The group of figures huddled together in the dark and stink of a city alley. One tramped on the cobblestones for warmth, another fingered the hilt of his poniard. "So," said one, "we get ol' Lord Brockhurst alone, then Jake here slips him the steel, and we all grab whatever shiny we can, right?"

"Right," the others chorused.

"And we all meet up at the Bent Gentleman to split the loot, yeah? Louise?"

"Yeah, fine," she said, "but I don't know the Bent Gentleman. Where's it?"

"How can you say that? We've met there a hunnerd times, over by Smith's Alley and Drunkard's Walk?"

"Oh," she said, "you mean the Vomitous Lad? Yeah, I can meet there."

"No one calls it that," he said.

"Sure they do."

"I thought it was Farmer's Flatulence," another said. She looked around. "Am I the only one, then?" Heads nodded.

"C'mon," said the first, "sign's of a man, bent at the waist, touching his toes like?" The other two nodded. "The Bent Gentleman," he insisted.

"Wait," said Jake, "you mean the place with that barmaid, Fanny?" They nod. "Oh." He nods to the others. "They're talking about the Ready Rodger."

"Ohhhhhh," chorused the others.