Rock Lane Tavern
Not much to this; it was intended to be a picture through words, and a way to flesh out myself as a rat (no pun intended).
Musty with the smell of smoke and spilled beer, the bar is lit primarily by the orange-red fluorescents in the windows. A brown rat sits on a stool at the bar and follows the hum of the glowing lights. For the twentieth time, he reads their reversed messages: "BEER", "LIQUOR", "MIXED DRINKS". At the narrowest wall, the curving light tubes spell out the tavern's name: "ROCK LANE TAVERN".
Jack flicks the ashes from the end of his burning cigarette into the shallow ashtray--shaped foil stained from cinders and nicotine. As he does this, the rat looks down, conscious of the fat under his muzzle pushing up against his chin. A double-chin; how'd that happen?
He takes another drink from the squat whiskey glass. When he's done, he looks in to see the amber scotch slipping away beneath the ice. It mingles with the water that had melted beneath the rounded cubes.
Jack repositions himself so his forearm rests over the back of his chair. Brown fur spikes at his elbow bending just outside the cuff of his thin black jacket--a long article split into two tails. His own tail--thick and furless--sways between the skeletal frame of the chair's back. He's hooked one black boot on a rung of the stool while the other leg hangs down in the shadows of the bar.
He takes another drag from his smoke and stamps it out in the ashtray. The bartender, a passive silhouette of a fox, notices the action and asks Jack if he needs a refill.
Jack pets the bare fur on his substantial belly, now resting on his raised thigh. His gut juts out beneath a red shirt that gave into Jack's gluttony years ago and now ends inches above his navel. He's been teased by all the furs that knew him since he was a younger, thinner rat.
He gives the fat a gentle squeeze and nods to the bartender. The roast beef sub he had devoured only an hour before might as well have been a dream. Now his stomach is growling for more.
"What's good to eat around here?" Jack asks.
"How'd I know you were going to ask that?" the bartender says, laughing. Jack lifts his small purple sunglasses to notice the bartender glancing at his paunch.
"The hamburgers are pretty famous," the bartender continues as he pours more Johnnie Walker into Jack's glass.
"I'll take it," Jack says, sniffing at the freshly poured scotch.
"Cheese?"
Jack looks again to the bartender, this time with his head lowered so he can peer at the fox over his glasses.
The fox chortles a little and disappears through an archway beside the bar. All night, Jack could hear the commotion--the banging of pans and clattering of glasses--from the other room. There isn't much of a smell coming from the kitchen, and that isn't too assuring to the rat. Still, food is food; sometimes it's just the weight of it in his gut that keeps him content.
Jack licks over two fat buck teeth, slightly bowing beneath his pink nose. He twitches the rounded ends of his muzzle where long whiskers fan out to all sides. He tries not to look too restless, but he's uncomfortable. He's never gotten used to being alone in public places. He tugs his fingerless black gloves into place and tucks his black headband down on his head. The headband has always been a bit of nuisance: getting it to stay over his ears and under the spray of spiky headfur was a difficult feat.
He is idly scratching a spot on his black pants when the bartender returns with the cheeseburger. The fox slides the plate in front of Jack but it clatters when he lets go.
"More scotch?"
Jack shakes his head, looking down at the sesame bun and the thick meat and cheese escaping the sides. The ketchup looks black in the fluorescent lighting. The cheese is red.
How can you stand working here, Jack thinks as he scoops up the burger in both paws. I'm going crazy just sitting here.
The burger lacks the taste and juiciness Jack was looking forward to, but he gulps it down all the same, licking the mix of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise out of his muzzle fur.
He pays the bartender and lights up another smoke to finish his drink. He feels a twinge of self-pity at spending his Saturday night in such a lonely way. He looks around at the other people. A laughing otter tilts his head back, showing pale red teeth. The two raccoons with him are well-dressed and sporting similar grins. Another table is surrounded by wolves; chairs from adjacent tables are missing. The wolves have a drinking contest, and for an instant their loud voices are drowned in red ale.
Jack joins them in drinking the rest of his scotch. He grimaces at the bite and puffs his cigarette to soften the burn. He closes his eyes for an instant, but the red is still there. He taps his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and gets up from his stool, slowly pulling his tail through the back of the chair as he turns. He leaves a couple bucks under his glass and nods to the bartender. The fox doesn't catch it.
The rat shuffles to the door and tries to slide sideways between a lemur and a collie. They both scoot their chairs in until their tables are cutting off respiration.
"Sorry. Sorry," the rat says and squeezes through. He brushes the collie with his tail, but the lemur gets a rat gut in the back of the head. "Oh! Sorry..."
One thing he learns as his paw touched the door: If his fur can't hide the blush of his embarrassment, the lights of Rock Lane Tavern always will.