untitled story thing about dude buying wine
Tides high under the glimmering glass moon. Robb sunk in knee-deep into the ocean of empty wine bottles. Galumphing, making waves in the sea of delicate (read: cheap) glass clinking around, confined within the thin walls of his flat.
Robb’s pocket terminal buzzed. Unfolding it, the bright green glow slapping in just enough sobriety to read out yet another ‘TAX PAYMENT OVERDUE’. He closed the modal, revealing an unending torrent of unread collection emails.
Screw this. He took one last swig of booze and left, slamming the door behind him.
///
It certainly didn’t help that the liquor store was just two floors below. Leaning on the door, Robb knocked. Banged. Slamm–
The door swung open. A mass of flesh, which only vaguely resembled a man, loomed. Through the frame, Robb could only see its stomach. How does it fit through…? Are those fat rolls or abs? He dared not to ask.
‘For Pete’s sake, Robb, it’s three for crying out loud,’ a squeaky voice said. Fat rolls, definitely.
The behemoth man-child let the drunkard in, and flicked the lights on. Racks upon racks of bottles arranged in rows, continuing well beyond what his eyes could see. Robb grabbed one and examined it against the ceiling light; refracting through the wine, the glass, and once more through his watering eyes, enveloping his sight in a deep bleary red.
‘How much for three bottles?’
‘Hundred quid.’
‘Crikey, I could have sworn these ones were just under twenty each.’
‘Yeah, until some intoxicated idiot cleared out a whole rack in one week. Supply and demand, mate.’
The drunkard peered into his wallet. Inside, lavishly coated with mould, laid two pennies and a cheeseburger coupon. He flipped his terminal open, checking his funds. ‘£10’ in bold, green monospace text.
The shopkeeper eyed Rob, though there was no telling whether his eyes were actually opened or not, with how thick his facial… matter… was.
Hesitating, Robb opened a money lending program. ‘HINDSWORTH LENDING – 0% INTEREST RATE, SECURE LENDING’ it read, with an asterisk on ‘interest’. The asterisk expanded into, ‘Our interest in your excuses for not paying us back.’ He sighed, and forked over his credentials to the admittedly shady site, clacking away at the small fold-out keyboard. Address, social, phone number, mother’s maiden name…
Bzzt. The terminal chimed, showing a ninety-five pound deposit into his account.
‘Three bottles,’ Robb gestured for the small payment terminal on the counter behind the wine-serving meatball.
///
He’d only made it halfway to his flat and he’d already guzzled down half a bottle. Hurk… hic…
The door was halfway open. The handle, on the floor.
Robb peered in behind the door. ‘Mum? Is that you? Billy?’
‘Yeah?’ a creaky voice called back.
Oh, it’s just Billy. Wait a minute, I don’t know any Billies…
Robb slipped in through the doorway. The room was barely lit by a CRT displaying server logs in the corner of the living room. An old laptop – a hefty brick of a workstation – sat on a table next to a paring knife. He picked up the electronic brick, clutching it in both hands.
Rustling and clinking sounded from his bedroom. Robb sidled along the wall, stopping beside the door arch. A shadow rummaged through his things, scattering them around, trudging among the glass flood.
Robb reared for a blunt strike. He counted, three. Two. One… ‘Billy…!’ he cried out, swinging in for an attack.
‘Who–?’ the shadowy figure jumped, ‘ack–!’
Glass shattered. The fragments were so fine, they were practically sand again. The intruder had tripped over in panic.
‘Mate? Billy?’ Robb called. He crouched over, placing his middle and index figure together on the guy’s throat. There was still a pulse, but he wasn’t waking any time soon.
A piece of paper stuck out of the burglar’s breast pocket. Robb pulled it out.
‘Referrer: HINDSWORTH LENDING,’ it read, along with a list of Robb’s credentials. A hundred pound note was folded in with the slip, falling onto the floor.
///
The Hindsworth Lending office was, as it had always been, a desolate wasteland of empty cubicles and ageing desktop computers. Lights flickered on and off constantly, and boxes laid strewn about from former employees packing. Only one desk remained inhabited.
The phone rang. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, we wanted to call about the information you sold to us. You are completely certain this is valid information?’
‘Of course it is. Why do you ask?’
‘Our staff doesn’t seem to be able to reach this person. We hope you understand that we do not appreciate being sold false information. We assume you are aware of the… repercussions resulting from deviating our contract.’
‘A– ah, yes, of course.’
‘Thank you.’
They hung up. As they did, an email chimed in; under the subject, ‘Your business gained a new positive review!’
It was a five star review from a ‘Robb’. ‘Best money lending firm ever. No nonsense, and they even sent a guy who gave me my loan in cash! Funny, even though they’d already deposited into my account. Must be a ‘new customer’ special! Highly recommend.’
///
‘Your Highness, a bankruptcy file.’
‘From?’
‘A lending firm. Hindsworth Lending.’
‘That’s the sixtieth one this month!’