Gilded Chaos

Morning Browns

There's a rowdy bunch of hooligans that call themselves men running amok in Bertrand Street right now. I'm on my way to work at the fresh hour of 6 in the morning, I truly do not need to see this. However, the bunch seem to be as uncaring about my needs as I seem to be about everyone else's. 

Three burly men grapple with each other in the middle of the street, clothes soaked in mud. One of the men is a balding blonde of a slightly smaller build- albeit still nursing a potbelly- than the other two. The fight is clearly not in his favour, but his mood seems to rival those of his opponents by yards. I'd bet my knickers he's the instigator.  

I let out a groan as mud splatters on my shoes as the blonde one is launched into the air and skids to a halt on his arse before me. 

"Hey there, lad. Best not let Mr Murphy know of what you seeing here, ey?" Holber Aegen, my fellow employee, says to me while displaying a gap-toothed grin from his very muddy looking position on the ground.

"Aye, Ber. Looks like you lost a few more numbers than last time. Try not to flash Mr Murphy your stupid smile and I trust you'll be clear of any trouble."  I leave him cackling as I stride across the muddy street and make my way past the rabble and elite alike, their grinning and jeering faces like a sip of familiar coffee in the morning.

The beat-up, rusted old sign that reads "Murphy Mauls" is the sun that lights up my particularly rainy days as it comes into view four muddy blocks away from Holber and his idiots. 

I make my way across the street and try my best to get the mud off of my shoes before pushing open the door, the familiar chime of the bell announcing my presence.

 "Oh, Mr Muuuuurphyyyyy!"

"Shut your racket, Pan. One of these days I'll fire you for chasing away the customers with that god awful voice o' yours." 

Ah, I love him. Mr Murphy, a man of 61 odd years with more hair than the 40-year-old Holber, makes his way from the workrooms of the shop to scowl at me- quite pleasantly, I might add- from across the counter. I beam in return, knowing his threats are as empty as my stomach.

"Say, have you seen Holber? He'd better not be brawling only to lose whatever pennies he's got left, he won't be getting any more out of me before payday."

"I reckon he's losing more than just his pennies, sir", I chuckle, leaving a deeper scowl on Mr Murphy's face. 

Mr Murphy, my pleasant employer, came up with the pleasant name "Murphy Mauls" in a bout of dark humour owing to the fact that he's a blacksmith, making metal equipment that includes daggers and all. He told me this himself after I'd nagged him for weeks, an achievement I was ever so proud of at the age of twelve. Five years later, and I'm just as proud. Old Murphy can be quite a tight-lipped bugger.

He and everyone else I know, call me by the name "Pan". It's how I'd introduced myself to them when I'd come looking for work. Mr Murphy had been the only one willing to hire me, which is ironic considering the type of heavy lifting that's required for this job. He just figured I was cheap and he needed an extra hand around the shop, as he had no employees at the time, owing to one of Holber's drunken stupors that usually go on for a week.

Mr Murphy rarely ever pries into my personal life. Anytime he did, I only let up the barest of details that may or may not have been true. Eventually, he stopped asking. 

"Get your behind back here and get to work! The fire should have been blazing an hour ago. And sharpen some of the swords Holber made last week, would you? The idiot did a lousy job but what's a man to do, he's the only one with the stamina for twenty swords at a time, these days."

I hurriedly remove my satchel from my shoulders and deposit it in the back of the shop while donning my threadbare apron from the hooks by the entrance. 

By noon, Holber's back and has received a good bit of insulting from Mr Murphy, and I'm sweaty after having sharpened and polished several swords as well as preparing leather halberds. One would think I'd hate this job due to the physical strain, when, on the contrary, I love the concentration and precision that goes into every piece of metal and every stitch of leather. The physical part of it all also helps keep me in shape, not that that's a problem, what with the empty belly I've been sporting for longer than is healthy.

As I'm let out for my lunch break, I walk three blocks away from the shop and, well, set up shop. Both Mr Murphy and Holber know of my extracurricular exploits; I make a few pennies wherever I can.  They let me be as long as it doesn't interfere with my job. This afternoon's fun activity consists of shoe shining.

Mr Murphy and Holber, or my Maulers as I'd like to call them, know I make quite a few pennies where I can, plus my job at Murphy's, but they never can get me to tell them where I spend all that money, and I like to add a little mystery to my already mysterious persona. Sometimes I feel bereft at having nobody that actually knows much about me. It's necessary, I remind myself. At times, I feel as though Mr Murphy knows more than he lets on; by the way he looks at me with a disturbingly sad expression. I immediately brush it off with an annoying remark and a smile. Fixes everything.

Finishing off with seven dirty-shoed customers and a pocket full of pennies, I slowly make my way back to the store, passing painfully fragrant food vendors and blindingly colourful clothing stores. Passing a particularly well-known clothing store, I stop in my tracks as I glimpse the most marvellous compilation of fabric I have ever seen. Surprise surprise, it's a pitch black dress that is mostly plain save for roses made of a silky, deep-red fabric that line the right sleeve from shoulder to wrist, as well a rose pattern on the skirt that's difficult to depict at first glance.

 I need this. My pocket suddenly feels a bit too weighed down...

Not weighed down enough, I realize as I read the price displayed atop the dress. I give myself a mental shake, I cannot afford such frivolities, nor should I want to, I remind myself. Besides, the dress is clearly made for the fairer female species, I observe, as my hand absently trails to my chest. 

Jerking myself out of my reverie by the horns of my mental being, I swivel in place and march my way back to the store, buying myself two buns and tea for good measure. I bloody deserve it. Halfway there, I have a tingly feeling that travels from the base of my spine to the nape of my neck. 

Someone's watching me.

Have I become so noticeable with the added weight of some food in my belly? I think not. I quicken my pace, heaving a silent sigh of relief as the beloved, battered sign comes into clear view. 

Headed straight for the store, I finally break into a sprint. If anybody asks, I'll say my lunch time is almost up. I burst into the store, breathless and even sweatier. Mr Murphy's head whips out of the workshop as he looks at me askance, scowls, grumbles under his breath about his bloody daft employees and gets back to work. Everything is right in the world.  

I look out the window, scanning the street. Everything seems normal. Just as I'm making my way into the workshop to wear my apron, the bell chimes behind me, letting me know we have a customer. 

Turning around, my customer-friendly gears sliding into place and preparing the bright, monotonous speech relaying our items and services, I look up and choke on said speech.

Standing before me is a man. A real, blimey man. Not that the male species is a rarity in these areas, but those are what I very eloquently refer to as blokes. This, however, is an example of the male species at its finest. In his six foot- I'm good with numbers- tall, perfectly-tailored suit, cutthroat- I've also got a colourful imagination- bone structure, blond hair and cold yet fiery golden eyed glory, the man before me is most certainly a rarity in these areas.

I've probably been gawking for a few seconds. Who could blame me? We'd never had such a well-dressed client in our shop before. Not that I know of, anyway. Thankfully, I regain my composure and get those blasted gears turning again as I flash him my signature, customer-friendly smile. 

"Hello, sir. How may I help you?"

"Hello, Pandora..."

And just as suddenly, those gears screech to a halt.