Drogo’s House of Pain [Fiction]

If you go down a certain alley somewhere on the outskirts of London, you’ll find a sign that reads “Drogo’s House of Pain”. Drogo lives on the first floor, and the ground floor is where Drogo spends his days as as respectable baker, teaching artisanal bread-making to people who think they want to learn to make artisanal bread.

At the end of the day, when the last person had left and everything had been tidied away, Drogo would unlock the large padlock on the door at the back of the shop, take the stairs down to the basement, carefully select some very specific tools from the rack, and, with a slight smile, start work at his other business: chiselling marble baking tins to sell to his customers. Drogo always made sure to tell them that marble was a terrible material for a baking tin, but they were still his best-selling item. Drogo offers no opinion on the concept of style over substance.

Drogo apologises for the potentially confusing sign above his door. He wanted to add a little class to his establishment, and didn’t consider alternate uses for the French word “Pain”.

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