For the Love of Money

My wallet was empty for the third time in the past two weeks, which, trust me, wasn't good. I'd woken up this morning, same as always, yawned, stretched, scratched my head full of hair, and reached into my pocket, pulling out my brown wad of beauty, expecting to see enough for at least breakfast. Not even that, though, not even a dollar for good luck. That baby was empty, devoid of anything with value. There weren't even any coins. There weren't even any fake cards to sell to some hopeful fool, nothing to help me.

Immediately my mind started to go over the standard protocol for what happens when I'm broke. I could go and find some plants that might be edible, try to eat those. But it was dead winter, and whatever plants that could be eaten were probably nasty, frozen plantsickles now. I could go looking for some bloke's stash, steal from his food. But I was at least a mile out from the main town, and going to look for what might not be there could be a waste of valuable energy, enough to kill me. I could beg, but I had a feeling that if I were faced with the condensing, arrogant venders that sold food with no dough, I wouldn't accomplish much.

So all three of my options, exhausted and useless, lay before me.

Well not all my options.

I knew what this meant, but it dismayed me all the same. I hated when I was broke like this. Not only was it dehumanizing to know that I was a poor kid and there were people out there who had more than me, but having no dough meant I would have to go out and find some.

And that experience in itself was enough to drive anyone insane.

I hated that when I went out on the hunt, I had to make sacrifices that I knew I couldn't handle. Sacrifices that tore me apart, destroyed me, but I had to make anyway because if I didn't, I'd starve. Sacrifices like my sanity, my morale. My humanity. Not only I was stuck with this, either. In the world I'm in, almost all of us are in this predicament. Constantly broke, hungry, and having to fight to keep ourselves alive for the next week. Only the top figures have the luxury of watching us prey on each other, laughing like the fat, rich pigs they are. I guess I didn't have time to care about things like that though. More people out there with money meant more opportunity for me.

I shook my head and and blinked. I didn't have time for sentiments, and I was hungry anyway. I might as well dish myself out now instead of waiting for later.

I don't own a house. I don't meddle too much with other people my age, so I don't know a friend who has one. Probably too poor to maintain one, anyway. My parents gave me up for dough when I was eight, and I guessed they were dead by now, the fools. No siblings that I knew of. No distant cousins from royalty or whatever. Just me. I was fine with that. I stood up and stretched my back out, facing the sun that shone between the tree branches above me. I'd chosen this little alley because it had a tree. I've got this weird obsession with trees. They're big, imposing, and they spread out far and wide. They remind me of me or, at least what I wished I could be. I'm not too big and imposing, but hey, eight years of fighting for money and getting away with it can give a guy some muscle, and I can run pretty fast. Both are traits you want to have when your value is also what gets you killed. All the same, I loved the tree, and although the ground was stone and hard, at least I had a tree to hug.

My back was completely stretched, and I was ready to go and get some money for breakfast. I thought a plan over. It wouldn't be too hard to find some bloke out there with a couple of dollars. Maybe easier to get him, less violent. But I couldn't do with only a couple dollars. I needed more, something that would get me through the next week. People with that much would have better means of protection, like knives, or teargas, or maybe even guns. You'd have to have some serious street cred to get a gun nowadays.

With a gun, you'd never have to worry about being broke.

I walked around the corner of my alley and stared at my own prized possession, which was an aluminum baseball bat. Great for threats, even greater for...violent displays. This baby, along with my speed and agression, could get me far. I picked it up and examined it, feeling the cold metal infect my senses. The iciness seemed to travel to my mind, pooling my thoughts in darkness. I would hurt someone with this, I realized. I would really hurt someone. I noticed a small speck of dried blood on its tip, reeling me back to my recent hunt. I suddenly felt disgusted with myself. The feeling of power and merciless disappeared, and my emotions flew back at me.