Cuthbert set his thumb to his temple, painting small circles and hoping it would go some way to alleviate the knifing pain which seemed to be creating a small nest behind his eyes.

"So you mean to tell me," he said slowly, without looking up, "that my idiot of a father invested his fortune, which he hid from his family his entire life, as some sort of redemption story, only for it actually to transpire he had been scammed?"

Lincoln_Lawyer was sat opposite. His seat was higher than the one Cuthbert enjoyed, the lighting set about his shoulders to make him seem imposing, his waving arms making shadowy tentacles climb the wallpaper at his back. "Yes, Cuthbert, that's exactly what I mean," he snapped, standing with another exasperated swing of his arms. "My entire fucking fee was in there, down the pisser."

Cuthbert sighed. "And now I have to honour his debt for that stupid fucking contest?" Lincoln nodded. "How could this even happen?"

Lincoln wagged a finger in Cuthbert's direction as he began prowling behind the desk. "Don't take that tone with me, you little shit. It seemed legitimate. Lordian was a man of substance. How was I to know he was a fraud? And the particulars of the NDC were clear. In the event of Gerwyn dying, everything would go to you."

"But surely there must have been red flags?"

"Red flags?" Lincoln turned his rage fully in Cuthbert's direction, slamming his hands onto the desk, knuckles turning white. "Oh yes, Cuthbert. Loads of them. It was fucking scarlet in his office when we signed the paperwork from all the sirens going off. I could scarcely think due to alarm sounds. What do you fucking think? Of course there were no red flags! We hardly knew he was going to vanish into thin air, did we?" 

Cuthbert leaned back in his seat as Lincoln continued to rant. He'd heard the same story several times now. Lordian had established a fraudulent fund which guaranteed returns on the capital investment. The Mastrosimone Mutual Fund. It became popular with the criminal underworld, a tidy way to wash their dirty money. The first few investors were paid and the Fund gained legitimacy. More money invested. More investors paid out. Only this was with the new investment money rather than any actual returns because the Fund itself was flawed. Worthless. Lordian lived the high life. Rumours of a yacht in St. Lucia. The finest champagne. Caviar for breakfast. Then caviar for a bath. An affair with an assistant. An affair with a royal. A cover up. His name withheld. More champagne. More yachts. The Beluga Express. Then payments fell due. He wasn't taking calls. He wasn't taking meetings. He wasn't in his office when they turned up to break his legs. He was in the wind. Don't worry, his assistant said, he was ill, in hospital. He would be back soon. A nasty coincidence, that's all. He didn't come back. Neither did the assistant. He was still living the high life. His face buried to the hilt in a pile of blow, the tits he'd ripped off the business clutched in each palm as he wandered in oblivion. Cock guiding his hand. Hand guiding his cock. Both covered in gold and cocaine. The life the likes of Mafiatrivia1 could only dream of.  

"And here's me, talking with the likes of you, for fucking free!" Lincoln sobbed, oblivious that Cuthbert wasn't listening. 

It was impossible to know who had got to Lordian first. Was it the mob collecting their due, the local riffraff tired of him lording it over them  with his whores and his cigars, or just one of the many opportunist scumbags he had surrounded himself with trying to curry favour? Regardless of who's hand finally held the knife, Lordian's bloated corpse was found floating by the docks, that much was certain. Of the reputed billion dollars he had absconded the country with, there was no sight. Could he have spent it all? Unlikely. Cuthbert was sure that at least a part of that fortune was still out there. The yachts had been taken. The jewellery vanished. The real estate swallowed up. The cash though, never recovered. Cuthbert rubbed his chin. The man had a gift for moving money, nobody could deny it, but he wasn't a wizard and he couldn't make it entirely disappear. 

"What's happened to me? I was one big job away from getting the Chesterfield. The antique tan leather button-seater sofa of my dreams. And now? Nothing. Just a shallow chair with a jumped-up nobody wasting my time!" Lincoln spat, his woe-is-me tirade finally reaching its crescendo. "What are you even still doing here? Go and pay Honk his $5,000,000 and get out of my sight!"

"Lincoln, shutup. I have a plan."

"A plan?" Lincoln scoffed. "What are you gonna do? You're a fucking nothing. Beat it."

Cuthbert stood, reaching for the manila Mastrosimone folder on Lincoln's desk. "Fine. I'm leaving, can I take this with me?"

Lincoln's eyes narrowed, his hand settling on the folder, opposite side to Cuthbert's. Desperate, pudgy sausage fingers gripping it tight. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to find where Lordian hid the Mastrosimone Mutual Fund."

"Impossible!" Lincoln scoffed again, allowing himself a derisory titter. If ever a man had a talent for something, it was Lincoln and his scoffing. "The brightest minds have tried to find that buried treasure. It doesn't exist. May as well look for Atlantis while you're there." But he didn't let go of the folder.

Cuthbert sighed, meeting Lincoln's eye. "If I find it, I'll make sure you get paid. Ok?"

"Every penny?"

"Every penny."

"And my Chesterfield? The antique tan one for the wall, there." He pointed. 

"Sure, whatever you want."

Lincoln released the folder with a final scoff. "Fine. Be about it then," he said turning his back on Cuthbert, as clear a signal that their meeting was over as him telling him to get out had been 10 minutes prior. Cuthbert tucked the folder under his arm and left without a backwards glance. He needed to buy some time and that meant paying Honk before that crazy avian nutbag came hunting him down. He would need a loan. Probably several. His life on the line, probably, to repay them. 'Thanks, Dad,' he thought to himself, heading out into the Street. 

The residents of the streets were demanding a martyr. Or, more plainly a human sacrifice to restore harmony with the gods. Including the almighty, powerful gambling dice gods.

Such a person must be swiftly found and put to the fire so that we can perform prophetic readings of their ashes and bones.

"Martyr, do you know anyone that could be our martyr? Could you take one for the team to help everyone out? " Bacon asked as he smoked on his Cuban cigar.

Bacon, I, with others, have watched you out here on the Streets, and what you possession in wordy firepower, you lack in wit, humour and the ability to hold interest.

It seems clear to me that you are from a lineage which either has something to hide, or something to prove, or both.

But I must request of you to cease approaching me like we are friends, friendly, or anything approaching peers.

Your involvement in discussion is welcome.  But your pitch and tone are all over the place.

Good day, Sir.

Domino got word of the defaulted Mastrosimone Mutual Fund. She saw an old thread with several hundred million in missing funds and credits. She decided to step in and attempt to help. She stepped up to the people watching and said:

Ladies and Gentlemen! If you have proof of a loss to Lordain, message me. I will pay as many valid claims as I can.

Domino slowly moved away. She could cover many legitimate claims. She hoped this would quiet down the masses who have trashed Lordain for around two years.

One paid

Can these people please contact me. I doubt these are your names now however your losses for the amounts listed have been confirmed.

Zapata had $50m.

Rick_Dalton had $15m

JustinBieber had $25m

Billie 300 credits

Let me make something straight. I don't care who you were in the past or who you are not. From here on out, the recipient's name will be starred. Another payment. This is going well!

There are sill more of you out there. Get in touch! 

Sorry, friend Martyr. I've been getting mixed signals. Thanks for the feedback sport. Don’t worry about me.

Honesty-, what you think? 

LouMalnatti - who the heck are you?

I contacted Tyrion and Maverick, both friends of mine (in a way) and offered them right of reply.  The interview transcripts are saved.

CharlieCroker - I can see your point.  But I do have to say, I have been fair with the interviews.

I just wish the Streets loved me as much as I love them, sometimes

I had a big thing ready for this. There was going to be banners and fireworks. Perhaps even a small band playing celebratory tunes which I could dance to. Now though, with my investment funds in hand? No. I'm pleased, of course, who wouldn't be having inherited their father's lost fortune? But also, I'm a little lost. My mission? Completed it, mate. What should I do with myself now? Is there still a reason to get up in the morning? I guess I will have to find out. Thanks, Domino. Appreciated. 

You are welcome Cuthbert. Thank you for your help as well.

Success! You have transferred 40.00 credits to ******. The note "Mastrosimone Mutual Fund paid in full" was included.

What a drama queen! Much maligned this one! This cunt is paid in full. See, even if I think they are pathetic, I still pay legitimate claims. 

Even though IA at the moment, Billie has been repaid 

Another one bites the dust. 

Billy_Mastrosimone - did you know this happened?