Vermin come from far and wide to wager their precious refuse at the back-room tables of Terrapin Tucker’s Two-bit Gin Joint, one of the few neutral places in the city. Many a litter of wee, cute, baby animals has starved to death after their parents gambled away their life savings in one glorious gin-soaked night at old Tucker’s.

Gambling isn’t tolerated under the strict moral code of the Rodentia Alley and Sewers Administration. They’ve tried a number of times to work an injunction against ol’ Tucker but he’s been around longer than the great-great-great-grandfather clause and there ain’t much the filthy rats can do about it. Tucker’s Two-Bit Gin-Joint is so old, most folks are at a loss to name anything older, ‘cept maybe the rotted out oak tree in the middle of Privateer Park. The grease and filth on the floor dates back to the Prairie Dog wars and tastes just a rotten.

Tucker keeps his gambling operation in the backroom, but it’s the worst kept secret in the city. Folks come from all around for a chance to turn their enemies out on the street, penniless and humiliated and maybe come home a king. More often than not, they leave with a gashed head and few more lumps than they showed up with most of them from Tucker himself, who always keeps his best pool cue, Serendipity, behind the bar.

Tucker has outlived every vermin administration, uprising, revolution, utopia, distopia, and collective that’s ever been know but even he’s a bit worried about this new batch of ne’er-do-wells fighting over the city.  Says Tucker, “Too much fighting, and they’re all a bunch of no-good, lily-livered, long-eared galoots. ‘S bad fer business and I hope they all choke on a thumb tack.” That’s our Tucker!

The future of Verminopolis is uncertain, but one thing is for sure, Terrapin Tucker will be there to bury the bodies and make a few nickles in the deal.