Fat Mike
08-29-10, 06:19 PM
Mike stood in the atrium of the Radasanthian Port Authority. The building was enormous, a fortress that stood against the ocean-borne winds far better than his run down place ever could. The bag that he held at his side was heavy - filled with bills and coins. He hadn't opened it up to count it, somehow he felt that someone would know if he did, but it had enough heft that his shoulder was sore and stiff where it had supported the strap of the burlap bag.
The room he waited in had a chair, but he would rather stand. There was nothing wrong with the chair, made of quality wood and real leather. The bookcase beside it seemed to match, not a speck of dust showing on the tops of the books or the shelves. A richly colored and thick rug was laid down in the center of the room, not a dark corner in sight. The chandelier above took the candlelight and magnified it, throwing it with crystal so that the room was bright, spectral rainbows dancing along the walls.
Finally, someone came out to greet him. The man wore a tailored suit, took the bag without a word and shook Mike's hand. A much smaller pouch was exchanged, full of sheaves of paper. Mike had peaked once before, the first time he made the Port Authority run. The numbers on paper for the amount of money and goods that passed between this and ports beyond was staggering.
Mike thought about those numbers the entire way out the door, beyond the guards, and into the sunny streets. People were passing by on the way to and from the docks, the calls of the homeless piercing through the hum of conversation and waves hitting rock. He stopped, dark eyes falling on an elderly man clothed only in tattered cloth, holding out a bent empty can for change. Just a tiny drop in the giant pool of money the government made of imports and exports would keep this man fed for the rest of his life. It made Mike scared, and it made Mike angry. As he fished around in his pockets for the few coins he'd taken to work for lunch, someone ran by. At first he thought he'd only been brushed up against as the person navigated around the corner of the Port Authority, but then he realized that it had been more than a little bump. The leather folder, bound with cord, had been stolen.
The folder was little use to a thief, but held all of Mike Milton's job security comfortably within its bounds. With a shout, he started running after the figure bobbing through the few clumps of people that mingled the portside streets.
The room he waited in had a chair, but he would rather stand. There was nothing wrong with the chair, made of quality wood and real leather. The bookcase beside it seemed to match, not a speck of dust showing on the tops of the books or the shelves. A richly colored and thick rug was laid down in the center of the room, not a dark corner in sight. The chandelier above took the candlelight and magnified it, throwing it with crystal so that the room was bright, spectral rainbows dancing along the walls.
Finally, someone came out to greet him. The man wore a tailored suit, took the bag without a word and shook Mike's hand. A much smaller pouch was exchanged, full of sheaves of paper. Mike had peaked once before, the first time he made the Port Authority run. The numbers on paper for the amount of money and goods that passed between this and ports beyond was staggering.
Mike thought about those numbers the entire way out the door, beyond the guards, and into the sunny streets. People were passing by on the way to and from the docks, the calls of the homeless piercing through the hum of conversation and waves hitting rock. He stopped, dark eyes falling on an elderly man clothed only in tattered cloth, holding out a bent empty can for change. Just a tiny drop in the giant pool of money the government made of imports and exports would keep this man fed for the rest of his life. It made Mike scared, and it made Mike angry. As he fished around in his pockets for the few coins he'd taken to work for lunch, someone ran by. At first he thought he'd only been brushed up against as the person navigated around the corner of the Port Authority, but then he realized that it had been more than a little bump. The leather folder, bound with cord, had been stolen.
The folder was little use to a thief, but held all of Mike Milton's job security comfortably within its bounds. With a shout, he started running after the figure bobbing through the few clumps of people that mingled the portside streets.