The Planar Debating Club

The Planar Debating Club: A Tale of Life in the Cage By Samuel M. Wright

It was a typically gray day in the Cage, and I was at the pub Agony's Rest sipping something with fermented erinyes milk that the owner, a weird creature everyone called Dis had concocted for me. In came a gang of greybeards looking like Dustmen who had been asleep in the morgue too long without bathing, wearing black, rumpled rags that still looked oddly luxurious. None of them looked like they knew what a comb or bar of soap was; yet, they had the arrogant air of Guvners or Takers and the stiff posture of Harmonium officers. They were an odd lot, which made them fit right in here in the City of Doors. They sat down together at a table, heaved piles of moldering books and papers on the table in front of them, and started studying in silence. It took me a few minutes to realize none them had yet blinked even once since entering the pub. Dis seemed to know ahead of time what they wanted to drink, and I saw him scurrying out of the chandelier he slept in across the ceiling to the kitchen as soon as he noticed them. A few minutes later he came scurrying back across the ceiling with his tentacles bearing steaming crystal mugs of something black and covered with steamed milk of unknown species. Each of the wierdlings dropped jink and silently took a sip. After they had each had a few sips of their drink, they started quietly discussing some book on arrest procedures. I pegged them for Guvners at that point, and ordered some ghoulash and hellhound bao from one of the serving wenches. I did not pay any attention to their conversation, although it did seem to grow more contentious over time, and the participants seemed to grow more twitchy and barmy.

After a while a young pup of a Harmonium guard wandered into the pub, his spiked crimson armour polished to a high shine and his face beaming with virtue and honour so brightly it made half the room cringe. He sat at a table between mine and the graybeards', looked up at a serving wench, and ordered a piece of fruit tart and a mug of milk. Powers, he was in the wrong place…

The wench return with his order, he sipped the milk and blanched. "What IS this?" he croaked. The serving wench looked at him as if he was a rube, "What you ordered, milk. The owner gets a new consignment of it every day. Today's is from an erinyes in Avernus." The boy cringed and stuck out his chin, trying to be polite and brave, "Oh, alright, j-just, um, wondering. T-thankyou." The girl rolled her eyes and headed to the kitchen, while the Hardhead put on a brave face and took another sip, his face a map to cluelessness. I watched bemusedly as always and sipped my milk, enjoying the way it punished my throat and repudiated my bloodstream. The graybeards were getting positively rowdy; arguing obtuse
points of social theory, flapping their boneboxes at high speed, now, and the Hardhead had started to take notice. I could see him cringing as each opinion of the more liberal debaters was announced and nodding his brainbox up and down in agreement with the one graybeard whom was standing on the side of law and order. After a while he was completely caught up in the debate, loudly chiming in to agree with each pronouncement in favour of strict justice. It seemed to be
egging on the old barmy, because his rhetoric got increasingly extreme as the boy's enthusiasm increased. Soon the crowd in the pub was watching the loud debate with interest, and a few other patrons were chiming in on the sides of some of the other debaters, though none as vocally as the boy. I noticed the graybeard was losing grip of his temper and
giving angry looks at the young guard, but I don't think anyone else noticed, certainly not the naive boy. The boy was cheering him with every point he scored in the debate against his fellows, loudly declaring the graybeard a genius, "YOU ARE SOOOO RIGHT! DEAD ON SIR!" With each cheer I could see the old debater becoming more agitated, until he was shaking with anger as he argued with his companions.

Finally, the old man could not take it anymore. He bolted out of his chair, turned around to look at the young Harmonium guard, and yelled at the top of his voice, "BY THE LADY! WILL YOU STOP AGREEING WITH ME? I HATE IT WHEN BERKS DO THAT! I AM TRYING TO BE CONTENTIOUS, AND YOU KEEP AGREEING WITH EVERYTHING I SAY! CEASE AND DESIST! GO SEW YOUR MOUTH SHUT!" The silence in the pub was deafening, and the boy shrank inside his gleaming red armour. The crowd erupted in laughter and the boy was humiliated, running out of the pub with tears in his eyes. Patrons threw muffins and crescent rolls at him, pelting his spiky armour. A few baked goods stuck on the spikes, making the boy look yet more foolish and caused berks on the street to stop and stare. A fire genasi walked in the pub with a
confused look on his face, and no clothes on his arse, just flickering flames. "Did anyone see a Hardhead with a muffin on his bum?" he asked. The crowd let out another spasm of laughter and one of the serving wenches lanned him to the chant.

About a week later, I saw the boy again in the Gatehouse. His armour and clean shave were gone and he was dressed in a plain brown tunic and breeches. He was serving soup to the barmies. I guess he was the one who lost the debate…