The secondary buyer sat behind a scarred oak desk, shrouded in a thick, choking cloud of grey tobacco smoke. He exhaled a heavy plume through his yellowed teeth, resting a pair of mud-caked boots directly on top of a stack of parchment. A rolled, half-burnt stogie dangled from his chapped lips, glowing faint orange every time he took a long, raspy drag.
"Look at this lineup," the man barked, his voice sounding like gravel grinding in a blender. He didn't even bother taking the cigar out of his mouth as he gestured vaguely toward us with a scarred, dirt-caked hand. "A bunch of weak-assed, crying bitches. Is this the best the North's got to offer me tonight? I pay good silver, and you present me with leftovers?"
He stood up, towering over the table, reeking of stale tobacco, cheap gin, and sweat. He strutted down the line of women like a butcher inspecting cattle, cursing under his breath with every step.
