Back to Orgrimmar in time for the weekend. Have an interview with the Grom’s Machine, a group of Mekano-hog enthusiasts who tear up the Valley of Honour with impromptu races every few Freysdays. The interview is likely to turn into a very heavy evening of drinking and possible property destruction, with all the payoffs that implies, so I stop by the bank to pick up some money. You know, line your pockets with a few gold, break in case of emergencies.

The teller is gone for a long while, and when he comes back his face has a dark cloud over it. No one can furrow their brow at you quite like an orc, particularly one who has contact with your finances.

“The Adjuster of Bulk Accounts would like to speak with you,” he rumbles.

“Oh, that’s okay — I don’t have an appointment,” I reply.

The teller’s brow furrows more deeply.

“I don’t want to bother him.”

The teller frowns so hard, his eyebrows eclipse his eyeballs completely and begin their hairy assault on the Cheekbone Salient.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll just head back and see the Adjuster of Bulk Accounts, then.” They open the teller door for me and I walk back to the Vaults, big stone plugs pushed into stone sockets by hired ogres, and then pulled out again when needed. There’s an older, bearded and unarmored orc standing in front of one of the open plugs, an orc with — I swear by my ancestors — a comb-over. In the nearby corner, the Vault-ogre is sitting down with his head between his knees, looking extremely depressed.

“BY GROM THIS IS THE LIMIT,” bellowed the orcish banker.

“Yes, is it?” I asked, feeling pretty disoriented at this point.

“I’VE HAD IT WITH YOU ADVENTURING TYPES.”

“Have you?” I detected a plaintive note creeping into my voice. Hoping for more information, anything that would let me get a handle on this racket.

“THIS IS A BANK, BY GARADAR, NOT A GARBAGE TIP.”

“Yes, I agree that this is a bank.” I felt like I was on firmer footing now; he and I had located our common ground. He gestured sharply for me to peer into the bank vault, which I did, feeling that since we were clearly men of reason, capable of recognizing the function of public buildings, I had nothing to fear.

Immediately tears started to my eyes, and my nostrils constricted with such speed and suddenless I reeled backwards, pawing at my snout and gasping for air. “What the fuck?” I said.

“WHAT THE FUCK,” repeated the orcish banker.

“What’s that smell?”

“Well,” he said, speaking in a normal tone of voice for the first time. “We suspect it may be the pile of severed human ears. Or the pile of severed troll ears next to that one. Or the years-old, untanned hides of about a dozen different species.”

“Oh, right, yeah. I guess those have been sitting there for a while. Look, I’ve been in touch with some guys; they want the ears, but they only receive in bulk. I’m in negotiations.”

“Why haven’t you had these skins tanned?”

“Well, listen, I was into skinning for a while, but then I got tired of fat deposits staining my clothes. I just haven’t gotten around to –”

“Why is there about fifty pounds of unidentified meat in here?”

“I’ve been taking cooking classes. Um, by correspondence.” Tense silence; I decide to offer a little more explanation. “I’ve gotten a little behind. I’m… I’m waiting for turkey season to come around again. Man. Roast turkey — do you like roast turkey? I can’t ge–”

“ENOUGH, for your father’s sake.” We continued through the tour of shame. The ogre was eventually induced to come help drag out an assortment of scales (turtle, dragon, fish, unidentifiable), hides, scraps, chunks of flesh, feathers, pearls, and a Mr. Chilly that had gone extremely feral. I was instructed to put all of it on a wagon and take it away.

So naturally, I carted it over to the Auction House.

“I’d like to sell this meat,” I said. Pretty suave, I thought. Just slap it on there like a real player. Meat for the Meat gods! Buy low, sell high. Yessir. Reach for your flint, remember you don’t have a cigar as you’re scorching your lip with the flame.

“Say,” I added, seeing the expression the auctioneer was giving me. “Do you have a brother? works in the bank?”

I hear the Auction House keeps petitioning the warchief to be moved further away from the Bank so people will have a harder time moving junk from one to the other, but with a war on, they haven’t heard back.

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