Scribbler was deeper in the city now, everything bustling about her. No more signs of the nasty dog beasts, only people. If they could be called that. Pretty much all of them were human, or humanoid, at least. One passed that looked like a centaur, only instead of a horse, it had the body of a rabbit, hopping merrily along the street. The rest came in all sorts of sizes and colors, from a tall, thin dour looking man, whose skin was bright cheery pink, to a girl on a park bench, listening to her radio, who seemed to lack any color of her own at all. Scribbler had to look twice to even make sure it was a person. What seemed to be missing though were cars. Streets were in place, and sidewalks, and traffic lights, but not a car was to be seen. Still people stayed steadfastly off the streets, and Scribbler did the same. She was totally unsure of where to go. A rumble in her stomach quickly settled her mind for her and she slipped into what looked to be a restaurant.

It wasn't. Instead, it seemed to be a bar of sorts, very dirty and smoky, though the smell of burgers definitely pleased Scribbler. It was only after she sat that she remembered that she had no money. She sat, depressed, at a small grimy table. She hadn't sat long when a finger poked her shoulder. "Pardon me, Miss. Would you mind if I join you?" The accent was British and when she looked up she saw a human with a pencil-thin moustache, a high forehead, and clothes that made him look like an Elizabethan-era version of a 1970s pimp.

"Ah... sure, go ahead." He sat, and gave her an oily grin.

"You look hungry, girl."

"No money... I guess it's hard to earn money as a writer."

He looked shocked, and then his grin, if possible, got even more oily. "Quotha! Earn money -- hard? Not a bit! At least, not if you know what to write. I happen to be a writer myself, you see. All you have to know how to do is give the public what they want. And then sit back and let the money roll in."

She looked at him. "Does that... work?"

"You bet, toots. Yea and verily! It's gotten me this far."

"What do you write?"

He shrugged. "Whatsoever the paying customers might ask: Sex. Violence. Some quite kinky stuff, at times -- all grist for the mill, as it were." Scribbler gagged. He cocked an eyebrow. She coughed.

"Sorry. The, er... smoke is getting to me. I'm going to... step outside."

"Ok, sweetie. Look me up if you're in town. People call me The Bard. All the ladies in town have heard of me." He winked -- greasily.

Scribbler gagged again and slipped out of the smoky place. It would be nice to have money, but it was better, in her opinion anyway, to have standards. Halfway through the city she remembered something and began to write: Everyone noticed the scent first. It was the kind of aroma that could make Mahatma Ghandi swear off vegetarianism...

The hamburger was delicious. Top quality. Very little grease.