After a couple months, it was just as I’d predicted eight fucking years ago. Featherworth, along with much of The Confederacy, looked like 1929 Part Two: Electric Boogaloo. The sequel no one wanted, nor did anyone ask for. Damn near overnight everything went from bad to worse as more and more of the mutts decided to quit working for us. Many of us griffons were just trying to recoup our losses- and a few were calling for all-out war.

Let me explain why that wouldn’t work- Diamond Dogs live underground, and can tunnel like worms. If you advance a squad of troops on them with nothing but melee weapons, our main way of fighting, all they have to do is tunnel underground and reappear behind our lines- and we’d either have to fight, or fly into a better position. Trying to fight them inside their tunnels would be suicide, too; all they’d have to do is collapse the dirt on our heads, corner us like rats, pick us off one by one, what have you- Say what you will about the beasts, but they make excellent guerilla fighters.

That’s why historically, until the last few centuries, they were our sworn enemies; many of their clans would use this to their advantage and subsist off brigandry. I remember reading in a history book that sometimes entire villages would get slaughtered overnight by highland raiding parties.

So, essentially, we were fucked outta luck. Unless we were to make appeasement deals with the mutts (fuck that), there’s not a whole lot we can do but hope for better times. I just hope the monarchy has the foresight to invest in hydroelectricity as an alternative.

Thankfully, Mom and I both saw the shit-writing on the wall. Our survival plan has been working quite nicely for us, all things considered; we still had a roof over our heads and could keep ourselves fed. The same couldn’t be said for many, sadly.

On any given day while walking down the street, these sights aren’t too uncommon: An old wife crying her eyes out while her husband boards up the shop which their family had operated for decades. Parents and their children with nothing to their name begging for whatever scraps you may be willing to spare, their emaciated bodies and hollow eyes making even the most jaded fuckers feel pity for them. Monarchy-owned breadlines stretching on for miles. All the normal hallmarks of economic depression, really. Hell, even Vito is having trouble keeping his Porchetta stand out of the red- after all, his pool of buyers was getting shallower and shallower by the day. Shit, that’s probably the biggest tragedy out of all of this.

I’m just saying, if Vito quits then I riot.

But either way, it’s like I always say; just avoid eye contact and keep moving.

Of course, Mom and I weren’t much better off.

We’d moved closer to the industrial district, where the housing is cheap and shitty. Thin walls, no hot water, and due to electricity rationing, barely any electric lighting. We were lucky to still have a gas stove. The amount of times I’ve been woken up at midnight by some neighbor couple arguing makes me wanna go postal.

The apartment building we lived in was called Blackbird Rookery. The irony of the name was not lost upon me. Despite the economic troubles, the various buildings down this street had the same odd mix of soviet brutalism and victorian gothic, with hostile square angles decorated with dark red brickwork and sharp, wrought iron fencing and grating. The architecture, much like the griffons themselves, was an odd chimera that just didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but somehow was able to function.

Yeah it sucked living here, but it had fuckin aesthetic.

Even inside our apartment looked straight out of Soviet Russia in decoration with ornate carpets hanging on the walls to muffle sound and an overall minimalist vibe, combined with the technology of the early industrial age.

All the meanwhile, Fertilia’s cuisine is basically Italian food (lucky for me) and we all spoke English, or Common as it’s called.

It was as if Griffon culture itself were a chimera.

But anyways, back on topic. Our little apartment had a livingroom, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom. One bedroom. Personally, I was fine with it, but Mom was a little bummed out that she didn’t have her own room anymore. We at least slept on separate beds, though. Meanwhile, the only window was in the kitchen, meaning that we mainly used lanterns to save on electricity, at the risk of burning down the entire city block.

Gotta do what ya gotta do.

Just like most mornings, I woke up to the sound of our alarm blaring at six in the morning. I yawned, stretched, and cracked my neck, hitting the alarm off. Getting out of bed, I went over and nuzzled Mom on the cheek.

“You gotta get up, Mamma. I’m about to start breakfast.” she turned to me with a faint smile, nuzzling my cheek as she began to rise out of bed.

Somehow, she managed to find two jobs- one in the morning working as an ER nurse, and one in the evening working as a clerk for a grocery chain. Poor girl was being worked to the bone, so I did what I could to make things easier for her- cooking, cleaning, shopping, what have you. Between the chump change she was making and the loot I made hustling, we were decently above the red, thank fuck.

She doesn’t talk about work too much, but I can sort of guess what’s happening during her morning shift- after all, it doesn’t take a genius to spot all the opium junkies half dead in the streets.

For this reason, I always kept my dagger within arms reach concealed under my cloak.

While she showered, I turned on the stove and started our breakfast- each of us got an egg served on a slice of buttered toast, and I made a pot of the cheapest, shittiest coffee money could buy- after all, it was purely for the caffeine anyway. It’s like liquor- drink it fast enough and you won’t even taste it.

It was cheap, easy, and quick- just like my ex.

Wait. What?

Occasionally if I was feeling extra, I’d use the ingredients to make Prench toast instead, sprinkling a little cinnamon on top. Not this morning, however; but I was planning a surprise for mom tonight. I was making a bit more than I expected these past couple days, so I thought I’d splurge on dinner a bit.

Mainly to keep us from going crazy.

Due to the lack of a dining room, we both sat on the couch together and ate our breakfast, Mamma wrapping her wing around me while I leaned against her. We mostly ate in silence, and once finished, we both grabbed our cups of coffee.

“Ready?” I asked her. She nodded in response, and we both immediately slammed back the mugs of lukewarm coffee. The bitter, shitty taste left both of us gritting our beaks and cringing terribly, and I was pounding a fist against the arm of the couch.

“Whew, that was good, huh?” Mom said after we calmed down. We both immediately started cracking up at the sheer fucked-ness of everything.

“You’re the best daughter a hen could ask for, you know that?” she wrapped her wing around me and pulled me closer, and I just snorted in response.

“I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just trying to not be a deadbeat, you know?” I got a response in the form of a wing lightly slapping me in the back of the head.

“Bullcrap. Without you, I’d be homeless right now.” I cocked an eyebrow at this, and before I could ask her to elaborate, she said-

“That day I got that bank statement in the mail, I felt like my world was ending. I felt like I was at a crossroad and stood there frozen, not a plucking clue where to go from there.

“You were the one who came home and told me to pull myself together. You gave me confidence that we could make it, despite the apparent impending doom. This whole plan was because of you.” I looked up at her, and instead of seeing the stern face like I was expecting, I saw a grin.

“So when I say you’re the best daughter ever, I mean it. And if I hear you deflect another compliment like that, so help me I will ground you for a pluckin week.” My smile widened, and my eyes began to water.

“Even… Even though I…” she saw where I was going and said,

“Honey, no matter what you do, I will never take back that compliment. From the bottom of my heart, from the bottom of my soul, you mean the world to me. I mean it.”

“Thanks, Mamma.” My voice cracked as a tear… I mean, droplet of pure badassery ran down my cheek and I went in for a hug, wrapping my arms around her and enjoying the warm comfort provided by her feathers.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, damnit. I’ll scream it to the Heavens at the top of my lungs if I have to;

If this is Hell, then I really don’t want to go to Heaven.

---

Mom left not long after, giving me a peck on the cheek and instructing me to keep safe. After a while, I went into our room and grabbed my saddlebags a cloak- this time choosing a bright, xanthous yellow one that matched my eyes wonderfully. And of course, my dagger was strapped under my forearm where it’d be difficult to see. And for the final touch- A pair of dark sunglasses that obscured my eyes- after all, there’s not too many griffons with the same pattern of feathers and bright golden eyes; but there were plenty with black feathers and a gray ass.

I know it’s redundant to pick a cloak that matches my eyes, only to cover them back up. Frig off.

All dressed up, I grabbed my sack of supplies- eight cartons of cigarettes, freshly picked from a delivery wagon that uhh… they hit a bump in the road and they fell out the back. Lucky me. A couple cartons of Marelboro’s and a few cartons of Humpbacks- or, reds and greens, respectively.

It was a decent gig. Whenever I could I’d replenish my supply and pay some urchins chump change to spread the word to trustworthy folks.

All set to make a profit, I went out the window, situated on the third floor, making sure to lock it behind me. That was another interesting thing about griffon architecture- windows could be locked and unlocked from the outside, and often had a short perch for landing.

You know, since we can fly.

I made my way to the spot I had scoped out, near a shantypark that was quiet, secluded, and out of the hot sun. An associate of mine was already waiting, some blue feathered chucklefuck that was a few years older than me. I think his name might have been Gaius, or something ridiculous to that effect.

“Hey, boss.” Rule number one of doing sketchy shit- don’t let your associates know your name if you can avoid it.

Wordlessly, I handed him a pack of greens. He already knew what to do- go around town and let those in the know that I’m selling “henscout cookies.” He fucked off with his payment, and now came the waiting game.

Hood still up, I pulled up a mat for me to sit on while I waited for business. I couldn’t help but smile from all the nostalgia- after all, I did this shit all the time after the Don got me out of a life sentence. Started with small-time pennyjobs, then worked my way up to becoming Caporegime of the execution squad.

Ah, but those days are behind me. I wasn’t the High Lord Executioner anymore. I was just… Leona, now. I’ve known that my best days were long behind me for almost three decades now, but… it just felt sad, I guess.

The sound of someone approaching yanked me out of my melancholy and I put on a big smile.

“Hey there! What can I get ya today?”

---

At about two in the afternoon, I was about done for today. All I had left were seven packs of reds and a heavy bag of gold.

Again. Why the fuck are we not using paper money?

Everything had been going perfectly… until I heard the sound of whistles, scaring away whatever potential customers I had left. My heart sank, and I scrambled to throw the remaining goods into my sack- but it was too late.

“Halt!” The feathers on my neck stood stock straight as I muttered fuck under my breath. I remembered my motto well; don’t talk to cops. I turned around to see the two guards, dressed in shiny steel armor with their swords holstered to their side.

“Now, what have we got here, hmmm?” the one asked with a smarmy voice that pissed me off.

“Don’t you know it’s illegal for you to have those, let alone sell them? We could throw you in the dungeon for that.” he had a smug smirk, and I clamped my beak shut. I wasn’t about to give this prick the satisfaction of an answer.

He looked over to his partner, who hadn’t spoken a word since he got there.

“You can head back. I’ll handle this.” his partner nodded, giving a sure thing, boss before flying away.

I scowled at him as he watched his partner fly off into the distance. He just stood there, looking to the sky before I finally forced myself to speak up.

“Well?” I asked, “Aren’t you gonna… do something?” I was… confused, to say the least.

“That depends.” he started, “You got a carton of reds left?” I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

“I got seven left. That good enough for ya?” He rolled his head from side to side, before shrugging.

“That’ll do.” I gave a smug grin, tossing him the open carton. He pointed at me and said, “I hope you’ve uh… learned your lesson.” I snorted.

“Course I have, officer. You take care, now.” he nodded and flew off without a word. All cops are bastards. Even crooked ones.

I grabbed my bag of loot and headed home for the day to count my wages. That… was way too close for comfort.

Tossing the bag into the living room, I made myself a quick lunch of buttered bread and sliced tomato, with salt and pepper on top. It was dirt cheap- but it’ll do. My wages for today rounded out to a healthy 75 bits.

“Not bad. Not bad at all.” I nodded in satisfaction. I looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was now three- time for me to get groceries.

My shopping list was simple- various lunchmeats, fruits, and vegetables, potatoes especially, that were dirt cheap and left me enough room to get creative so we weren’t eating the same thing every day like cats. After all, there’s a thousand-and-one ways to serve macaroni- same with eggs. We also had cheese, oats, and sour cream. Everything was enough to last us two weeks.

That’s the difference between surviving and thriving. Surviving is eating the same stuff day in and day out, living a bare-minimum life, wondering why you haven't ended it already. This way keeps from going completely batshit.

But that wasn’t the last of my shopping list- I had a couple special things I wanted to get: Mushrooms, hot peppers, some good hot sausage, and tortilla chips. For this, I grabbed something special- the last two bottles of Gramma's liquor.

The last things I needed were the lunchmeat and sausage, so I decided to pay Pete a visit in his old butcher shop.

The door swung open with a ding, getting the proprietor's attention. The gruff old drunkard turned to me with a grin.

“How goes it, Lee?” he asked, the faint slur evident in his voice. He may be a drunk, but no one makes sausages like him. “You want the usual?”

“Yeah.” I placed the last of the rotgut on the counter- “And something special. How much of the good stuff will this get me?” he raised his eyebrows, popping the cork and taking a swig. I saw him cringe heavily, clenching his fists but giving a smile.

“Whoo! You just give me a minute. I’ll set you up.” After a few minutes, he emerged from the backroom holding enough lunchmeat to last a month and a bunch of sausage and bacon, which I could definitely stretch out for two weeks. My eyes widened.

“Woah, woah, ain’t this a bit much for some liquor?” he gave a hearty laugh and said,

“Don’t you know how expensive this stuff is?” he asked, I tilted my head. “These run for 30 bits a bottle these days!”

…..

Slowly, my jaw dropped and my eye twitched. “Tell me you’re bullshitting me.” his smile shrank and he gave me a look of concern.

“Wish I could. I take it this is part of Gramma’s stash?” I nodded slowly, eyes unfocused in a thousand yard stare. “Is there any left?” I shook my head. I saw Pete cringe something fierce. “Oh, geez, kid…”

“Pete. I was selling that stuff for four bits a bottle.” Now I know why we were so broke- evidently, Gramma saw the writing on the wall too and figured the price would go up- so she bought as much of the stuff as she could, all the meanwhile assuring us that we weren’t going broke.

I knew she’d put the liquor before us. I fuckin KNEW it. My mouth began to fill with spit and I was sweating bullets.

“Pete. Where’s your bathroom.” I felt bile rising in my throat. “I’m gonna be sick.” he quickly ushered me into the back where the bathroom was and I proceeded to puke my guts out.

After that was over I went over to the sink to wash my hands and my beak out.

When I returned Pete looked at me sympathetically. Two bags sat on the counter filled with all sorts of cured meats as well as my original purchase.

“I threw in a little extra for ya, kid. I wish I could do more, but… pluck, that’s awful.” I gave a small, weary grin.

“Thanks, Pete. Really.” I grabbed the bags. “Catch ya around?” He nodded with a smile, saying Stay safe, out there!

I was barely paying attention as I made my way home. My shaking hands made unlocking the window difficult, but I managed. I threw the meat straight into the fridge, figuring I’d sort through it later.

I had something more important I needed. You see, I lied earlier when I said I only had seven packs of smokes left; I’d left one for myself, just for moments like this. Not to mention, we still had a lot of Gramma’s old rocks glasses here- and an open bottle of rotgut.

So, I poured me some on the rocks and used the gas burner to light up a smoke.

I sat on the couch and let out a sigh, turning on the radio to listen to. A song was in the middle of playing-

Oh, there’s a song that lingerrs, forever in our ears, Ohh hard times, come again no more!

“You said it, pal.” I took a sip of liquor and a puff of my cigarette. “I’ll drink to that.

'Tis the sooong, the sigh of the weary… Hard times, hard times, come again no more.

---

The nice part about having a (compared to a human) tiny liver is you get buzzed pretty quickly. A couple hours, two drinks and a few more cigarettes later and I was feeling good enough to get dinner ready.

I wasn’t worried about the smell of cigarette smoke. The smell of dinner would drown that out.

As I got to work, dicing up and de-seeding the hot peppers, I began to think to myself.

I suppose in retrospect, getting burned on the liquor was my fault. I figured something so shitty tasting couldn’t be worth that much, about 10 bits retail at most. I guess people aren’t drinking it for the taste.

Really, it’s my fault. I wanted to get rid of it fast to make some quick cash and never bothered to do my due diligence.

Lesson fucking learned.

With the radio on, I continued dinner. I looked at the clock and saw that it was seven. I was taking my time since Mom wouldn’t be home for another hour or so.

I finished up dicing the peppers, then did the same with the onions and the mushrooms. Adding a splash of oil to the pan I began frying it all together. I grabbed a couple links of sausage and cut it out of the casing, putting it into a bowl and breaking it apart before adding it to the pan.

The apartment smelled fucking incredible. I added one more thing, though- a decent amount of garlic salt, seasoning it to taste. I used a wooden spoon to stir it all together for a bit to let the flavors really mix, and Mom showed up just as I pulled it off the burner.

This recipe is actually one I came up with myself, back when I was still human. It’s a based on the classic Italian sausage and peppers- an important staple meal in the dago community I grew up in.

I call it crack- because once you start, you’re not putting it down until it’s gone.

“What smells so pluckin good in this place?” Mom asked, sniffing the air with a smile.

“Dinner.” I poured the contents of the pan into the bowl and grabbed the bag of tortilla chips, meeting her at the couch. You use the chips to scoop up the crack and eat it like that.

We both ate heartily and made smalltalk of how our day went. Mom didn’t have much to say and neither did I- considering the second most interesting thing to happen involved the cops.

After we finished dinner, we both just sat there cuddled up next to each other while the radio played softly in the background. I figured now would be as good a time as any to bring up the most interesting thing that happened today.

“So, you know uh… you know how I sold off Gramma’s old liquor stash?” she cocked an eyebrow and looked at me.

Everyone in the building heard Mamma.

“WHAT THE FUCK!?”

Despite this minor setback, she made sure to be clear that yes, I still have the title of Best Daughter Ever.

If anyone was curious, yes. Crack is absolutely a real recipe I like to make and it's fucking delicious.

I hope you all enjoyed this glimpse into the daily life of Leona, as well as the goings-on about the kingdom. Things are going well for the two. Concerningly so.

As always, thank you for reading! Likes and comments are encouraged and appreciated greatly :3