Chapter 18
Nearly every night, for the last six weeks, Righty had slipped away in the moonlight with a couple buckets of water in hand to go tend to his little babies. He made sure to pack a book with him too. He told Janie he felt inspired reading in the moonlight and “just getting away from it all.”
Janie was no dunce, but after more than a decade of putting up with a mean drunk of a husband, she frankly didn’t care what he was doing out there, so long as she didn’t smell alcohol or perfume when he came back, neither of which had ever happened. Plus, Righty made sure to always pack a book with him, and truth be told he would do a little reading out there by his little green babies, which weren’t so little anymore.
They weren’t exactly magical plants, but he’d never seen anything quite like them. After just six weeks, they were all over a foot tall and had produced quite a few large green bulbs. Righty had pinched off a little piece of one yesterday and found it quickly turned into the powdery form he was used to seeing in the stores. He tried a small pinch this morning at around 7 a.m., and it seemed every bit as strong as the store-bought stuff.
He knew it was high time that he make a move. He had nearly obliterated his life savings and had nothing to show for it. And although his wife wasn’t the type to take out the savings every other night and make sure not a falon was missing, it was only a matter of time before she did and noticed that almost everything was gone. And he suspected it was due to happen soon.
So, that Sunday, while Janie went off to the local temple for a religious service, Righty decided it was then or never. He figured that if it took about twelve hours to make it to Sivingdel driving that clunky old wagon, he could do it in six with Charlie, his favorite horse.
He put one large bulb into a sack and weighed it; it was about an ounce. Then he walked briskly back to the house. He put a dagger in a sheath on his belt, and made sure to choose a long shirt that hung comfortably over it. Then, he put brass knuckles in each pocket. Carrying a dagger was a misdemeanor in Selegania, but that seemed like small potatoes compared to the Class B felony he was carrying in a small bag. For what he was about to do, he might have even worn a sword, but he had never trained with one, and carrying a sword outside one’s home in Selegania was a Class A felony. Not even the police could carry a sword. Only the nation’s small-standing army—numbering four thousand—was exempt from the sword prohibition. In fact, the nation’s constitution forbade anyone other than a professional soldier on a military base or acting in his military capacity from carrying a sword. Not even the senators were exempt.
Righty had done a little investigating before setting off on this particular mission. His first instinct had been to sell to some of his old drinking buddies, as he had already heard through the grapevine that they were snorting this stuff like it was oxygen and they had just come up for breath after two minutes underwater. But upon more careful reflection, he decided that if he did that it would probably take about two days, if the gossip lines were moving slowly, for just about everyone in Ringsetter to know that Righty Rick was the man to see if you wanted some Smokeless Green.
Given that the criminal penalties had already taken effect, he decided that wasn’t exactly a reputation he wanted to have amongst the general population of Ringsetter.
Thus, he had to start from scratch, and he knew Sivingdel was the place. But he had stopped outside the lumberyard a couple times and chatted about how things were going, and, just like he expected, Smokeless Green was the main topic on the menu.
The first time he had spoken to them, panic hadn’t fully set in. After all, it was rather cheap at first, and many of them had stocked up on the stuff. Not because they were clairvoyant as to its future criminalization, but rather for fear that perhaps this substance existed in finite quantities, might be seasonal, or whatever other reasons cause man to hoard items he cherishes.
But all of the stores had quickly fallen in line with the new law and sent back their Smokeless Green to their suppliers—well, that is with the exception of a few stores that sold it with a tenfold markup and Roger Wilson, who tried to return it but was hampered by Righty’s alternative plans. But after that, all that was left in Ringsetter was what people had already purchased from the stores, which now held none of the beloved substance.
If not for the fact that all these individuals were dedicated users themselves, there might have been one or two that became wealthy men overnight. At first, some of them did sell small portions of what they had. But then they saw the price skyrocketing in the meantime, and some of them thought it would maybe be a good idea to “wait and see” just how high the price got.
The problem was sniffing Smokeless Green was one hell of a nice way to pass the time, and thus, as they watched the price go up they also watched their stashes go down. Only a very small few had the foresight to sell off a large quantity of what they owned, but the riches they earned from this were quickly squandered as they ran out of their own supply of Smokeless Green and then found themselves turned into buyers—now buying at an even higher price, sometimes from the very people they had sold to days before.
It was clear to Righty that Mr. Hoffmeyer was right—the price of Smokeless Green was rising higher and higher and most likely hadn’t even come close to reaching its zenith yet.
An ounce had cost about ten falons when it was legal. Now an ounce was up to a thousand. He had around two weeks’ pay in his pocket from just one bulb, and there were plenty more where that came from. Although store owners were abiding by the law to the letter, bars were a different story. The policy at Toby’s Bar and Jimmy’s Saloon was basically the same: Sniff all you please; just don’t let me see.
The parties still roared all night long on the weekends, and even during the week their places were packed until the wee hours of the morning. So far, Smokeless Green had helped many a poor soul—whether a lumberyard worker preparing to go break his back in a grueling shift or an accountant ready to break his brains over a stack of papers with numbers that needed to be crunched—survive the following day and still find energy for a party the next night, but all of that was looking doubtful now.
There was starting to be a tension in the air. People knew the stuff was getting scarce. Like primitive man praying for rain, some were going to the temple (even those who hadn’t gone for a decade or more) and praying for the heavens to open up and provide more of this glorious substance which appeared to be threatening to withdraw her warm embrace.
Righty was more than happy to be the answer to their prayers, but only if he could be a secret benefactor.
As was usual, Righty was lost in thought while in full motion, Charlie galloping wildly towards Sivingdel, happy to be out for an early morning ride.
Around six hours later, Righty made it into town and went straight towards the place he had seen the young toughs. His gut was starting to rumble a little bit as waves of nervousness flowed over him. He knew these were the last kind of people he wanted to do business with, but nonetheless he felt he had little choice.
As he got near the area where he had seen the five toughs last time, he was surprised to see them back in the exact same spot, and was half-relieved, half-worried. Had he seen no one, he could have turned his horse right back around towards home and told himself in all honesty: Well, you tried.
He didn’t like the looks of any of these toughs. Not that he had before, but they looked particularly vicious today. But it was the ringleader who caught his attention the most: Mr. Short-Cropped. He almost instinctively gave him the same vicious look that had partially subdued the young punk last time, but that wouldn’t necessarily further his purpose, which was to negotiate.
So, instead, he adopted a confident, yet unaggressive bearing.
He didn’t exactly like getting off Charlie without a place to tie him to, so he figured he was just going to have to hope he didn’t go galloping off at the first sign of trouble.
All fi
ve toughs were now standing and looking at Righty with great hostility. Mr. Short-Cropped stepped ahead of the rest and with an insolent look said, “Whaddya want around here, fool?!”
“I’m here to talk business,” Righty said in what he hoped was a confident but unthreatening tone.
He was standing about ten feet from the young punk.
The punk walked another couple feet forward. Righty didn’t budge.
“Haaa-haaaa-haaa!” he laughed. But it sounded artificial to Righty. Probably for the benefit of his sidekicks.
“I want to sell you Smokeless Green. I’ve brought a sample for you so that you can see I’m interested in making cash and am not here to waste your time.”
As he put his hand into his pocket and withdrew the bag with the bulb in it, Mr. Short-cropped flinched slightly and then quickly restraightened his arrogant posture.
Before he could utter another silly laugh, Righty tossed it at him and said, “Give this a whiff, and see if you’re still laughing.”
The young punk’s eyes narrowed, and he put his hand into the bag gingerly, as if he was afraid a scorpion might be in there, rather than Kasani’s finest substance on earth.
After he pulled it out and smelled it, his eyes immediately changed. In fact, they changed several times. First, they revealed surprise, as it this was certainly the last thing Mr. Short-Cropped expected to have happen to him today. Then, his eyes turned greedy. Then, wolfish.
Perhaps Righty, in all fairness to Mr. Short-Cropped, is at least partly to blame for what came next. Righty had the ability—although he did not yet fully know the truly bottomless depth of it—to uncannily hide the hulking monster that lurked within him. Yes, he knew he could usually exhibit a calm, unthreatening demeanor when that was what he wished, but he had no idea how poorly that could cause individuals to underestimate him. It was something he would become more cognizant of in the future. Had he simply let Mr. Short-Cropped see his real eyes, things would have turned out differently.
“Let’s rob this dude!” Mr. Short-Cropped shouted out and went running wildly towards Righty, the others not far behind him. In a split-second, Righty was back in boxing mode. As soon as Mr. Short-Cropped got within striking distance he immediately morphed from a calm man into a savage beast. He punched Mr. Short-Cropped right in the stomach, grabbed him by his head, turned his back towards him, kneeled, and threw him over his head. He was surrounded now, so he knew there was going to be no quarter.
He moved towards a long-haired, wild-eyed punk, and as he prepared to deliver a ruthless body blow, he sensed at the last second the tough was getting ready to back up. He suddenly sprinted forward while simultaneously delivering his body blow, and to his satisfaction he found he could still deal with Runners. That had been one of his specialties. He heard ribs snap like twigs underneath his merciless punch.
He felt a punch to the face, but it was nothing. It felt like a feather’s caress compared to the blows he had been accustomed to taking in the ring. He answered back with a left jab that smashed the tough’s nose and sent a geyser of blood shooting out.
There were two left, and their faces had surrender spelled out across their eyes. They were trying to look tough but instead looked like they were about ready to hightail it out of there at any moment. Then, they looked distracted.
They were looking at Mr. Short-Cropped who was doubled over and puking his guts out, every once in a while gasping for air, creating a horrible gurgling sound, as he inhaled his own vomit. Mr. Long Hair was lying on the ground and wheezing. Blood was oozing from his mouth, compliments of a punctured lung.
“Now, I can bash all your brains in, if that’s how you want to play it, you young punks!” Righty began. “But I thought maybe you were out here loafing around with nothing to do because maybe you’d like to earn a little easy money. Sorry I interrupted your day!”
And having said that, he put his left foot into a stirrup and leaped on top of Charlie. He was about ready to leave when he heard “Wait!”
He turned around. It was Mr. Short-Cropped. His stomach was still twitching a little, and his face was covered with dust and vomit, but he was standing.
“Let’s talk business.”
Righty had never considered himself to be one of those people who belabored the point. A problem had arisen. He had pounded it into smithereens. Now, an opportunity arose. Why live in the past?
“All right,” Righty said. “But let’s get one thing straight,” and as he said this he put his hands into his pockets and extracted them covered in brass knuckles, “the next time you won’t get back up.” He then quickly reinserted the brass knuckles back into his pockets.
He continued. “You don’t need to know who I am or anything else about me. I brought you a free sample to show you I mean business. Tell me how many more of those bulbs you want me to bring next time—up to ten—and I’ll be here. It’ll be 700 falons each. You can turn that into 1,000 falons per bulb on the street—that is, if any of you punks have connections.”
“We do,” Mr. Short-Cropped said. “And to be honest, we can get 1,200 falons for one of those bulbs by the time we break it up and sell it in smaller quantities. That stuff is selling like crazy.”
“That’s your issue. All I’m asking for now is 700 falons. How many bulbs do you want me to bring and when.”
“Bring ten tomorrow.”
“That’s short notice. I’d need payment for half upfront.”
Mr. Short-Cropped studied Righty closely.
“If we’re gonna do business, I need to be able to call you something.”
“Call me Brass. It’ll serve as a reminder to you of my friendly warning.”
Mr. Short-Cropped chuckled. His sidekicks were looking at him closely.
Mr. Short-Cropped pulled out a bag and counted out 3,500 falons, all in one-hundred-falon bills. He approached Righty.
“Mr. Brass, be here tomorrow at the same time, or you’re going to have some people looking for you that are a lot tougher than me.”
It caught Righty’s attention that the message sounded more like a concerned warning than a threat.
Righty grabbed the bills and looked at them closely while not letting Mr. Short-Cropped get out of sight.
“I’ll be here tomorrow with ten bulbs at 6 p.m. and will be expecting five more of these bills. If you jump me again, I’ll kill every last one of you.”
Mr. Short-Cropped didn’t offer a rebuttal but instead held out his hand.
Righty looked him closely in the eye and then grabbed his hand hard.
A nudge to Charlie’s side pivoted him around, and a gentle squeeze with his knees prompted him into a full gallop. Before he did so, he noticed Mr. Long Hair had created a rather nice pool of blood around his mouth, and he was no longer twitching.
That mattered little to Righty. He had seven weeks’ worth of pay in his pocket (at his new hourly rate) and the promise of the same amount tomorrow. Things were looking good.