. He donned the metal helm and drew the face-guard down. Lastly, he took up the enchanted sword that he used to carve up steaks—dragon meat was murder on conventional weapons.
He drew himself up to his full height and looked down at Sir Roderick. Surely the noble would recognize him as a butcher now. “Still… problem?” he asked, his words resonating through the face-guard.
Sir Roderick blanched. A dark spot formed in his fine trousers, and spread down one leg. “No,” he said. “No problem at all. Forget I brought it up.”
Fackelstrand was right. Sir Roderick was nicer.
Nice. That was the word he’d forgotten. “Have… nice… day,” said Hollis as the nobleman scampered away.