Born a Monster

467 Empty Store

In theory, a pawn shop is a simple affair. You take things people don’t want, and pay them pathetically little amounts of money for them. You then sell those things at a discount to other people.

The reality is in the details. The people selling the things want more for their ‘treasures’ than the people buying them are willing to pay for the ‘barely serviceable junk’. As a consequence, you can become mired in Charisma and Resolve skills. Sellers will have sob stories, much like conmen do, and I found the easiest way to tell them apart was to offer barter (for example, for food, or blankets, medicines, and the like, per sob story) versus coin.

There were very few conmen (but, if it matters, a higher portion of conwomen, who seemed to be doing well enough for themselves without my help). The economy of Whitehill appeared to have been kicked in the balls.

Oh, perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself again. My papers (required by the effective government) said that I was Theodore Omnifex, son of Harrison and Misery Omnifex. Supposedly, there were records somewhere of my fictional family history. I kept the shop, which was legally owned by a Lady Theresa Mockingthrush (since the death of her husband during the occupation of the town). I’ve no clue what favor she owed Lord Mortimer that made me a shoe-in for the position.

One of my first duties was to remove the previous manager and the items damaged in his slaying, to organize what little hadn’t been looted, and to await funding to begin purchasing things.

You know my life; that isn’t even remotely what had happened.

I was busy mending the bedsheets from upstairs when my first customer barged in. “Those sheets.” a woman said. “I’ll trade you a live chicken for them.”

I blinked at her, and then realized the OPEN side of the store sign still hung facing the street.

“But the sheets...”

.....

“I know, but I really do need them. Maybe you can throw in that sewing kit to make up the difference?”

It wasn’t a hard sale for her; I had four different sewing kits, in various stages of disrepair. The chicken went in a half-broken cage, the cage into the window.

I was hammering some bent nails back into a version of straight when someone wanted to trade me pastries and onions for the chicken. There was a little dickering over the value of the cage, which got me a pair of shoes (offered by the lad, I didn’t ask) and some spare coins.

For all that he said those shoes pinched his feet, they looked perfectly serviceable. They were joined on the shelves by a bonnet later that day, before his mother came, all in a huff, demanding the shoes.

“I shouldn’t have to pay for those shoes again!” she huffed.

“The shoes were sold, as part of the deal for the chicken.” I said.

“Oh, and I suppose you want a dozen eggs for the shoes!”

“They aren’t bad shoes.” I said. “I’d say ...”

A young man stepped up to the counter. “Might I buy those shoes and trade them to her for the eggs?”

Nobody had warned me that was how brokerages got started. People came in, people left. At different times in the day, I had licorice and a leather plowhorse harness. For all of the six minutes it took an urchin to run to the nearest blacksmith, I had a pail of horse-shoes.

Most bought or sold from me directly. Others, however, paid me in tin coins, sometimes copper, just to ensure they were getting a ‘fair’ deal.

Briefly, I had to attend to our neighboring stable.

“You there! Are you taking that horse without paying?” I asked.

“Sure am!” the old bitty replied. “Just as sure as Lil Bitsy was stolen from me earlier today! And shame on you for buying her from such horse thieves.”

I asked the horse.

she replied.

I sent.

“Ah, my mistake, then. Wherever the animal follows you.”

“I want paid for my saddle.”

“There was no saddle on her when she was sold.” I said.

Gods! I hadn’t even been asking animals if they were sentient. I needed to be more mindful of that.

But, the stable being empty, I left it for the mucking out later and returned to the main store.

It wasn’t long before the crowds drew the attention of an infantryman, a swarthy red hobgoblin, clad in a uniform of purple and blue. He propped his pike outside the door, and strode in as though he owned the place.

“Corporal Snorrison.” he announced. “Let me speak to the proprietor.”

“I am the manager, sir.” I said, “Might I be able to help you?”

“You know what happened to the last manager?” he asked.

I nodded. “I had to dispose of his corpse.” I said. “It looked like he was tortured, disemboweled, and left to bleed out.”

A man cupped a hand over the ear of his daughter, and left. Had she brought that stuffed rabbit into the store with her? It looked EXACTLY like one in a box of toys... and that very rabbit was never found again. Whatever, I had a soldier standing over me, hands on his hips, and his attitude bearing down directly on my face.

“Your store,” he said, “owes taxes.”

I went to my ledger book. “I’ve seen something about that.” I said.

He knocked the book off my sales counter and into the corner. “You owe taxes AGAIN.”

“And what is the tax rate?” I asked.

“Ten percent of what you’ve got here in the shop.” he said. It seemed quickly enough answered. “Let’s say... fifteen gold.”

It doesn’t take long for three people to escape a store.

“Everything here.” I said “Is not worth fifteen gold.”

“Is it not?” he asked. “Take a look at these eggs, each one worth a silver coin.” He hefted the basket, upending it.

“Eight eggs, worth a tin coin per two of them.” I said. Before that day, I had thought them a dozen per tin, but... wartime prices. Food was at a premium.

“Candy, worth a copper per strand.” he said, indicating the licorice.

“Tin for six.” I said. “Good licorice is worth more, but they skimped on the herbs for that batch.”

He tipped the jar over to crash on the floor. Rude; I’d just swept that floor clean.

“I know that stores like this make money hand over foot. Hand over the gold, or I’ll gut you like a fish.”

I sighed. It was almost my last mistake.

Flash Step, as I’ve said, is a common Martial ability, gained at third level. By then, any warrior with more than a year’s experience is able to Step and thrust, faster than anyone could hope to parry or dodge.

So it was that I found a dagger in my intestines, and a [Perforated Colon].

“Gyaah!” I said. Instinctively, I pulled Heart’s Defender from my inventory, and struck back.

I know, I know, absolutely the wrong move, and one he was ready for.

He caught my wrist, in a [Wrist Lock], much as I might have.

“THAT,” he said, greedily eyeing Heart’s Protector, “is worth around what you owe.”

I screamed again, as a quick twist of his hand inflicted [Broken Wrist] and broke two of my metacarpals.

With a practiced swipe of his free hand, he took my sword into his inventory. “I think you’ve learned your lesson. Next time I come in here for taxes, either you’re paying, or else you’re dead.”

He shoved on my wrist just prior to releasing it. From his smile, my grimace of pain entertained him. Even as the adrenaline flushed through my body, he sauntered to the door, casually took his pike into his hand, and whistling as he walked, swung it into the glass window separating the outside from the inside.

I sighed as his whistling diminished in volume, setting my broken bones as best I could. If only I could see inside my flesh, see the bones themselves...

[Medical Visualization System costs sixty development points. Focus here to purchase.]

Of course, the initial purchase was refused. I didn’t have sixty development points.

What I did have were points lurking about, unspent, in my cultivation methods. Now that I could visualize the broken bone ends, the bits of flesh trying to interpose, It was an act of simplicity to set the bones close enough to right before toggling [Fast healing] on them.

Ugh. I needed some cauliflower or broccoli. I’d had the option of trading for some earlier that day, and turned them down; vegetables spoiled too quickly.

Sweeping up glass is difficult with only one working hand; as it was, I hadn’t enough time before the next person entered my store.

“I couldn’t help but notice you’ve a broken window.” the man said.

“And do you sell windows?” I asked.

“Wood.” the man said. “My name is Robert, and I sell wood.”

Individual customers came in and out as Robert and I negotiated the cuts and sizes of his wood. But, poorer than when I’d started the day, I eventually mustered the coins he demanded.

And this, as I learned my first day, is the reality of a pawn shop.

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