Spogg came in a few minutes after you arrived, slipping into your curtained booth. He barely squeezed his big gut in enough to sit at the booth, and kept his bowler on. For a many who plays dice in the streets, he doesn't smell too bad, at least. He made quick pleasantries, but then you steered the conversation to talk of poor Slog. Describing the block, hells, the entire ward, on alert. How bad did things get for Slog? What ended up happening to the poor sod?
"Aye, I know the story, Milos," Spogg admits after exhaling a breath he held in worry. "What can ye do? So Milos, we ere to rabbit and pork about that old pot and pan, or shall we talk of rats and mice?"
translation: are we here to talk about that old man, or do you want to talk about dicing games?