Count Me In
Posted: Fri Jul 15, 2022 12:49 pm
K R O W E
28 Searing 122
The boxes came down the line, sliding across the hissing rollers with hands reaching for them like grubby lovers. Labels were slapped and stamped, pushed along to be shipped off to cities the workers had never seen. The warehouse was filled with the chattering of low voices and machinery roared, stolen conversation lost in bits and pieces. Blue eyes lingered the black and silver clock high on the far wall and Krowe grunted, grabbed the straps of the container and hefted it from the belt to the loading bay. A man in a sleeveless shirt shifted it on a battered cart piled high with others and nodded, "The' naht cuttingh any slachk ta'dai, eh?"
"Nah," he muttered, flicking his attention to the new bodies filing in the room. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen..."Not today." He turned to reach for the next shipment, using his legs to lift. Two in that row. Three there. One mechanic. Three loaders. And one... one foreman... where?
He glanced at the office overseeing the facility. A figure stood behind the glass, watching the warehouse like a child overseeing ants on the sidewalk, contemplating how to use his magnifying glass to burn the hill. If he was smart, and Krowe doubted the extent of that - after all, it should be him standing in that office - the overseer should be realizing right about now that they were short staffed for the day. Most warehouses in the northside, the preparation facilities for the loading docks, averaged around dozen, sometimes less if they were small time. This one was more of the established facilities, not too far from the Gash bridge or the water, and had, including himself, eighteen employees.
Three exits. One shoddy light. Six broken windows and a whole lot of rats.
More than he could count, anyway.
Krowe watched the seconds, then the hours, playing the same game he used to as a boy to pass the time. When his mother was around, she'd walk with him down the street for a bit of shopping. He always had a quick mind, ever clever, and to entertain them both and teach him mathematics, she would challenge him, "How man woman wearing jewels do you see? How many policeman walk the street? Count the vendors, darling. How many doors, windows, daggers, coins?"
He could hear her now, whispering into his ear while she tugged him along, his hand firmly nestled in hers, "Do you see what I see?"
The whistle screamed, ear splitting and fierce. Krowe clenched his jaw, arms burning. Back aching. Time for lunch.
The workers stopped in unison, well trained soldiers in the battle of production. They turned on heel and headed single file towards the door, where they grabbed their identical work cards, pushed it into the machine on the wall and waited for the click. Then, back on the wall the paper went, and out into the yard they marched for temporary freedom. Here, one could pretend humanity and enjoyment. It was all a tired crock of shit. Smelled like shit, too. Factories and boat docks lined the same street, feeding the air a burnt fish stench. The air tasted like oil.
Krowe reached for the cigarette case in his back pocket and looked over his shoulder, prowling towards the fence line where he scanned the yard like a prison inmate.
After a few minutes, one of the men who had been sitting in the shade of the building eating from a metal lunchbox crumbled up an old napkin and clasped the latches. He stood, adjusted the newsboy cap hat he wore, and edged towards Krowe, "Bum a smoke?" He reached up, fingers twitching.
Krowe eyed him, "Just one?"
"Yeah," the man rubbed a hand over his stubble and met Krowe's eye, "Tryna quit."
Krowe smirked, passing his cigarette case and leaning his back against the chain link. It creaked from beneath his weight and he stuffed his hands into his pockets, waiting, "Don't I know it,"
The man opened the case, pinching a cigarette and a folded up strip of paper rolled just as tightly behind it. Krowe made sure no one was watching while he fished out the matchbook, striking a flame for both of them, "That's the address," he muttered, hiding the words as he lifted his hand to take a drag. Krowe kept his eyes from lingering on anyone or anything for too long, "You can drop it off and when it's time," he exhaled, smoke rolling in the space between them, "Pick it up."
"You're a good man," he replied in thanks, smiling as he accepted the match and swept up the flame. The piece of paper disappeared, likely up a sleeve, and Krowe took back his belongings with a sigh, "Enjoy your lunch."
"Yup."
Krowe licked his lips and studied the man as he walked away, deciphering which of the gangs he worked for. Or which he was trying to gain favor with. He himself wasn't yet enlisted in any organized crime - a solo practitioner, if you would - however, he had a few "cousins" scattered around the Imperium, no thanks to his mother whose connections were ever expanding. It was all temporary, of course. None of these ties were actually built on shared blood, and it never failed that sooner or later, she would grow bored and piss someone off. Then it was just a matter of time before a pair of goons came hunting him down and he was forced to lay low for awhile.
At least until they needed his skillset or his mother did what mother's do.
He sighed, finishing his cigarette.
"Nah," he muttered, flicking his attention to the new bodies filing in the room. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen..."Not today." He turned to reach for the next shipment, using his legs to lift. Two in that row. Three there. One mechanic. Three loaders. And one... one foreman... where?
He glanced at the office overseeing the facility. A figure stood behind the glass, watching the warehouse like a child overseeing ants on the sidewalk, contemplating how to use his magnifying glass to burn the hill. If he was smart, and Krowe doubted the extent of that - after all, it should be him standing in that office - the overseer should be realizing right about now that they were short staffed for the day. Most warehouses in the northside, the preparation facilities for the loading docks, averaged around dozen, sometimes less if they were small time. This one was more of the established facilities, not too far from the Gash bridge or the water, and had, including himself, eighteen employees.
Three exits. One shoddy light. Six broken windows and a whole lot of rats.
More than he could count, anyway.
Krowe watched the seconds, then the hours, playing the same game he used to as a boy to pass the time. When his mother was around, she'd walk with him down the street for a bit of shopping. He always had a quick mind, ever clever, and to entertain them both and teach him mathematics, she would challenge him, "How man woman wearing jewels do you see? How many policeman walk the street? Count the vendors, darling. How many doors, windows, daggers, coins?"
He could hear her now, whispering into his ear while she tugged him along, his hand firmly nestled in hers, "Do you see what I see?"
The whistle screamed, ear splitting and fierce. Krowe clenched his jaw, arms burning. Back aching. Time for lunch.
The workers stopped in unison, well trained soldiers in the battle of production. They turned on heel and headed single file towards the door, where they grabbed their identical work cards, pushed it into the machine on the wall and waited for the click. Then, back on the wall the paper went, and out into the yard they marched for temporary freedom. Here, one could pretend humanity and enjoyment. It was all a tired crock of shit. Smelled like shit, too. Factories and boat docks lined the same street, feeding the air a burnt fish stench. The air tasted like oil.
Krowe reached for the cigarette case in his back pocket and looked over his shoulder, prowling towards the fence line where he scanned the yard like a prison inmate.
After a few minutes, one of the men who had been sitting in the shade of the building eating from a metal lunchbox crumbled up an old napkin and clasped the latches. He stood, adjusted the newsboy cap hat he wore, and edged towards Krowe, "Bum a smoke?" He reached up, fingers twitching.
Krowe eyed him, "Just one?"
"Yeah," the man rubbed a hand over his stubble and met Krowe's eye, "Tryna quit."
Krowe smirked, passing his cigarette case and leaning his back against the chain link. It creaked from beneath his weight and he stuffed his hands into his pockets, waiting, "Don't I know it,"
The man opened the case, pinching a cigarette and a folded up strip of paper rolled just as tightly behind it. Krowe made sure no one was watching while he fished out the matchbook, striking a flame for both of them, "That's the address," he muttered, hiding the words as he lifted his hand to take a drag. Krowe kept his eyes from lingering on anyone or anything for too long, "You can drop it off and when it's time," he exhaled, smoke rolling in the space between them, "Pick it up."
"You're a good man," he replied in thanks, smiling as he accepted the match and swept up the flame. The piece of paper disappeared, likely up a sleeve, and Krowe took back his belongings with a sigh, "Enjoy your lunch."
"Yup."
Krowe licked his lips and studied the man as he walked away, deciphering which of the gangs he worked for. Or which he was trying to gain favor with. He himself wasn't yet enlisted in any organized crime - a solo practitioner, if you would - however, he had a few "cousins" scattered around the Imperium, no thanks to his mother whose connections were ever expanding. It was all temporary, of course. None of these ties were actually built on shared blood, and it never failed that sooner or later, she would grow bored and piss someone off. Then it was just a matter of time before a pair of goons came hunting him down and he was forced to lay low for awhile.
At least until they needed his skillset or his mother did what mother's do.
He sighed, finishing his cigarette.