Somewhere On Bourbon Street There Is A Bar Called Papa Etienne’s, And No Matter What You Must Never Go Inside

“Now, now. Don’t look so grim, friend. You did well today. Got the right target,” he said excitedly, “You didn’t even try to fight it. That’s good. Papa Etienne doesn’t like the strong-willed.”

A crunching noise resonated through the empty bar.

For once, I was glad I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to look.

Papa Etienne hummed a pleasant tune, smirking as he looked me over from top to bottom, “Since you were such a good sport, I’ll even let you go, friend … as long as you don’t tell anyone about this … and if you even consider it, remember that I have <emthis.”

He placed the knife on the counter and leaned against the wall, motioning to it.

“Your fingerprints are all over it, I’m afraid. Tsk tsk!” he taunted.

The prickling sensation in my spine started to fade ever so slowly, and I found myself able to move my fingertips. I was too afraid of what would happen if Papa Etienne found out, so I stayed as still as a statue.

“Now, friend. Why don’t you have a little fun … on the house,” he said, eyes gleaming with amusement.

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a velvet pouch, and slipped his fingers inside. In one swift motion, he outstretched his hand and blew a light glittery powder into my face.

I felt an instant high, then nothing.




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