The tavern keeper stared at the damp, wrinkled green piece of paper sitting on the counter. He looked at Abraham Lincoln's face on the twenty-dollar bill, then up at Ron, then down at the paper again. He tapped it with a dirty fingernail.
"What manner of sorcery is this ledger?" the barkeep stammered, his voice trembling. "A green scroll? Is this the currency of the netherworld?"
"It's twenty bucks, man," Ron sighed, leaning heavily against the bar. "It's legal tender. Just give me some meat and whatever you got to drink."
The monk, still on his knees, squinted at the bill from a safe distance. "Look upon the strange symbols! The green tint! 'Tis a demonic contract! He seeks to buy our souls with hell-script!"
Ron rolled his eyes, slid his pistol back into his waistband, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a handful of loose change he'd grabbed from his car's cupholder right before the crash. He picked out a shiny, metallic Texas state quarter and flipped it through the air. It landed with a sharp, clean clink on the wooden counter, spinning perfectly before settling under the firelight.
The barkeep gasped. He snatched it up, biting it instantly. His eyes widened. "Silver! Pure, unblemished silver! And look... it bears the crest of a strange beast!" He was staring at the lone star and the tiny engraved horse on the back of the Texas quarter. "A mythical steed from the western realms!"
"Yeah, it's a horse. Great. Now where's the food?"
Realizing the "demon" actually paid in high-quality bullion, the barkeep's survival instincts overrode his religious terror. He nodded frantically, scooping up the quarter and sliding a heavy, dented pewter mug across the table. "Right away, Milord Satan! Drink of our finest ale while the hearth cooks thy flesh!"
Ron picked up the mug, took a massive, thirsty gulp—and immediately gagged, spitting a mouthful of it right back onto the floorboards.
"What the fuck is this?!" Ron coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It tasted like warm, sour sourdough bread mixed with swamp water and vinegar. It was completely flat, thick, and chunks of dead yeast were floating at the top. "This shit is straight battery acid! Y'all don't have ice? A Sprite? A cold Coors Light? Nothing?"
The tavern patrons watched him spit the holy ale in absolute silence. To them, the demon was rejecting the hospitality of mortals.
A few minutes later, the barkeep returned, nervously placing a wooden trencher on the table. On it sat a gray, boiled lump of unidentifiable meat swimming in a watery, brown broth, accompanied by a hard, dark loaf of bread that looked like a literal brick.
Ron stared at it. He picked up a wooden spoon, poked the gray meat, and watched it wobble elasticity. He took a tiny bite.
His face contorted in pure agony.
It was completely unseasoned. No pepper. No garlic. Not even a single grain of salt. It tasted like boiled cardboard and sadness.
"Yo," Ron said, his deep voice deadpan as he looked up at the barkeep. "Where is the salt? The seasoning? The hot sauce? Anything?"
The barkeep blinked, terrified. "Salt, Sire? Salt is... is for the nobility! A luxury of the king's table! We have but the brine of the cabbage..."
Ron stared at him. Then he looked down at the gray meat. He slowly pulled his phone back out, the infinite battery icon glowing brightly, and set it on the table. He rubbed his temples.
"I am in a world with literal knights, magic gods, and infinite bullets," Ron muttered to himself, his Texas soul crying out in anguish. "But I can't get a single grain of seasoned salt for this boot-leather meat. This is the real torture."
The monk slowly crept a few inches closer, staring at the glowing phone on the table. "Look... the demon's mirror speaks no words, yet it burns with the light of a thousand candles... He broods over his dark magic..."
Ron grabbed his phone, stood up, and looked at the entire room of terrified, smelly medieval peasants. He adjusted his wet hoodie, his finger lingering near his infinite-ammo pistol.
"Alright, listen up," Ron announced to the tavern, his Texas drawl echoing off the soot-stained rafters. "I'm staying here tonight. I'm taking the bed closest to the fire. If any of you try to touch me, pray to whatever god you want, because my gun doesn't run out of thunder. Tomorrow, we are finding whoever runs this raggedy-ass kingdom, and we're gonna figure out how to get some damn seasoning in this valley. Clear?"
The peasants didn't understand a single word of his slang, but the absolute, alpha-level confidence in his eyes made every single person in the room nod frantically.
Ron marched up the wooden stairs to the inn's quarters, leaving a tavern full of men who genuinely believed the Prince of Darkness had just banned salt and declared war on the local Duke.