Tiny Raven

It had been a little over three years since the slavery bill was enacted, and the only change was the general attitude toward monsters worsening.

Human-on-monster violence had gone down, something bigots crowed about on radio talk shows. “Monster Slavery has been a huge help in integration of monsters into human society! It has been a huge benefit to both monster and humankind!”

No one ever seemed to mention that was because property crime was apparently a worse offense than monstercide. After all, humans actually had legal recourse if their “property” was damaged.

Monsters were no longer seen as people, and became possessions instead. They were simply things to be purchased and sold. Obtained when needed and discarded when no longer useful. There were laws in place to protect the new caste, but lack of enforcement was a constant issue, and there were few willing to fight it.

I sighed, pulling myself out of my thoughts.

I walked by a street preacher and his monster slave. The preacher was shouting about how monster slavery was a moral good that God himself had commanded of his faithful servants. The poor cat monster beside him had a strained, collar-forced smile on his face and was handing out tracts, presumably about all the ways the Bible said his “kind” were abominations to the Lord, deserving of their bondage.

He looked like he was about to have a panic attack or a mental breakdown.

Just out of sight of the preacher I stopped and held out my hand for a tract. When the cat monster handed the pamphlet to me I slid a monster candy into his paw, giving him what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

Then, before he could respond, I backed away and slid the tract into my messenger bag and continued on before the preacher noticed me. I didn’t want to get into a theological discussion about the appropriateness of the world.

I continued on to my destination, Solar’s Bar and Grill. A little hole-in-the-wall eatery owned by a high school acquaintance, Apollo Thomas.

I didn’t go to restaurants a lot. Aside from Solar’s and a cafe I knew I almost never ate out. Part of that was cost – I was barely surviving as it was – but I also hated how most businesses treated their monster slaves.

It was hard to have an appetite when you couldn’t stomach the abuse you might be funding.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to find businesses that didn’t have a monster slave of some sort. Often they were relegated to being either a sort of mascot or doing the unskilled drudgery work.

Paid employees complained about cleaning out the grease trap? Buy a monster and force them to do it. Minimum-wage high schoolers can’t stay overnight to clean? The overworked slave can clean up the whole place, and you don’t have to pay them overtime!

What’s a monster going to do? Complain? You can just order them to shut up and you’ll never have to hear them say another word.

It was almost a rite of passage for restaurants to have a monster slave. One of the signs that a business was going to succeed.

Solar’s was no different.

Apollo had searched for a slave for his establishment for a long time. He had wanted someone both impressive and capable. Someone who could cook, clean, run the bar and serve drinks, all while being a visual draw.

He had certainly succeeded.

The man who worked Apollo’s bar was always well-dressed in a tailored dress shirt, waistcoat, suit pants, and shiny black loafers. His only accessories were a pair of glasses, a neatly tied bow tie, and occasionally black arm garters.

He also happened to be made entirely of fire.

His name was Grillby, and he was one of the few people I actually liked.

I walked into the dining room and glanced around, noting how empty the place was. I went to my usual seat at the bar, giving a quick wave to Grillby that I hoped communicated “Take your time, I’m not in a rush.”

Apollo wasn’t around, which was fine by me. The man was nice enough, but he wasn’t my favorite person in the world, and I was already planning on seeing my mother today. There was a limit to my ability to people.

“Welcome to Solar’s Bar and Grill, can I get you anything to start with?” Grillby asked, his smokey voice crackling and popping like flame, just loud enough to hear over the vapid top-fifty pop-rock music.

Against the flames of his neck the collar blinked, an unpleasant reminder that he wasn’t speaking by choice.

As far as I was aware, the fire elemental had very few commands on him. One was that he had to speak the welcome phrase to everyone who sat at the bar, loudly and clearly. Apollo was a business man, a ‘restauranteur,’ and he needed his bartender to be social and welcoming.

So he forced Grillby to speak, even though it was obviously something that made him deeply uncomfortable.

I didn’t answer his question. I was enough of a regular that Grillby knew what I wanted and was already putting it together. Burger, small fry, cheapest and hardest liquor on ice. Exact same thing I got every time I came in.

The monster pulled out a glass to fill and I stopped him with a raise of my hand, “Oh! Hold the drink, Grillbz. I’m gonna be driving.”

He nodded and held the glass out to me, motioning toward the fountain drink dispenser. I took the glass from him with a smile, then went to figure out what I wanted. It was one of those fancy touch-screen deals with a hundred options.

I settled on water after a quick look at the choices and wandered back to my seat to watch Grillby work.

The flame elemental was quick and efficient as he worked, and I wondered what he done in the Underground before the Barrier fell. Maybe he had been a bartender there, too.

He was always well-dressed, something I knew Apollo was more than happy to fund. The human man dressed similarly, although on him the style seemed sloppier and sleazier. Like a used car salesman trying to make himself look respectable while he sold you the worst car on the lot. He simply didn’t have the right bearing, and he was clumsy, so his clothes were often rumpled and stained with mysterious substances.

Grillby, though, he did suits a whole lot of good.

The bartender in question slid my food across the counter with a too-loud, collar forced, “Your order, ma’am.”

I thanked him and dug in as I let my mind wander.

Grillby was lucky, as far as slavery went.

He had a good job and a little apartment over the bar, which meant he rarely had to leave the premises. No worry of a passing thug attacking him for being a monster, no exposure to inclement weather. Once he finished with work he just walked up the stairs and was home.

He seemed to be mostly at ease with his life, with what he did, and he always seemed to care and actually listen when I went off on a rant.

And rant I did. I complained about monster rights – or lack thereof. I whined about my social media efforts not taking off like I had hoped. Failed protests, botched meetups. I cried about my messed up mother and messed up family, and about how awful the world could be.

Grillby was a good listener. I almost considered him my friend.

He was, I realized with a start, the closest thing I had to a friend.

I wondered if he considered me to be a friend.

I sighed as the nagging little voice in the back of my head reminded me that he was forced to be friendly. I wasn’t special, I was just another of Apollo’s many customers, giving money to the man who owned his life.

I shoved the voice aside and tallied Grillby in my mental “friends” category. I hoped the feeling was mutual, although part of me (a not insignificant part of me) assumed otherwise.

I shook my head, dispelling my thoughts as they started going to darker places, and I finished my fries as I bussed my counter area. Seeing I was finished, Grillby came over to hand me the bill, but I had the cash out already.

Cost of the meal and a generous tip, as always.

I knew the fire monster earned nothing from his work, and the only income he had came from tips, which weren’t guaranteed. If Apollo saw them, he forced Grillby to hand them over, usually with some excuse about how it had been “a hard month for business.”

I’m pretty sure everyone knew exactly what a load of shit that was.

The monster nodded a farewell and thanks as he slid the tip into his vest’s inner pocket before returning to work.

I paused at the door and braced myself to make the hour drive to see my mother.