Knucklebrow Twosie had never been seen in Fong’s before.

Not that there was any great whispering when he walked in. Most of the clientele were in a state of hazy mental undress, too deep in their cups or pipes or kinks to notice. Because, after all, Knucklebrow Twosie was as new to Fong’s as he was to the street, the city and the Republic itself. There was no reason for anyone to take much note of him.

The one person in the room who did see him clearly was Penny Onehole, whose name, while ultimately misleading, nevertheless held enough mystery to keep drunkards coming back for another crack. Penny didn’t like drink, on account of her father. She didn’t like opium, on account of her pimp, Rivard, now deceased, whom she blamed for getting her stuck in this fog-wracked hell. Penny didn’t like that other smoke, on account of it got her fatter than she should be at age twenty-seven, ahem. She had a lot of tricks to make the Johns think she was three sheets to the wind, and not a drop of liquor had passed her lips in fifteen years.

What she saw when Knucklebrow Twosie walked in was a man of a bout five feet, four inches in height, his cap pulled down to his eyebrows. Those thick wrists might mean a thick cock, but she didn’t much care either way. He looked like everyone else who came into Fong’s: lost.

But … something about his jaw, the angle of his head, looked familiar. Penny Onehole suppressed a shiver and smiled at him through the smoke. There was a quota to fill, after all. He looked like he’d do nicely.