The sultry evening air of Marrakesh wrapped the streets in a warm, languid embrace. Beneath the dim glow of lanterns, the neon sign of The Yank Tank flickered sporadically, its garish letters silhouetting an old American battle tank advertised the bar's peculiar charm. It was an odd little establishment, frequented by tourists and locals alike. Inside, the clink of glasses and low murmur of voices mingled with the faint tinkle of a piano playing some long-forgotten jazz tune emanated from an out of tune instrument played in turn by a large overweight dark-skinned man in the corner of the dive.
Sir Marcus Butler-Smith stepped inside, his polished two-toned tan leather toe-capped shoes tapping lightly against the scuffed wooden floor. He was an anomaly in this place--a man of quiet wealth and refinement, his tailored suit was a soft cream linen that complemented the gloss of his carefully styled dark hair. His presence commanded attention, though he hardly seemed to notice.
He took a seat at the bar, his discerning gaze sweeping the room before settling on the figure behind the counter.
She moved with an awkward grace, her willowy frame seemed to be poured into old and distressed too tight jeans and a white T-shirt; her nipples discernible under the thin worn cotton fabric that had seen far better days. Her long blond hair, though disheveled, caught the light like a halo, and her piercing blue eyes betrayed a spirit not yet extinguished by her circumstances. Marcus watched her with a quiet fascination, his curiosity piqued by the contrast between her ethereal beauty and the weariness etched into her features.
"Hi, I'm your server. My name is Fanny. What'll it be, sir?" she asked, her accent a soft North American drawl; Canadian, not American he could discern the subtle differences, but her voice was tinged with a nervous edge.
"A Macallan, 25 year old.. neat," Marcus replied his accent clipped upper class "Polo-club British" pointing to the most expensive bottle in the bar, his tone smooth and unhurried.
Fanny nodded and turned and reached up to retrieve the bottle, her movements brisk yet hesitant, as though she were conscious of being watched. When she returned, she placed a none too clean whiskey glass carefully in front of him. But as she stumbled on the uneven floor as she leaned forward, the edge of her thumb caught the rim, sending the golden liquid cascading over the bar--and directly onto Marcus's pristine silk shirt.
"Oh God no!" Fanny gasped, both her hands flying to her mouth. "I'm so sorry!"
The conversation in the room faltered, heads turning to witness the scene. Marcus looked down at his shirt, the expensive fabric now stained with amber streaks. But his expression, to Fanny's surprise, remained calm.
Before she could offer another apology, a shadow loomed over them both. Rick, the bar's owner, appeared, his tall frame cutting an imposing figure. His sharp features, massive biceps and piercing gaze carried an air of authority that made even the rowdiest patrons think twice.
"What's this?" Rick demanded, his voice cold and angry.
"It was an accident," Fanny stammered, her cheeks flushed with shame.
"An accident that's going to cost you," Rick snapped. He turned to Marcus, his tone softening slightly. "I'm terribly sorry, 'buddy'. This will be taken care of immediately. She's a good fuck but can't seem to do anything else well. She's only good when on her knees or on her back."
"There's no need..........," Marcus began, but Rick cut him off with a raised hand.
"Fanny," Rick said, his voice like steel, "you'll pay for the gentleman's drink. And don't think this won't be discussed after we close, you stupid worthless cunt." Rick rubbed his large calloused hands together in what seemed to be anticipation.
Fanny's eyes filled with tears, her lips trembling as she reached into the pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a few crumpled bills and some coins placed them on the counter with a shaking hand. Her eyes were bleak. Rick's gaze narrowed, noticing that it was everything she had and just barely enough to cover the cost of the spilled drink
"Here," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Rick scooped up the crumpled bills and coins and with a curt shrug and walked towards an ancient till at the far end of the bar, His parting words were loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. "If you feel it's worth it, take the bitch out back and fuck her for the drink. After all, she poured it all over you. I don't care" He walked away leaving Fanny standing there, her head bowed in humiliation. Marcus watched the scene unfold, his chest tightening with an unfamiliar ache. He reached for his handkerchief and dabbed at his shirt before gently placing it on the counter.
"Fanny," he said softly, drawing her gaze to his. "It's just a shirt. It's nothing worth crying over."
She blinked, her tears threatening to spill over. "I... I can't afford mistakes like this," she murmured. "Not here."
Marcus hesitated, then slid a bill across the counter--Five hundred Dirham; far more than the cost of the drink. "Consider this a tip," he said, his voice kind but firm. "And don't let anyone make you feel small. Accidents happen."