The Underground Beer Hall Riot
In romance fantasy novels, workers slave away for 14 hours straight. Fantasy worlds never made sense to begin with. Whether it's women's fantasy or men's, they're packed with tales of the high and mighty. A hundred percent chance the protagonist's a noble or some lord's precious daughter. Living in a castle, haha-ho-ho—scheming behind the scenes—but is that really fighting?
"Hey, Max! Cut the bullshit and haul that load!"
"I'm telling you, that's how it'll really go down later!"
"You open your yap and it's all hot air. Hurry up and move it!"
The fights here were way fiercer. Do the protagonists in fantasy worlds even grasp the feelings of folks scraping by on a day's wage for a day's bread? Today, like always, I was lugging coal dust around the factory. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd land this role when I got tossed into a fantasy novel. I figured it'd be northern grand duke material, or maybe the empire's crown prince. Reality's always a goddamn sewer.
"Max, where'd you say you're from again?"
"East side! The east!"
"Came from far away, huh! Didn't you say you learned a ton back there?"
Clang-clang! The hammer strikes echoed loud. As I hauled magic stones to keep the factory running, I answered the shift boss. Sure, I'd learned plenty—majored in humanities nobody else bothered with, even got my master's. But in a fantasy novel, trying to escape my extra role, none of that shit mattered one bit.
"So why're you slaving in a dump like this? Why not teach at the academy or something?"
"Pfft, as if! You need noble blood just to get in—fat chance!"
"Kyahaha! Your mouth's got that trashy edge the nobles would hate."
"Quit yapping yourself, boss—haul some damn load!"
The laughter in the factory died quick. He was called "boss," but he was just another powerless grunt. Twelve hours a day of labor. Three days back, old Kael collapsed mid-processing beside me. Yesterday, young Michel breathed wrong fumes, went blind, and got canned. But the workers? We couldn't say jack. More like, we wouldn't.
We MOBs. The mob characters had to exist for the fantasy world to feel complete. The world where only protagonists shine bright.
"Whew! That's work for today, huh?"
"Ended early?"
"It's barely 8 p.m.!"
Two hours ahead of schedule. Legally? Way off the labor laws. But nobody breathed a word about it. Or rather, nobody could. One wrong word here, and you're fired—no safety net. Same for me. For a guy with no home or hometown to crawl back to, factory work was the only way to scrape coin.
"Heading out early today. Whew..."
"Grab a beer first?"
"Beer, huh..."
Second-best news I'd heard all day. Work ends early, let's drink.
"If you're buying, boss, I'm in."
"Hell no! We ain't got that kinda scratch. Another night sleeping like laundry in church."
"What? I'm broke too."
"Listen up—the underground beer hall's doing free brews tonight."
"For real?"
Free beer! The underground beer hall was a secret dive in a semi-basement, not far from our Jenkins Factory. Run by a widow and her daughter, always dodging raids, but lately they'd settled in. Beer cost one dong—a single coin—and even that stung, so we only went every other week.
"That stingy old lady ain't giving away free suds. Someone's footing the bill big-time."
"Heh! Who knows? Let's check it out!"
Stepping outside the factory, the cold hit like a slap. Chimneys belched smoke across the city. We threaded alleys, brushing past folks—some familiar, most cut from the same ragged cloth.
"Hey! You guys made it! Grab a round!"
"What? Everyone's already here."
"Free beer tonight! All on the house!"
"No shit?"
The place was swamped—factory rats packed in tighter than sardines. We squeezed in with some engineer pals we knew. Right by the beer hall's stage—usually for singers, but nobody belted tunes anymore.
"What's that? Someone's mumbling up front?"
"Huh? Who's on stage?"
"Can't hear a damn thing."
A chair sat on the crude platform. The guys lounging there were all spiffy—trim beards, uniforms, the works. Mumble-mumble— one droned at the podium, then bowed his head and plopped down.
"Screw it, more beer!"
"Hell yeah!"
Didn't concern me. Time flew. Those stage stiffs took turns muttering among themselves. We pounded brews till we were sloshed.
"Heeey... Starlina! Another round here!"
"Max! Enough already! You're hammered—hammered!"
"Pfft! Free all-you-can-drink—who stops now? Gimme more!"
Starlina darted between tables, the widow's spitfire daughter hauling mugs. She started snapping, but no stopping me. Never!
"So, Starlina—who's bankrolling all this booze?"
"Those guys on stage prepaid. One whole gold coin."
"Damn—Starlina's striking it rich!"
"As if! These louts'll drink us into the red—into the red!"
Krahaha! Laughter swelled. But curiosity nagged—what were those suits yapping about? Free beer's sweet, but debts gotta be paid.
"...Thus, the poor worker's words inevitably..."
"In short, owning the means of production means..."
"The historic struggle of the laborers..."
Hic! Burp slipped out. I got it. But do these drunks? Time to school 'em. Talk like that, nobody gets it.
"Uh..."
"Hey, you call that a speech? Folks can't follow."
"Wh-what do you mean, sir?"
"Watch close. Lemme show ya. Here goes."
I clapped the podium guy's shoulder. Ignored the murmurs behind. The clean-cut crew looked flustered.
"Hey! Hey! Jenkins Factory crew from the east—free beer's fucking delicious, right?"
Eyes locked on. My voice boomed through the hall. Their mutters? Unintelligible—especially to hard-of-hearing factory vets.
"All this beer? Bought by these stage folks! Let's go nuts tonight—just this once!"
Hahaha! Roars of laughter. I dropped my hand, busted some goofy dance like I was gonna sing. Big tits next door, auntie's skirt up high... Vulgar as hell. But the factory boys leaped up, dancing or belting along.
The posers onstage whispered, moving to yank me—then I cut the song dead. Sipped my beer slow.
"Yo, Max! What gives? You're killing the vibe!"
"Nah, just remembered blind-as-a-bat Michel outta nowhere!"
I bellowed back. The racket died down.
"Shift boss still here?"
"Yeah?"
"How's the wife holding up?"
"Why ask? She's alive 'cause she ain't dead yet!"
All the same boat. Factory grunts. Strangers slipped in back, but whatever.
"Anyone know old Kael?"
A few hands up.
"That geezer got crippled on the job—booted with nothing."
I pointed 'em out one by one. Everyone here's got a shit hand.
"Tarik over there's got his five-year-old kid chimney-sweeping. Barely knows his ABCs, but learns soot first!"
Tarik nodded, shoulders slumped, nursing his mug.
"But the saddest sack? Derek there—wife's whoring in the alley."
"You fuck! Why drag that up?"
"Derek ain't the only one, right? Who's got a wife not selling it here?"
Curses flew, but mostly resigned nods. Life's unlivable. Sell your body or stuff kids up chimneys—or starve. Sick? Doctor? Dream on. Broken toe? Drag to work tomorrow or else. Some hid pain till they hacked off limbs.
"Kids? Who knows if they're dead or alive. Wives sell flesh! Beer done? Fuck it—crash chained in church! That's us, right?!"
No rebuttals. Everyone here. Ninety percent of the continent's laborers. Fucked fates, no learning, just waiting to get ground up.
"But is it our fault? Ours? We light fires with magic stones, weave fine silk! Hell, we scrub the nobles' shit—why gotta live like this?!"
The hall went dead quiet. Buzz peaked. I chugged.
"What's our work worth? They toss us when we're old or busted! Us! Right?!"
Excitement brewed. Starlina couldn't rein 'em. Rage filled the air. Broke and wanna escape! Worked hard—why this shit?!
"Fuck it! Fight! What've we got to lose? Wife's body? Kids to sweeps?!"
Mugs flew skyward. Frenzy peaked. Hall turned chaos. Not aimed at me—just random.
"Done playing sidekick to protagonists! Let's storm the stage! Live fat in castles—or drag 'em down!"
"Suppress 'em all!"
Place went to hell. Knew it. The strangers? Cops. Raids clubbed indiscriminately. Folks fled, fought, snuck out. Me? Solo on stage.
"Grab that bastard first!"
Thud! Smashed face-first. Drunk dulled pain, but I thrashed. Pinned by cops, it burst out:
"Fuck it all! Workers of the world—unite!"
That was my last memory.