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Radio Bob Approved
- Joined
- Jun 30, 2021
- Messages
- 185
- Thread Author
- #1
In the centre of District 7, there's a broken down old museum.
It's not been a museum for a long time, the beige walls are stained with blood, sweat, and grime.
The air carries the stench of booze, the card-covered tables permeate an atmosphere of disgusting avarice.
In the corner, a pair of floorboards seem untouched compared to the rest.
You pry one open, taking a look at a note laid inside.
It's not been a museum for a long time, the beige walls are stained with blood, sweat, and grime.
The air carries the stench of booze, the card-covered tables permeate an atmosphere of disgusting avarice.
In the corner, a pair of floorboards seem untouched compared to the rest.
You pry one open, taking a look at a note laid inside.
[The date has been scribbled out frantically]
To the poor bastard who's taken up the mantle,
Welcome to Le M. Musée du Vin. Or the delightfully re-styled Talleyrand's, courtesy of yours truly. Before you go looking, the wine cellar was filled with concrete twelve years ago. That collection is priceless, but I prefer a vintage sans the side of cement.
If you've gone and torn up the floorboards to find this letter, I'm sorry to disappoint, but you'll find no confession, no secret stash. No, I am afraid I was never gangster enough for that. What you've found is my testimony, proof that I existed, and proof that I almost certainly have ceased to be by the time you read this.
Welcome to what remains of Clement Knight.
My peers on the streets think of me as some sort of nepo-baby Combine Cocksucker. A guy who lucked out with a permit to rob from the dumb, weak and desperate whilst granting free perks to the Civil Protection.
If you're to follow in my footsteps, you'll be the same in their eyes, you'll find out fast that this isn't the case.
When I started, I thought I could bring just a sliver of hope to these helpless fools on the street. Idiots who've nothing to look forward to but their next meal.
Instead, I'm styled their thieving villain because of a few bad bets.
The cops, too, they don't see the ledger. They see the potential in charging me a flat 'protection fee' that could pay my rent three times over.
They'll see one charitable move or, heaven forbid, a slummer wins a game and think I have funds to spare.
Keeping both sane and alive in this business requires a heart blacker than coal and the stomach to watch your fellow man starve as he frantically searches the garbage for scraps of ration. I don't have those skills, I hope that no man does.
They always use that phrase, "The House always wins."
I thought I was the house, but I'm just the squatter living in it.
Sincerely, Clement Knight, Proprietor
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