The Country from Hell
This is really none of your business. Sure, you feel bad for the tourists, but it's not like they can't just buy themselves nice things again when they return home. Really, the Iadians are still the losers in the situation, always will be. Who wouldn't take advantage of an opportunity to make a little money? It's not like there are any honest ways of getting rich in this shithole. Yeah, just forget about it.
Turning around again, you head straight towards the gypsy you saw earlier. Now he is seated on the curb waiting for you, lazily smoking a cigarette.
"Quite a show, eh?" he laughs, flicking his cigarette in your direction. He smells vaguely of rusty iron.
"How much for this toaster?"
"Does it work?"
"It could."
"I'll give you one hundred thousand for it."
"Yeah right. I could barely get drunk on that amount."
"A hundred and twenty-five then, sir." He exhales smoke slowly with this last word, looking up at you with shifty little eyes.
"A hundred and fifty."
"Do I look like a damn prince to you? A hundred and twenty-five is final. You're lucky I'm in a good mood."
"Fine."
He smiles with closed lips, pulling a wad of bills out of his pocket. They all look as though they've been sitting underwater for a hundred years. You lay the toaster on the ground as you take the money, then turn around without another word. Walking unhurriedly away from Mighty Michael Square, the last thing you hear is the American woman crying something you can't understand. For just a moment, you remember your own mother's face on the day you came home to find your whole apartment looted. How she'd wrung her hands with grief when she discovered they'd made off with the old lace table settings that had been in your family longer than anyone could rememberÂ…
But that's just life in Iad.
Turning around again, you head straight towards the gypsy you saw earlier. Now he is seated on the curb waiting for you, lazily smoking a cigarette.
"Quite a show, eh?" he laughs, flicking his cigarette in your direction. He smells vaguely of rusty iron.
"How much for this toaster?"
"Does it work?"
"It could."
"I'll give you one hundred thousand for it."
"Yeah right. I could barely get drunk on that amount."
"A hundred and twenty-five then, sir." He exhales smoke slowly with this last word, looking up at you with shifty little eyes.
"A hundred and fifty."
"Do I look like a damn prince to you? A hundred and twenty-five is final. You're lucky I'm in a good mood."
"Fine."
He smiles with closed lips, pulling a wad of bills out of his pocket. They all look as though they've been sitting underwater for a hundred years. You lay the toaster on the ground as you take the money, then turn around without another word. Walking unhurriedly away from Mighty Michael Square, the last thing you hear is the American woman crying something you can't understand. For just a moment, you remember your own mother's face on the day you came home to find your whole apartment looted. How she'd wrung her hands with grief when she discovered they'd made off with the old lace table settings that had been in your family longer than anyone could rememberÂ…
But that's just life in Iad.