THE TERMS OF ENGAGEMENT.
Victoria was hell-bent on going to Undercity—a place synonymous with chaos and lawlessness.
To her, it was the necessary next step in her campaign for the greater good of Crownpoint's most infamous district, Hell's Kitchen. Master Norris, however, refused to entertain the idea of her venturing into such a perilous territory. To him, it was an act of pure, unadulterated madness.
He had tried everything to dissuade her, laying out grim, unvarnished facts about the lawless territory, but his warnings fell on deaf ears.
She had already sent Julius, the interim overseer, ahead to announce her arrival to the local authorities and district officials who carved up the Undercity like vultures over a carcass. Julius may have held the title of interim Overseer, but Undercity didn't give a damn about political positions or bureaucratic hierarchy. His governing power ended at the gates of City Hall, the grand administrative building in Front Marina, and its sister seat in Upper Crownpoint.
Here, in the depths of Undercity, Hell's Kitchen, lawlessness reigned supreme.
It was a city divided into syndicate-controlled territories, who marked their domains in blood. Where authority meant nothing, and power dictated survival as each claimed dominion over their slice of the underworld.
Protection fees, floor taxes, and rampant usury defined daily life.
Despite every cautionary tale laid before her, Victoria refused to back down. Knowing Norris would use every ounce of his authority to bar her path, she realized she needed a leverage point—a fair, unyielding way to force his hand.
"Ahem." She cleared her throat, a sharp, deliberate sound. "Why don't we strike a deal, Master?" she said.
Norris narrowed his eyes, instantly on guard. "What dubious thoughts are you cooking up this time, Tinker Bell?" he asked, curiosity piqued.
"Since you're so eager to stop me from visiting Undercity," she said, a confident smile playing on her lips, "why don't I earn my right to visit?"
Norris looked at her, utterly perplexed. "And how exactly do you intend to do that?"
"Master," she declared, squaring her shoulders, "I challenge you to a duel."
It was like a slap to the face. Norris could not hold back his laughter when he heard the five-foot-four princess challenge him to a duel. He burst into uncontrollable laughter, and the sound drew the attention of her guards. The two Kingsguard walked in and saw the Guildmaster laughing with tears rolling down his cheeks.
They glanced at each other, wondering what in the world the princess could have possibly said to trigger such a spectacle.
After a few minutes of relentless chuckling, Victoria interjected. Frustration tightened her features.
"Are you done laughing, Master? Or should I give you more time?" Norris wheezed as he managed, before the laughter swelled again.
Victoria, the ever-patient woman, merely crossed her arms as she simply let Norris have his laugh and watched as the old geezer enjoyed himself.
Slowly, the laughter subsided into a broad, lingering smile. Norris wiped his eyes, eager to hear whatever ridiculous justification she would offer next.
"Alright, Sensei," she said, seriousness locked in her eyes. "It looks like you're done laughing and fooling around."
"Ooooh… scary," he teased her. "She even called me 'Sensei.' This is serious. What are you going to do? Charm me?" He burst into laughter again, unable to help himself.
"When you're done laughing, here are my rules and conditions," she stated clearly, ignoring his mockery. "Rule number one: you are not allowed to use any offensive pneuma attacks."
The moment Norris heard the first rule, his laughter died. He began to take Victoria seriously, curious to know why the princess was deliberately placing him at such a disadvantage.
"Hey, hey, hey… Hold your horses, Vanellope," Norris protested, throwing his hands up. "Why are you handicapping me? I thought this was supposed to be a duel."
"Yes, it's a duel, which I demand you honor," she replied smoothly. "I'm deciding to prove my point in an affaire d'honneur."
"Objection, my lady!" Norris countered loudly.
Instead of arguing, Victoria marched over to a heavy wooden chair, dragged it across the floor with a loud scrape, and stepped up onto the seat. The added height perfectly bridged the gap between them, bringing her level to match the height difference between them. She looked him dead in the eyes.
She looked him dead in the eyes. "Objection overruled, Sensei," she declared.
Norris, perplexed and amused at the same time, playfully countered, though deep down in his heart, he was thoroughly enjoying the moment. He secretly enjoyed the sheer audacity of the girl, but he wasn't about to let her win that easily.
"And who made you an arbiter over the matter, Tinker Bell?" Norris countered. "And why did you suddenly remember calling me 'teacher' in my native language?"
He was referring to the sudden use of the word "sensei," which translates to "one who comes before" or "born before." It is a broad term for masters of crafts, experts in certain fields, professionals, and educators.
THE CHALLENGE.
"I did," she replied with the unshakeable, naive confidence of a fresh recruit. "By the power vested in me as the heiress to the Crown, I hereby dictate the rules of our friendly duel."
"I'll be damned. So much for honesty and fairness." Norris waved a dismissive hand. "Not interested in your duel. It's already an unsportsmanlike game."
He turned around and began walking away from Victoria. The rules weren't fair to him, and he wanted no part of it. He took two steps forward—
He didn't get a third step.
With a sudden, athletic spring, Victoria leapt from the chair. She launched herself through the air and landed—THUMP!—squarely on Norris's back, clinging to him like a child jumping onto a parent's shoulders. She wrapped her legs around his waist from behind and locked her arms firmly around his neck in a textbook chokehold.
Norris stumbled forward, losing his footing for a split second before quickly recovering his balance. He stood there, completely blown out of the water by her sheer, playful ambush and antics. Jumping on his back was the absolute last thing he expected from the future ruler of the realm.
Norris began to gently shake his torso, trying to dislodge her like a father dealing with a hyperactive child.
"GET OFF ME, YOU MINI MENACE!" he hollered.
"NEVER!" Victoria yelled back aggressively, squeezing her forearms tighter against his throat. "I'm not leaving you! Not until you listen to everything I have to say, you old geezer!"
"What do… you… ack… want… hurgh… from me…" Norris groaned, dramatically loosening his posture and pretending to suffocate. He let out a series of forced, hacking coughs—coughing dramatically like a man gasping for air.
"Oh, come on, Master! Will you stop pretending like I'm actually choking you?" Victoria interrupted his dramatic performance, unfazed by his theatrical performance. "You are twice my weight, for crying out loud. Will you please just grant me this moment?" she pleaded, her tone softening slightly.
Norris finally yielded. His shoulders slumped in defeat. He looked exactly like a father who had just lost an argument to a stubborn child. "Fine. You can have it your way."
"Now, will you get off my back, Princess Peach?" he demanded.
"Nope," she replied with a mischievous and dubious chuckle. "I think I'm beginning to like it here. Your back makes a very comfy bed."
"Now, here are my rules and conditions for the duel, like I mentioned earlier," she repeated. "You are not allowed to use any pneuma offensive attacks—but all defensive actions are welcome."
Norris rolled his eyes but remained still, unable to do anything but be forced to listen to her absurd terms. While she was still clinging to his back like a backpack and refusing to come down as she made her demands.
"Secondly," she rambled on, "taijutsu and all forms of martial arts are allowed. Thirdly, when engaged in close combat, you are to go full max against my Kingsguards—but do not hospitalize them."
"Then what's the point of going full head-on?" Norris asked with clear dissatisfaction. "Bringing in your guards has fully shifted the duel dynamics from a fair fight to a rigged one. I thought you were the chief advocate for justice and fairness."
Before Victoria could answer, one of the Kingsguards cleared his throat, his pride clearly wounded. He could not help but interrupt the conversation—
"Ahem. Forgive my ignorance, Your Highness, if my ears serve me right." He stepped forward, brow furrowed. "Did I just hear you say 'hospitalize us'?"
His partner chimed in immediately, chest puffed out. "We are both fourth-generation Gifters, Your Highness. We are more than capable of going toe-to-toe with him."
THE WEIGHT OF A GOD-TIER GIFTER.
Both Norris and Princess Victoria froze. They exchanged a look of profound, stunned perplexity. Hearing these two guards speak so highly of themselves, genuinely believing they could take on Norris in full-blown combat, was almost tragic. It was clear their pride as members of the Kingsguard—the elite military unit of the kingdom of Luciana responsible for the safety and security of the royal family—had made them think they were on the same level and caliber as Norris. It has fully blinded them to the reality of power scaling.
"Do you two have any idea how strong this goofy old hermit actually is?" Victoria asked, looking at them with genuine pity for their unenlightened minds.
Norris's curiosity spiked. A spark of pure excitement flared in his chest. He absolutely loved the confidence and overwhelming ego of the Kingsguards. The excitement stirred in him as he could not wait to test their skills.
"Guess I will let you guys find out by yourselves," Victoria assured them. She turned back to her master. "C'mon, Master, what do you say? You'll do it?"
"Why don't I do us all a favor, pick up the phone, and ring the private royal line to ask for more Kingsguards?" Norris countered dryly. "Since you've classified this rigged duel as a fair fight."
"Are you being serious, Master?" she asked, genuinely puzzled. Norris was complaining about the unfairness of the duel.
"You're complaining about going up against two fourth-generation Gifters and a princess who is barely struggling to cross over to fifth-generation? You should be ashamed of yourself for even complaining, Master."
"And how exactly does that even tie?" Norris asked, genuinely trying to follow and understand her twisted logic. "You basically just called it an affaire d'honneur. It is three against one. Where's the 'affair of honor' in that?"
"Vous comprenez le français, bravo," Victoria complimented, grinning at his flawless understanding of the Frankan tongue.
"Oui… Now get off my back, Miss Fairy Dust!" He tried to shake her off, but Victoria, stubborn and relentless, held on tight. Her grip was ironclad.
"Remember when I tried to sell my pneuma course to the Enforcers at the banquet?" Norris reminded her, changing tactics. "You protested it. Called it illegal and an act of extortion. If that was criminal, then you rigging this fight to your absolute advantage is textbook criminal behavior."
He waited for the guilt to set in.
He thought she would feel guilty after he brought it up. Instead, she burst into laughter.
With a fluid motion, she finally released her grip, sliding down his back to land gracefully and standing in front of him.
"Do you even realize how strong you are, Master?" she asked, playfully punching his solid torso. "You are a freaking god-tier, second-generation Gifter!"
"You're on the same rank as my father, the King. Heck yeah, you're even stronger than him. The only edge he has over you is a massive pneuma reserve." She gestured dramatically with her hands.
Behind her, the two Kingsguards went completely pale. The revelation hit them like a physical blow. They had always assumed Norris was just another overrated national hero, a relic of a bygone era. Hearing this direct testament from the princess herself completely shattered their worldview. They had tasted a fraction of his presence at the dinner party a few days prior, but this put things into a terrifying perspective.
"Finally, you're off my back," Norris grumbled, rubbing his shoulders. He threw shots at her, teasing. "For a pint-sized troublemaker, you're way heavier than a punching bag."
MINI-MENACE OF A TALKATIVE.
Feeling offended and feigning outrage at his remark, Victoria said, "My goodness, I'm offended, Master! You basically just called me fat. I weigh exactly 120.1 pounds (ca. 54 kg). You are twice my weight."
Clearly tired of her blabbering. "Yes, yes, I get it," Norris muttered, waving his hand to cut off the impending lecture.
But Victoria was already on a roll, her voice rising in pitch. She continued without pause. "You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself for even thinking about going full power on us!"
"Yes, yes, I know," he said, rubbing his temple in frustration as a headache began to form.
"Your height, your build, your battle experience, your intelligence quotient, your pneuma," she continued to yap, pacing back and forth. "Honestly, you should probably blindfold yourself just to make it a fair fight—"
"You don't need to remind me of my skill levels! I get it! I'm overpowered; thanks for the breakdown," Norris groaned, throwing his hands in the air as he admitted to every single one of her facts.
"You're not just overpowered; you're a living, walking bomb, a formidable arsenal that can rival military forces," she continued, making her endless point as she blabbered.
"I get it, you've made your point, Tinker Bell." Norris's ears could not take any more of her yapping, and he begged the heavens for her to shut up. "Point made, Vicky. I will not even use any form of attack against you… pleeeease, just shut up and let us begin."
Instead of stopping, Victoria turned on her heels toward her guards, continuing her rapid-fire analysis. The two men stood like statues, forced to listen to their future queen yap like a passionate, complaining toddler.
"Can you imagine, boys?" she paused, taking a quick breath before plowing ahead. "Illusionary techniques don't even work effectively on him. The moment you trap him in one, he effortlessly breaks out of it."
She spun back to Norris, pointing an accusing finger. "Even if a powerful opponent manages to subdue you with a high-level illusion… your stupid duo of spirit contract cats will just break you out of it anyway!"
Norris had officially reached his absolute limit. His face was a mask of pure exhaustion.
"Yes… yes… yes," he muttered in frustration, listening to his baby student. "She's going to talk me to death before the duel even starts."
Even the guards were casting desperate glances toward the exit, but they didn't dare utter a word. They've had enough but have no choice but to listen without interruption.
Norris could not bear her ranting about her own inferiority to him. His tolerance and patience had hit an all-time high—and then shattered.
Suddenly, Norris let out a loud outburst, bringing his palm across his face in a massive, echoing facepalm.
"ALL RIGHT, I GET IT! Will you quit talking and let us get done with this duel?!" Norris exploded, chest heaving as he tried to calm himself down.
"My goodness, you are as calm and quiet as an owl when you're around strangers, but the second you're around me or your parents, you turn into a nonstop, talkative machine!" He fumed, frustration pouring out.
Victoria—crafty and dubious as ever with her cherished loved ones—gave a malicious expression and winked.
She offered a dramatic wink. "I love you, Sensei," she said, blowing a mock kiss toward her furious master.
The two Kingsguards could barely believe what they were witnessing. Before they could process it, Victoria snapped her gaze toward them. The playful warmth vanished, replaced by a terrifyingly cold glare.
THE PRINCESS THREAT.
The two Kingsguard could barely believe what they had just witnessed. Victoria turned toward them and threatened to eat them alive if a single word about her childish behavior toward her master ever got out. Whatever they had just witnessed must stay between them.
"If any word gets out about my vulnerable, childish behavior toward my master, I will make sure you lose an arm. By accident." She grabbed them closer and whispered, "Are we clear?"
The two elite guards nodded in frantic, synchronized agreement.
What an ironic moment it was: a sixth-generation Gifter princess instilling fear in two fourth-generation Kingsguards. That was the power of royalty in action. Being the princess and heiress to a country like Luciana came with respect, power, and dignity. Her wish was their command.
A private center had been prepared for the duel, a sport-like arena with enormous capacity and space. It was the perfect venue and enclosed space for Victoria to try her ultimate move hidden under her sleeve.
THE CALM BEFORE THE SANDSTORM.
Deep within the subterranean labyrinth of Der Sand's hideout buried within the gritty depths of Hell's Kitchen, he sat alone—the air carried the faint, dry scent of dust and concrete.
Der Sand himself reclined in his office chair, exuding the effortless ease of a man who knew exactly what card was coming next in the deck—and was perfectly content to wait for it. As he patiently waits for chaos to unfold—something to break the calm. And indeed, something did.
The silence didn't last.
The door to his office burst open with a thunderous BANG!, slamming against the wall as if an assault team had kicked it in. Mikey came barreling through like a panicked Wall Street trader fleeing and watching a market crashing in real-time.
"We are FUCKED! We are so fucking fucked, Boss!" Mikey yelled, his voice cracking under the weight of pure panic.
Der Sand didn't blink. He calmly snatched a thick, leather-bound book from his desk and hurled it across the room. With slow, controlled anger and irritation, CRASH!—against Mikey's face.
"Why the hell are you kicking my door open like that?" he asked, his tone laced with dark banter. "Were you raised by the Royal Police? The door wasn't resisting arrest."
BAD NEWS AT THE WATERWAY.
"The unthinkable shit just happened, boss!" Mikey wailed, waving his arms dramatically as if the ceiling were about to cave in. "I don't think Bigger Boss is gonna be happy if this gets back to him!"
Mikey was panicking, pacing, keening as though the world were ending.
"Will you speak up, or are you going to continue auditioning for a tragedy?" Der Sand demanded.
Mikey closed the distance between them with the flair of a dramatic actor. Mikey slammed both palms against Der Sand's desk. THUD!
"The warehouse by the waterway got busted by the Royal Police, Boss!" Mikey shouted, his voice quivering and his body shaking. His hands were shaking violently as he leaned over the desk. "The cops are gonna be all over Bigger Boss. Three trucks full of contraband and narcotics, just sitting in his warehouse. This ain't looking good, man. This is really fucking bad."
KINETIC RETRIBUTION.
Instantly, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. The casual amusement vanished from Der Sand's eyes. In the empty space between them, tiny, pressurized spheres of sand began to manifest out of thin air, rapidly growing to the size of ping-pong balls. Within seconds, nearly eighty of them hovered in a tense, vibrating formation.
Mikey flinched as they spun faster. He froze, his eyes darting frantically across the floating arsenal. A cold shiver rippled down his spine as the sandballs began to spin, whistling softly with an immense, coiled force.
"Hey, man! What are you doing, boss man?" Mikey stammered, raising his hands in retreat.
"You kicked open my door with so much force my ancestors almost answered," Der Sand said, his eyes cold and vexed as he locked onto Mikey. "Next time, just send a letter or page me. My door hasn't done anything to deserve that. Besides, did you knock? Oh, right—your foot did the honors for you."
"C'mon, fam, it hasn't gotten to sand barrages yet! Chill out, dude," Mikey pleaded, backing away as the kinetic hum of the spinning spheres grew louder, ready to be unleashed.
With a malicious glint in his eye, Der Sand warned, "Get ready to dodge, you ninny asshole!"
Mikey saw the deadly seriousness written across Der Sand's face. He braced for impact. He didn't have time to turn around before Der Sand flicked his wrist, sending the barrage forward with terrifying velocity.
The sandballs rained down on him like heavy hailstones. Mikey twisted and dove, trying to dodge the onslaught, but the strikes were too precise. THWACK! THUD! SNAP! Each sandball was hit with enough force to dent a car. When the barrage ended, Mikey's face and body were bruised and swollen from the impacts.
But almost as quickly as the wounds appeared, his enhanced physiology began to heal the damage. Mikey straightened, pushed himself up onto one elbow, and shot Der Sand a glare.
"Instead of assaulting me with sand pellets," Mikey said, wincing, "shouldn't you be worried about Bigger Boss's warehouse that just got stormed by the police without a warrant?"
Der Sand leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs and propping them casually on the desk. "Did you drive all three trucks to the destinations yourself, Mikey?"
"Of course I did. How the hell did the police even know about the warehouse?" Mikey replied, still bewildered. The location had been known to very few.
"Relax, Mikey. As long as you're confident no one tailed you there, it's fine," Der Sand assured him, his voice returning to its steady, rhythmic drawl.
Mikey blinked, thoroughly bewildered. "You're way too calm for someone who just lost a major shipment to the cops. Is there something I'm missing here?"
But Mikey had no choice but to calm down. If Der Sand himself was calm, why shouldn't his right-hand man be likewise? He knew the infamous Sandman was no fool to be caught unaware. "Bigger Boss is gonna be mad, man," Mikey groaned, trying to steady his nerves. He muttered, trying to wipe the remaining grit from his face.
SETTING THE TRAP FOR THE RAT.
Der Sand stretched out a hand. In midair, the loose grains of sand from the floor swirled together, coalescing into a massive, heavy hand the size of an office chair. The construct reached down, grabbed Mikey by the collar, and hoisted him cleanly onto his feet, stabilizing his posture.
"You should be proud," Der Sand said. "We just caught our squealer, Mikey."
Mikey stared at him, shocked. "Are you still on that rat-among-us stuff?"
"Yes, Mikey," Der Sand affirmed, lowering his legs from the desk. "Only five of us knew about the product's arrival. Two of those five had absolutely no idea which warehouse it was being dropped into—they were just following orders. Blind loyalty."
"What are you driving at, boss?" Mikey asked, curiosity cutting through his unease.
"That leaves only three people who knew the exact location," Der Sand pointed out, narrowing his eyes. "You, Sly, and me. But there's a catch."
"I don't like where this is going, D. What are you insinuating?" Mikey questioned warily.
"A clear conscience fears no accusation, right, Mikey?" Der Sand teased, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "You fuck up a lot, but you're not the rat I'm looking for."
He grabbed Mikey again with the giant sandy hand, pulling Mikey flush against the desk until he was staring dead into Der Sand's unblinking eyes. "Are you a rat, Mikey?"
"C'mon, man," struggling against the crushing weight of the sand fist. "I may be a dipshit, but I ain't no snitch." Mikey struggled as the hand tightened around him.
Der Sand held his gaze for a long, agonizing moment before tilting his head. "Uh-huh. Hm-mm. I see." Der Sand finally released him. With a wave of his fingers, the sand collapsed, dropping Mikey unceremoniously to the floor.
Before Der Sand could taunt him further, the shrill ring of his private telephone line cut through the room. Without breaking eye contact with Mikey, Der Sand gestured with his other hand as he conjured another sandy hand, sending it to lift the receiver and bring it to his ear.
"Helloooo, this is Candyland and Services," Der Sand answered playfully. "How can we be of service to you?"
THE FLAWLESS FLOP ON WEST 8TH STREET.
An hour prior to the confrontation in the hideout, the quiet industrial stretch of West 8th Street had been quietly surrounded by the Royal Police. Inside, hired muscle was busy offloading goods from the back of a large van.
As soon as all signals for clarity and engagement were received, the police captain gave the order. Instantly, sirens blared from every direction. The warehouse was encircled. Squads of officers rammed through the main entrance and subdued everyone inside. Those who resisted were zapped with tasers and brought to their knees. Within minutes, the perimeter was locked down, the suspects cuffed, and the room secured.
It was a flawless tactical execution—except for one glaring detail.
The operation had been authorized under the explicit assumption that they were intercepting military-grade firearms, ammunition, and highly pure narcotics. Instead, they found the men smuggling commercial goods—food items, baking supplies, and tariff-evading merchandise. With no other choice, the officers made arrests and labeled the incident as illegal importation, customs evasion, and tariff violations.
Yes, it was illegal, but not what the police had expected.
BAD INTEL AND BROKEN ALLIANCES.
Outside, amidst the flashing red and blue lights, a rogue insider within the police ranks slipped away into the shadows, quickly dialing a number to report the raid's bizarre outcome to Der Sand's boss.
Concurrently, standing by the command vehicle, another officer—not the insider, but the commanding officer in charge of the operation—was nearly purple with rage. He ripped his private cell phone from his belt and furiously dialed his anonymous informant.
"Do you have any idea how much budget it cost this department to greenlight an operation of this scale?!" he whispered furiously.
"The tip-off I received was undoubtedly accurate," the voice on the other end replied. "Did you bust the correct warehouse?"
"Are you being serious right now, dipshit?" The commanding officer was already fuming. "Your silly tip from your weak-ass source led us to bursting folks smuggling food and baking items—instead of crystal candies, happy pills, and moon-powder."
"I'm positive my contact saw them loading narcotics and contraband into those trucks," the informant defended, a hint of defensiveness finally creeping into his voice.
"Well, maybe your source was high on happy juice and hallucinated the whole thing," the officer shot back. He lowered his voice and made the threat sharp and final. "Next time you tip me wrong, I'll come burst you and your entire operation. Do I make myself clear?"
A heavy silence hung over the line for a moment.
"Alright, alright, alright… I get you," the informant muttered quietly. "No more unverified intel. Noted."
"Now get the fuck off my phone!" the officer barked. The line went dead with a sharp click.
Across town, back in Hell's Kitchen, the pieces of the puzzle were finally beginning to slide into place. The trap had been sprung, the false play had worked, and the real game inside Der Sand's office was about to begin.
THE CANDYLAND INITIATIVE.
Here at the Der Sand hideout, things were taking an interesting turn. The phone rang. He picked it up and answered as he slipped immediately into a theatrical, playful tone.
"Helloooo, this is Candyland and Services. How can we be of service to you today? We offer the absolute best, most pocket-friendly, and finest service in town."
"What kind of disastrous, unacceptable batshit have you dragged me into, you piece of shit?!"
The voice on the other end was deafening and thunderous, seething with fury. "I will have your head on a spike if this lands me on the wrong side of the law!"
"Take a chill pill, boss," Der Sand snickered, leaning back easefully. "You've got absolutely nothing to worry about on this end."
"You laughing?!" the boss yelled. "You find this funny, don't you, Mr. Sterling?"
"No, sire," Der Sand replied, though the amusement lingered in his voice. "You're just overwhelming yourself with small headaches."
"Horseshit!" the boss hollered. "Why the name 'Candyland Service'? What happened to Redbeard Metal?"
"Redbeard Metal is just another sophisticated business enterprise with a prestigious and high reputation," Der Sand said, unable to resist boasting about his venture.
"Bullshit!" the voice crackled back. "Do you even know the penalties and charges for smuggling and illicit trafficking?"
Der Sand let out a slow breath. "Like I said earlier, boss, you shouldn't overwork yourself." Then he continued, calmly and methodically, "Your lawyer should already be preparing your defense—for smuggling controlled commercial goods and evading customs and tariff regulations."
He didn't stop there.
"And possibly unlawful accumulation of strategic resources during wartime," he added. "But, honestly, these are small fry compared to what the police were expecting to uncover with that raid."
"Since when did you become a bloody expert in matters relating to law?" the boss asked, genuinely curious about where Der Sand's confidence came from. "And what do you mean by what the police were hoping to uncover? It sounds like you expected this."
"Yes, I did," Der Sand admitted. "I orchestrated everything just to fish out the rat among us. I'm sorry you were the collateral damage." He apologized for not informing him of the plan.
"We've been having too many…unnecessary shortcomings lately, and the issue needed to be addressed directly."
"And you thought it best to tarnish my reputation?!" the boss snapped. "Your little snitch hunt matters more than my image?"
Der Sand hesitated for a fraction of a second before dealing the brutal truth. "Would you rather they busted you for narcotics and running an illicit trafficking syndicate?"
Silence followed.
"The law has been snooping around our streets and places of business lately," Der Sand continued. "I don't believe in coincidences." He paused, then pressed on.
Then he digressed; almost casually, he added, "Besides… weren't you the one complaining about needing more public attention for your political ambitions?"
"And what does that have to do with you jeopardizing my image with smuggling charges?" the boss shot back.
THE SAINT OF THE DEPTHS.
"It's a win-win for you, boss," Der Sand argued. "Your competitors are already complaining about you selling under regulated market prices." He snickered.
He continued, laying out the perception in detail. "They've been wondering how you've managed to stay afloat this long without going bankrupt. From their perspective, it doesn't add up."
"Picture it: the man runs a mini charity, sells cheap at his stores, offers affordable housing, loans at bank-beating rates, and runs hotels and motels that don't break the average wallet—all through depression and bloody wartime."
His boss cut through the spiel. "Enough with the yapping, you trash sand hopper. What's your point?"
"I'm saying their curiosity has now been answered," Der Sand replied smoothly. "Your lawyer can make a solid case. You're not whatever criminal they imagine—you're simply a profit-driven businessman working within… flexible boundaries."
He continued, building the narrative. "And if the law decides to punish you beyond a slap-on-the-wrist fine, families will go hungry."
His tone grew more dramatic, almost theatrical. Der Sand painted the scene with dramatic flair, framing his boss as a flawed but honorable figure, a noble man of honor.
"You are simply giving back to the community regardless of your unethical methods. The government has money to fund wars but somehow becomes magically too broke to feed its citizens."
Like a tragic actor ready to deliver his final scene on a Broadway stage, "Your precious heart couldn't help but see the poor starve to death as you stepped in to be their Robin Hood."
On the other end of the line, the boss's heavy breathing slowed as he processed the logic. The fool actually had a point. For three and a half years he had been "feeding the poor" through his front businesses, as Der Sand called it.
When people needed cheap and affordable things, his ventures were the go-to places. Now he could even justify before the court his reasons and ability to sell cheap without running significant losses—or worse, bankruptcy. In reality, his narcotics, arms sales, contraband, and brothels remained the true backbone of his empire.
Der Sand had handed him the perfect opportunity to play the saint, the people's choice, and gain priceless publicity as he soaked it all up.
"You do know that Robin Hood steals from the rich and gives to the poor, you fool?" the boss corrected him.
"Who cares?" Der Sand countered. "Same thing, boss. You deprived the government of their tax share to keep the poor fed." His own twisted version of the Robin Hood analogy.
THE IRISH STATIC.
Just as he was drafting his next thoughts, a third call came in. Nobody had this number except a few business partners from the underground trafficking network. He told Der Sand to hold while he answered.
"Hold that thought," he said, putting Der Sand on pause.
He answered the new call. "Hello."
The incoming voice blasted through the receiver like a wave of distorted, ear-splitting static. The man on the other end sounded like a lunatic who had never spoken into a piece of modern technology in his life. It was Whaleman.
"I DON'T CARE FOR ANY FUCKIN' REASONABLE EXPLANATION!" Whaleman roared. "If yer changin' plans at the eleventh hour just 'cause ya smell something funny—THAT'S ON YOU, PAL!"
"Hey, Whaleman, that's not fair if you put it that way," the boss replied, keeping his composure. "We've been doing business for a long time. You know my business model. It's not like me to change plans at the last gasp. You have to understand, this was an incredibly delicate situation."
"Aye, dunno and don't care, ya hear?" Whaleman snapped, his Irish edge cutting through every word. "Ain't got shite to do wit' me. Sort yer own loose ends, ya gobshite. We good fellas are about business—not babysitters or minders."
He continued, his voice sharp as broken glass, firm and unapologetic. "You've got copper sniffin' up your trail? Yer copper problem ain't my problem. That's your headache." He made himself crystal clear.
"You pay, I deliver. And ya'll be gettin' an invoice for the last-minute bollocks—I doubled it."
"No issue," the boss replied evenly. "I'll pay for the inconvenience. Always a pleasure doing business."
"Aye, listen here. One more thing, ya noble-arse prick," Whaleman growled, his temper rising again. "You tell that fuckin' sand rat of yours—aye, that little muppet—if he ever tries to pull a fast one or strong-arm me again…"
He spluttered wildly, "Oooh, lor, lor, lor, lordy!" Then the curses poured out. "I'll fuck him up! Just 'cause he's a Gifter with his supernatural bollocks. I'll let him know whether he's a Gifter or a non-Gifter. No messin' wit' me, the Whaleman."
His voice rises in rage, cold and dangerous again: "I'll bury that sandy arse six feet under. I'm no Gifter, and I don't need to be one to wreck him proper!"
His voice rose to a bellow. "Nobody dictates terms to the Whaleman! NOBODY! If that eejit thinks he can dickride me in a negotiation and walk away clean, he's dead wrong."
His tone hardened to a final warning. "This happens once. Nobody fucks me over twice."
The long rant of threats and blabbering finally ended. Der Sand's boss had nothing left to add but thanks. He kept his tone steady.
"I will relate everything you said to my boy. Every single word, just as you put it," he assured Whaleman calmly. "Once again, I apologize for the inconvenience."
"Aye," Whaleman muttered. "See that you do."
Slam. The line went dead.
CATCHING RATS.
Whaleman hung up instantly, automatically clicking the boss back over to the line with Der Sand. What Whaleman hadn't realized was that Der Sand had been listening to every single word, threat, and insult leveled against him.
"What in the heavens did you do to trigger the wrath of the Irish devil, Der Sand?" the boss asked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he returned to the call.
"I simply did what was best for all parties involved," Der Sand replied, almost proudly.
"You really didn't just piss him off." The boss paused, chuckling softly. "From the sounds of it, you smashed his pride and tossed his ego right into the gutter."
"I don't care who needs to be walked all over so long as I complete your orders, boss," Der Sand said.
"Anyway," the boss continued, "I should get going. The royal police will be knocking at my door in the morning. I need to call my attorney."
"Of course, you should, sire," Der Sand replied jokingly. "You'll definitely need to put on a show for the courtroom."
Amused, yet still slightly irritated by his subordinate's sheer audacity, the boss shook his head. "Ever since I dragged you out of the gutter, you've never taken a single thing seriously. I'm still shocked you've made it this far."
"I'd say my playful attitude and the way I handle life's little crises have a certain… conflict of interest," Der Sand praised himself.
"Well, good luck catching your rat. Send the snitch my warmest regards," the boss said.
With a final click, the line went dead.
Der Sand lowered the receiver and turned around slowly to face Mikey, a triumphant grin plastered across his face.
"You see? Problem solved. It's a win-win for everyone," he declared, practically radiating victory. "Now, let's go catch ourselves a rat."