Carving Out A Living — The Consortium Is Born

[Burgundy]

Aboard The Money Penny everything was going smoothly. Their small crew of merely three was sufficient to cross the Grand Line even with the savage naval weather between islands. As this was a temporary arrangement, Lawrence had navigated the salty crew to the coasts of the very next place he had business – A land with too long a name for him to say. He'd only ever seen it written, and at first the business proposal looked like a childish prank.

When the Vivre Card actually moved uniformly, the suited sailor had no choice but to humor this arrangement. Thankfully it was the perfect opportunity to break in the new ship, and she held up beautifully. A stouter and trustier model he could never have hoped for. At least, not with his present resources.

On-board The Money Penny was Lawrence himself, along with his half-fishman bewinged mercenary R.R., and another large mercenary liberated alone from a company that bugged him. His name was Hector or something. Throughout the journey, between the navigational challenges presented by a larger ship to not-capsize, Lawrence and his hirelings had bonded a bit, getting to know one another.

The salaryman was able to discuss the basics of economics with the blue-ringed mercenary, and may have incidentally taught him what racketeering was, except posing it as a legitimate business operation. Hector eventually snapped out of the functional trance that Lawrence had initially intimidated him into, but they came to an understanding nonetheless – mostly in that Lawrence wasn't turning this ship around. He was free to find his own way back to San Faldo when they landed on... this upcoming island.

Eventually, as all things had to, they were coming up on the end. Lawrence steeled himself for the fact that he might need to adjust his navigation style soon in order to operate a caravel by himself. After all, the contract between R.R. and he was about to come to an end.

"Land Ahoy!" cried Hector from the crow's nest. Lawrence would be found in his office, tallying up the contractually agreed-upon payment, as well as a tip, totalling 350,000 beli to Ring Renegade for his hard work, and 300,000 to Hector for his trouble, each packed into a separate briefcase.

The suited sailor would emerge from the rear aftcastle. "Alright gentlemen, it's been a pleasure sailing with you. I'll be staying on this island until another business opportunity comes knocking, but once our contract is up on-shore, neither of you will have any obligation to stick around," he would explain to his hirelings.

Raising one of the briefcases which he'd decorated with a single blue circle on either face, he would say, "R.R. here's your payment." The other brief case was relatively plain and he directed it to the other mercenary, "Hector, this is yours."

"It's... uhh... Trevor," the other mercenary would say dejectedly. "Ah, oops. Trevor, then," he would correct himself, his expression unchanging as stone.

With the money handed out, he would step up to the helm and steer the ship to port, "Bring up the sails and weigh anchor. When your feet hit the docks, you're free to go."

[cowboyjotaro]

The Ring Renegade couldn’t quite believe it, but his adventure with Lawrence as his captain was already over. In retrospect, his knowledge of capitalism and economics in general quite lacking, he had been through perhaps too much trouble for payment of this magnitude. And yet, as the tidy sum was deposited into his possession, he felt a sense of smug satisfaction at having completed this job. Not yet jaded by any exploitative employer to employee relationships, R.R thought that perhaps this working business wasn’t so bad after all - he was, in fact, being rewarded with a wage for actions he enjoyed taking regardless: cracking skulls together.

As Trevor – who, for much of the trip, R.R could’ve sworn was named Gregor – took his leave of the duo, the winged fishman realized that he, too, was free to go. Equipped with a new understanding of racketeering - seriously, what a great idea! - the Ring Renegade was ready to take his talents onto this as of yet untouched island. The island of…well, if Lawrence couldn’t read it, then neither could he. If only some soul would read the name out loud.

“Well, Captain, I think I’ll try and strike it out on my own again. Thanks a lot for the advice. I guess any part of the real world can be a gladiator ring if you try hard enough, huh?” the Ring Renegade reached down to clasp the suited man’s hand firmly before promptly turning around and setting off. Not bothering to look back, he waved a hand in the air. “I’m sure we’ll meet again, and hopefully you’ll hire me then again too, if I still need the money!”

Now, to find a town. As luck would have it, such a task wouldn’t take very long. A trek of only a couple hours led R.R towards several columns of billowing smoke, and the smell of various smoke meats permeating the nearby land. Like patches of fur, small regions of forest broke up long stretches of grassy plains. This such town was behind one such of these regions, though as the Ring Renegade’s journey continued closer to the center of town, an increasing number of stubs from felled tree trunks indicated the passage of man’s incessant consumption.

Psolitolpitoctown. If the winged fishman were able to read the sign upon entry to the village, he would have known its name. Unfortunately, like every single other word he had come across, it simply resembled disorganized gibberish.

“Okay. Now where to begin…?”

[Burgundy]

Lawrence and R.R. had a fairly respectable bond as a good employer and a good employee. They knew their jobs well, and never once clashed in objectives. R.R. wanted money and had the strength of ten men, Lawrence had a good deal of money and need of strength in that ballpark – not that he lacked it himself. With this crew arrangement settled, and their assignment completed, Lawrence made sure the pay was fair for their convenience and would keep them more or less afloat.

As the two parted ways with a kurt and businesslike discussion of potential future prospects, Lawrence would nod with a firm handshake, "Sailors in your league are in short supply. If you're ever in need of money, my Money Penny could always use the hands." And then the fishman left the businessman on the boat. With that, he was alone.

So what then? Ah yes: Business. As always.

When it was a matter of business, there was only one way forward – Wherever the money took him. A vivre card was a fairly big undertaking just to get an accountant, not many people knew how to make one and so their services didn't come cheap. But once one was made it was useful for transactions like this one. A white piece of what appeared to be paper for all intents and purposes, marked with a bit of ink would fall towards the west as though blown by the wind, and so Lawrence would follow it.

His pace was brisk, and kept in step with the fluttering card, but not so brisk as to appear that he was putting in undue effort. There was no good to be found in showing up to a pirate's den drenched in sweat. Of course, the real challenge was that the island of such long names was itself a fairly large island. Large and with very little for a metropolitan man like himself to enjoy.

Nature was... dirty. Perhaps beautiful, he couldn't deny, but having grown up in the sterile glassy cities he did, Lawrence couldn't help but think that a single incident of missing his footing would require him to go back to the ship for a change of suit. The idea of that had his eyes aimed down at the ground, his expression a frown.

Hours went by, but eventually the castle town was visible, a veritable fortress amidst the plains, flanked by forests on either side creating a funnel to the gates. A sign he spotted nearby mentioned it was still a mile or two before he was at the gate of this town, 'Daloxicopolis.' Judging by the loosely formed map, this was roughly the center of the island, a river was audible but not visible on this side.

"The Upper Level of... this place," Lawrence would mutter idly to himself, catching the vivre card out of the air and beginning to tuck it away inside of his breast pocket. "I seriously hope this isn't a prank of some sort..."

[cowboyjotaro]

Psolitolpitoctown was a town like any other, not separated by any distinct advances in agriculture, or infrastructure, or population. It was, luckily for the Ring Renegade, the perfect island for him to start what some would soon consider to be the rampage of a wild beast. After all, if there was some other perfectly ordinary trait the town shared with others of its ilk, it was that its citizens, too, were wary of a winged man with blue circles covering his skin entering the premises for the first time.

Neither the cold looks, inquisitive stares, or spitting on the ground he traveled bothered the Ring Renegade. He was used to being special - even inside the ring he was a noble’s special pet, entertaining hundreds of amused spectators - since his departure, casual racism had been a simple fact of his existence. If only they knew what awaited them.

R.R stepped into a tavern and requested a drink, despite his fists being more thirsty than his lips. He was itching for a beatdown this time, but if there had been a lesson that Lawrence had drilled inside of him besides the basics of racketeering, it was the exalted virtues of customer service.

“An ale, please,” the half-fishman, half-sky islander uttered, his voice only ever so slightly tinged with excitement. “An ale, huh? Any preference?” came the response. There was no preference, of course. Not only was the Ring Renegade ignorant about the kinds of ales available, he had seldom even had enough coin to spare for alcoholic beverages - another difference between this tavern visit and his previous.

Subduing an entire region was no simple task, R.R knew. If he could separate groups of human beings into two categories, he would have done so in a peculiar manner. To the fishman gladiator, there was first the crowd, the mob, the audience: a group assembled for a purpose, all united underneath one blanket of feelings, susceptible to violent, intense emotions. The second category would most certainly have been the community: a crew, a team, or indeed, even a town, this was a group with a leader. A group with a figurehead would be thrown into chaos without one.

“I’m new in town,” R.R began, the beginning of his sentence greeted with an incredulous scoff. “Oh yeah?” the bartender answered sarcastically. “I’m new…” the fishman restarted. “...and I want to know more about this town. It’s nice. Quiet. Pretty, too. You fellas got a mayor or somethin’?"

[Burgundy]

So there was the matter of getting to the upper level of Daloxicopolis – It was a place for nobles and aristocrats, not your run of the mill businessmen, but truly successful ones with a lot of money to burn. Lawrence wasn't lacking for the polite manner needed to engage in high society, nor the dapper attire, but he was lacking in the part where he was already in there, beyond the guards and walls.

After some more time spent closing the distance to the outer gate, he couldn't help but feel like he was making no progress as he got closer. It was very tall, probably 100 feet tall by comparing its size to the shorter of the two visible guards at the gate, reminding him of the skyscrapers back home especially with being as thick as it was. Thankfully his eyeballs were doing him some justice at the time of guessing that, and he didn't need to walk another half a quarter mile just to be close enough to talk to the guards once the shorter one seemed close.

"Hail Traveler!" the tall guard would enunciate with an official tone of voice. Lawrence would come to a stop within talking distance and speak up, "Greetings, guardsman. My business takes me into the city, I seek the Upper Level." When it came to castle towns like this one, the suited sailor learned a thing or two about 'ye olde common' to speak formally to the officials. It was a little distinct from his usual cadence – Less jargon and buzzwords, more fanciful words.

"Business in the Upper Level huh? I s'pose I cannot keep you waiting too long good ser. A cursory glance at your luggage and you can be on your way," the short guard would say. He approached with a marching gait, and held his hand out.

Lawrence would tilt his head a bit. He figured he'd need to deal with guards, he was simply ready for this eventuality, "Very well." He would pull his briefcase up into the crook of his elbow as he held it parallel to the ground, then popped its latches open. Inside was a bunch of money, same as there ever was, but at the top in the middle was a particular bundle, bound up neatly with a paper band, labelled 'For the kind guard helped me out.'

The guard would look over the contents of the case, blink for just a second as he plucked the central wad of bills and turned it over in his hand. He tucked the bills into his chestplate, and turned around, with no questions, "Open the gates!"

Lawrence clamped the briefcase shut, latched it, and watched as the guard returned to his post while the gates openned fairly loudly, gears and pullies audibly churning, wood creaking. He would walk past quietly, bowing his head kurtly without saying anything further, though the guard he just bribed would quietly tell him as he passed, without breaking stance, "Don't let the poors see those bills. The Tintagel Family would take their pound for 'security' in a heartbeat."

Lawrence didn't much care for the divide between the rich and the poor being cast like a pall over the whole affair, but for the time being, he was worried because the Tintagel Family was not the criminal syndicate he was here to do work for. A rival faction in the big city with a bigger name, he supposed.

[cowboyjotaro]

As the conversation continued, the bartender did not get any friendlier. On the contrary, upon being greeted with questions about the town, his shoulders came closer together, his arms crossed, and his brow furrowed - he altogether clammed up. It attracted the unwelcome attention of some bystanders, who took an interest. The Ring Renegade could not have known that the pubs of Psolitolpitoctown were generally unfriendly. Being a man of clearly non-human race and massive frame usually set at least some people against him wherever he went.

“What? Is it a crime to do a little tourism in this place? You’re all staring at me like I insulted all of your mothers,” R.R began. For some reason, this particular encounter had put him in a foul mood. It was unlike him to be in a foul mood. Flashes of anger, bouts of fury and rage, that’s where he thrived - but passive unhappiness? Perhaps it had to do with his fresh, new start that disappointingly didn’t feel very unfamiliar at all.

“Keep it up like that, and maybe I will. After all, who else raised you to be so unfriendly?” This challenge did not go unanswered. Instead, the Ring Renegade was treated to general uproar. One or two men even made moves to approach him, although they did so with a hint of caution, wary of his appearance. These were just ordinary citizens. Men that weren’t even worth the effort to lay hands on, unless, perhaps, in the spirit of self-defense.

Others, in the back, had a different disposition altogether. These men were different from the average tavern dweller. Hardened by abundant nautical miles traveled with no land in sight and the prospect of scurvy, capable of plundering enemy ships, these were the supposed scourge of the sea - pirates. For all of these facts, however, the average pirate in that pub had only one major difference from the other rowdy, belligerent customers: the courage - or stupidity - to act.

“Hey, you. You freak. How about you close your mouth before we close your mouth for you…in permanent fashion?” This brought a smile to the Ring Renegade’s face. He had hardly made his presence known in Psolitolpitoctown, and already he could feel a brawl brewing in the bar air. It was almost identical to when he met Lawrence, but this time there were no mysterious strangers there to prove his worth to. Just a room full of angry humans.

“Why don’t you come try it, then?”

[Burgundy]

One the subject of angry humans, you would think that the citizens of Daloxicopolis had never seen a man in a nice business suit and tie before the way Lawrence was getting stared down on his way up the main road. It didn't help that he stood out like a sore thumb amidst the crowd of peasantry clad in fairly mundane clothing, most fairly ratty from overuse.

This told Lawrence a story of the streets, economic conditions were that the citizens were forced to wear what little they had to death. A problem to be sure, though it wasn't specifically his problem. The suited sailor would keep his ears open, to listen out for any gossip, but all they managed to pick up was the beginnings of some public abuse.

"Oy fancyman! You're lookin' a li'l lost! Clean clothes like thems are for the rich folks upstairs!" some random peasant would declare. Lawrence would keep walking, trying to ignore the anger misdirected at him.

Apparently that didn't sit well with random stranger, as it didn't take more than 10 steps of quietly minding his own business to receive a more direct physical interaction. "Oi! I'm talkin to you! You ain't belong here dandyman!" the man would snarl like a rabid beast.

Lawrence would turn and look at the man, cold pity in his eyes. He looked him up and down – The man was wearing a frayed t-shirt with faded lettering and jeans ripped a little past fashionable. His powerful gaze was enough to put the man off his footing, "Why you-"

The suited sailor would raise his hand and catch a sucker punch that was sent towards his face, wrenching the poor man's wrist and causing him to collapse to a knee. "You've got a good eye, sir. I don't belong here, I was headed for the Upper Level. If you'd be so kind as to guide me there, that'd do wonders to expedite me out of your neighborhood," he would say, his voice level and unperturbed. The hand he caught the punch with would wrench a little more to punctuate his point.

"Agh! Ya damned bugger! Fine, fine! I'm sorry! I'll help, just lemme go!"

So he did. Lawrence wasn't one for torture, you see. In fact, he didn't even like making this man's day worse, much less getting into a fight with him. Seeing how he wasn't welcome in the Lower Floor for the time being, it was prudent for him to make it out of here as quickly as possible, to meet with his employer.

The man would scramble to his feet, and back away a few steps, giving Lawrence a mean mug. "You ain't from here suit man. Ya can't just go around breaking peoples' wrists."

"Oh, really? Well then it's a good thing I haven't. Yet. Are you going to help me find the Upper Level or not?"

The peasant man bit his cheek as he thought, "What's in it for me, huh?"

Lawrence had a look on his face, one that conveyed he'd was rolling his eyes, without physically doing so. Such an immature civilian, an overgrown child throwing a temper tantrum when somebody else has nicer clothes.

"Maybe I'll put a good word in for you with my employer at the top. Not sure how much that'll help though."

"For true!? Oh pardon me sir, I'll ensure you get to the top with no further intrusions! Follow meee~!" the once-angry man now practically sang with delight, nearly dancing on air as he went. It was rather jarring how quickly the man's tune changed. Whoever lived in the Upper Level must have held a good deal of power. The kind that could change a peasant's life because it was funny. Without needing to drop a name, so such power was commonplace up there.

Still, Lawrence would fall behind if he thought about it too much. He put a little bit of hustle into his steps as he followed the eccentric man to what he was hoping was the Upper Level, but he figured could just as well be a trap.

[cowboyjotaro]

At that very moment, the bartender was surprised by R.R’s come-get-me demeanor. Not so much surprised at its deliberate belligerence - it was nearly every week that some hot-headed rock-for-brains came into his would-be-peaceful establishment and made things rowdy - but seldom had he seen someone not simply reply with more insults but ultimately back out of the fight. It wasn’t sensible. It was arrogant. And so, as much as he wanted to yell at his patrons, “don’t you ne’er-do-wells damage my goddamn establishment!”, he simply put down the glass he had been dutifully drying with a washcloth and took several steps back.

It was for that reason that, fortuitously, the bartender narrowly avoided the multiple wooden splinters flying out of the point of impact between the bar and one of the pirates’ heads, having been slammed together by the Ring Renegade’s large, gripping hand. One of the men, to the Ring Renegade’s joy, had indeed taken him up on his offer. A big burly man, with a beard of fittingly gargantuan size, he took his hands aged and wrinkled by sailing work, balled them into tightly wound fists, and swung them with vicious fury at R.R’s head.

His comrades smirked. Those knuckles had struck many a face in its time, had become rugged from blood drying and re-drying constantly on their surface - and not once had he ever missed. Their smirks did not vanish, not even when the Ring Renegade plunged the big burly pirate’s head into the bar. They couldn’t process what just happened, but for the half-fishman, it was just another day at work.

“All right, who’s next? And could I finally get that drink, bartender?” R.R inquired impatiently. The bartender witnessed the scene, his eyes wide, evidently flabbergasted. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out initially. And then, a slight stutter. “W-what the hell…” His brow furrowed into a frown, and he shouted. “What the hell did you do to my bar, you freak?!”

“Hm, I think Lawrence told me about this. Self-defense, so it’s okay, right? I’m sure you have a lot of - erm, what’s the word - profits saved!” the Ring Renegade replied smugly. The bartender was having none of it, shaking his hands in an agitated frenzy. “I don’t care what you have to do. But throw this asshole out of my bar, give him a good beating, and the next round is on me!”

More than the Ring Renegade ever could, the bartender had made enemies out of the whole tavern.

[Burgundy]

As they approached the inner city, it was clear to see that there was definitely a wealth gradient. Houses were better-upkept, outfits had fewer holes. Of course things only started looking 'acceptable' barely a block before their journey together was about to end. It was easy to see, now that they were past the various houses, a rather tall wall separated the haves from the have-nots.

"Alright, very good," Lawrence would say casually, "What's your name, by the way?"

He couldn't well put in a good word for a man whose name he didn't know. This being Daloxicopolis, however, the suited sailor was promptly bowled over by the syllables that poured out of the eccentric man's mouth. "Sensai Mewvinciantehgentonatei, sir!"

"Mew Vincent Gen... Tony? Can you write that down?"

"Ah, no sir. I ain't literate, as it were..."

"I see. Then I'll try..." he'd say with a bit of resignation in his voice. He'd pull some paper out and with a fancy cartridge pen, the salaryman would jot down a handful of words attempting to capture its phonetic sound, using his briefcase as a table. 'Mew. Vincent. Gen. Tony.'

Close enough.

"Alright, that should be enough for me. And uh, thanks for the guidance," he'd say. Patting the man on the shoulder before walking away. It wouldn't be til the poor man was at home that he would notice that Lawrence had slipped a generous tip into his pocket... More money than he'd made all year so far, as it happened! Of course, it didn't take much to make up that amount.

"Yeah take care now!" he'd say in the moment immediately following their parting ways, still made friendly by a chance to up his social standing a ways. Lawrence was fairly certain he'd never see that man again.

Approaching the inner gate in a pristine business suit was a power play not many people got to make around these parts. As he approached, the guards seemed hesitent to interrupt him, as though he was going to open the door himself. "Halt! What business have you?"

""The financial sort. My employer would rather not be named," he would reply, "Information is money, after all."

This was a key phrase he was told to say, which was supposedly enough information to inform the guard. He didn't like it too much, but only because it felt a bit too dismissive of the guard. Working men deserved respect, after all.

Nonetheless the guard pieced two and two together, and turned around, shouting, "Open the gates!"

At least the information he'd been given was good. Now that the gates to the Upper Level were opening, he could finally consider his client. Apparently they were some manner of information broker by the name of 'Morgan' – not to be confused with the head of World News, or a certain former-Marine Captain, of course – with an upscale business front, an antique shop that did appraisals and whatnot. It wasn't everyday that he got to work with white collar criminals, so he might have been excited.

After all, the payout here could supposedly pay off The Money Penny in a single job.

[cowboyjotaro]

The current events on Taumatawhakatangi represented the pair’s temperaments almost perfectly. There was, on one side, Lawrence, gradually making his way deeper and deeper into the inner city, using a combination of suave persuasion, social cues, and of course, the greatest key of all: hard cash. On the other, there was the Ring Renegade, an agent of chaos and conflict, who had started yet another tavern brawl, with a wide, smug smile on his face.

Lawrence enforced deals with an ink pen in his hand and the words in his mouth, but the Ring Renegade did just the opposite. He threw fist first and asked questions later - so when the entire tavern turned towards him at the bartender’s behest, thinking they would receive the rewards of a free drink with ease, all the half-fishman could do was bare his fangs once again.

At once, punches went flying this way and that as R.R engaged more men than they had thought possible. As several jabs to the gut subdued one enemy, the foreigner grabbed the chair that he was resting on, swinging it around him wildly to clobber whoever foolish enough not to dodge. Once a full revolution was complete however, some others saw opportunity in the scrap. One such pirate charged and leapt through the air, tackling R.R into a nearby table, shattering it instantly.

“Hey! Now! Just take the goddamned stranger down and stop ruining more of my property!” The Ring Renegade, struggling beneath the weight of a rotund man with horrid breath, heard the bartender’s frustrated words and began laughing - a raucous laughter which cut through the belligerent cheers of the angry crowd, making a hushed silence blanket the tavern.

“I think I’m gonna take as much of this place down as I can!” With a powerful kick, he liberated himself from his enemy’s clutches and resumed his journey of devastation. Another roundhouse kick to a pirate’s chest sent another human flying, but it wasn’t long before the superiority in numbers as a strategy became apparent. R.R felt four arms envelop him from behind, keeping him in a chokehold while a third man delivered strong hits to his abdomen relentlessly.

“Grahahaha!” the Ring Renegade yelled, shaking all three off at once with a twisting motion. Inside his mouth his tongue felt the metallic taste of blood - a taste that R.R was intimately familiar with, but hadn’t encountered for a short while - an old friend. It was the Grand Line after all. The fights couldn’t be that easy.

[Burgundy]

Once he was in the Upper Level, Lawrence was more or less given the instuctions in perfect detail, very nearly footstep by footstep. It was like this 'Morgan' individual was used to dealing with outsiders and guiding them to their "antique shop". It also served as a good promotion of their information - clear where it needed to be, giving passwords and details as necessary to ensure the customer or business associate has minimal issues. It obviously can't account for bad luck, but unlucky people are free money in the info business. Well, free money or liabilities.

As for the product in question, it was supposedly a simple laundering job. Particularly laundering a very subjective currency, not worth much to most, but worth a tremendous amount to others. World Government IOU's, effectively a signed document allowing one to tap into the World Government's finances directly. However, they're also used to milk favors out of World Government officials, typically lackeys looking for a quick payday. One IOU was equivalent to around a month's salary at the Captain rank. Having one at the 'market value' was essentially paying money for the same amount of money, but there were some benefits such as inflation-immunity in the long term, like a savings bond.

But of course, nobody in their right mind would sell one at market value: Even Lawrence was thinking of all the devious and conniving subtrefuge enthusiasts he was going to extort for the sake of granting access to "perfectly legal bribery'.

They were especially rare to see, since it requires a painful degree of bureaucracy to even get one, let alone multiple. A marine captain or higher sold their future paychecks for something this 'Morgan' individual had. It must have been something historically significant, but not the sort that gets you killed. Lawrence wondered what manner of business generated a supply to pass off.


Regardless of what it were, he was stopped one final time as he neared his destination. The building with two storeys and red door, that didn't look like a 'house'. In front of it was an angry man, hammering on the door with his fist alongside his well-armed cronies. "Open up, Morgan! We'z just here to collect! Youz wouldn't want to lose our protection so soon, huh?"

Lawrence slowed down, apparently a gang of thugs pulling a racketeering scheme were the only thing between him and his client.

"Excuse me sirs, but would you kindly step aside? I have real business with Morgan," Lawrence would ask with the sort of kind politeness that was soured by his disdain for people making a scene in public as their business model.

"Excuse youz? What kinda bozo walks up to the Camalavalon Gang while they're collectin'? Are youz, gonna pay her duez?"

Lawrence would tilt his head in a non-affirming yet somehow acquiescing manner, like the man had a point but he should shut up. "She can't exactly pay for your protection if her customers can't get inside, right? Antiques are a novelty, and you're threatening her stock. Unreplenishable stock. No stock for her, no business for her, no money for you."

"Uh-huh. And you think we givez a shit... why? Surround 'im."

The suited salaryman was suddenly surrounded by his gaggle of goons. "Youz got money in that briefcase, suit man? Maybe I'll let youz through without a thrashin' if you pay up, huh?"

"What's the tithe?"

"Three-hundred-thousand," the thug would say.

"Hm... Deal."

"Deal? Heh... Okay, okay, mister moneybags. Juzt for that enthusiasm, I'm doubling it. Six-hundred thousand."

"Deal."

"D-deal!? How much youz carryin' in that case?"

"That's a good question, but I have a better one. Can you count that high?"

"Wha- Did youz just...?"

Lawrence might have let a stray thought slip, or maybe that was a precision strike to his ego. Maybe 'suit man' wanted to fight, to beat down a few thugs and go about his day? Regardless, his expression remained still as stone.

"Check out the gumption on this guy, fellaz... damn...." the head thug would comment not sounding angry so much as impressed, "...he really got me. Fine alright, youz know what? I need a drink after that one. Youz got an hour and half to take care of business in there, then I'll be back to cave in some skulls or collect Morgan's protection dues. Be done, or be done, capiche?"

Lawrence nodded and the goons that surrounded him would part and leave the scene. One was heard casually saying, "Hehe, damn he really got youz, Bars. Youz ever gonna recover?" Following by a cartoonish hammering noise and a similarly cartoonish "Yeowch!"

Once their voices were drowned by the wind, he would pull out a piece of paper: It was a fortune slip with a bit of sheet music on it. Lawrence had many codes to deal with in his time, but this one was particularly obtuse until this very moment.

*Knock, knock-knock-knock, knock-knock, KNOCK KNOCK*

It was a drumming rhythm, a secret knock.

After a moment, the door cracked open, as though it was always unlocked and had no spring mechanisms to swing it back closed... That obviously wasn't the case, since Bars didn't rattle it open earlier, but he had to admit it was a neat effect.

Time to get down to business.

[cowboyjotaro]

Impossible though it was for the denizens of Psolitolpitoctown to know that the Ring Renegade’s specialty was all-out, chaotic brawls - where the difference between victory and defeat was the tenth of a second reaction before receiving a wildly thrown punch - R.R still felt they were foolish to engage him. Tables broke, glasses shattered, and teeth were knocked from skulls. There was a pause, and then the Ring Renegade cracked his jaw, shoulder, and back all at once, letting out a slight groan.

By now, the bartender, living it all with a shocked expression on his face, shook off inaction from his wide frame, and immediately reached below his partially smashed-in wooden counter.

“Enough! And I mean it, enough! This has spiraled and spiraled out of my control, and I refuse to let it go on any longer! I’ve got an old friend I’d love you to meet,” he shouted, pointing the barrel of a large flintlock rifle in the Ring Renegade’s direction. The half-fishman took one, two, three deep breaths in, then charged at the bartender, keeping his frame low, just out of eyeshot. His eardrums rattled as the flintlock detonated, and felt sharp air pass his left shoulder, the bullet missing him.

R.R grabbed the flintlock out of the bartender’s grip, and then swung it like a bat, but right before striking him in the head, he stopped, so the rifle cast a shadow over the bartender’s understandably scared face.

Now. It was the time. To make a proposal that they couldn’t refuse. Lawrence’s lessons hadn’t simply gone in one ear and out the other, lacking as R.R might have been in traditional intellect. He looked at one of the unharmed Psolitolpitoctown natives, pointed at him, and began to speak. “YOU!”

“Go and grab the mayor. Do it now.”

[Burgundy]

Entering the fairly small shop in the Upper Level, Lawrence would politely close the door behind himself before letting out a practiced, almost friendly-sounding, "Chequebook Services! Are you in, Morgan?" There was some shuffling from upstairs, and then some crashing, and then some thumping, before a reply was heard: "One moment!"

A small symphony of what the suited sailor could only presume was somebody managing to successfully trip over everything later, and there was finally a sound from the stairwell which resembled footsteps. Lawrence straightened his tie in anticipation, glancing over the storefront stock which was highly disorganized, before somebody emerged from around the bend.

A mousey young woman with red framed coke bottle glasses and enough warm clothing on to make Lawrence sweat just looking at her would reveal herself, "You're here about the IOU's right?"

"Indeed! I trust you didn't lose them amidst the clutter in the time I took to arrive?" Lawrence would say, accidentally tucking a bit of distaste for her lack of organization in this shop.

"Clutter? What clutter?" Morgan would reply with a questioning lilt in her voice, clearly unaware of her poor habits, "You're right, though, I didn't lose them."

"That's great! What price were you looking to get for them?" he would ask, being prepared for the price to be fairly killer.

Morgan would scratch her head a bit, "Well, you see, I was gonna say like... 1.2 million per IOU, but like... these thugs muscled their way into town over the last month or so, and started doing shakedowns on the weekly. I've been telling them the IOUs are worth 1 million beli to pay them off. So I didn't lose them, I had to spend them."

"I see. That's quite unfortunate. And judging by how you didn't just clear out the rabble outside, you must be out of such convenient slips. How unfortunate. Well unless you've got something else that the World Government would rather my clientele not be in possession of, I suppose I should just consider this little business meeting a wasted trip."

"Well, actually I do still have two left. I'm still willing to go 1.2mil for them, but I'll even do you one better. This new gang's shaking down the Upper Level businesses like nobody's ever done, and not just us, but the whole of Taumatawhakatangi. They're called the Camellama Family or something of the sort. I'm willing to pass these to you for free, if you can do something about those thugs?"

"That's a generous offer, Morgan, but I'm a businessman, not a bounty hunter. Those goons seemed no worse than my usual clientele, I'm sure the economy will balance itself out in time with consideration for their protection scheme."

Lawrence considered in that moment the art of Racketeering, which he may have taught to the Ring Renegade earlier during the maiden voyage of the Money Penny. That was the exact sort of scheme which was going on recently, and he just unleashed a half-fishman mercenary with ideas for his business model on this island with a recent plague of racketeering. Perhaps a bit of unfortunate timing, but luck was also an important part of business.

Morgan gave a pensive expression, clearly not looking forward to having to account for such steep business expenses. "Well... ok. Let me just get the slips and I'll... Whoops!" She tripped over the literal first thing she could have stepped over, and went careening down one of the makeshift aisles of her shop. Thankfully nothing broke, but it was still kind of embarrassing to watch.

"Are you... alright?" the salaryman would inquire with mild hesitation.

"Perfectly fine, thank you," said Morgan with a bit of irritation on her voice, before she began rummaging through a bunch of junk.

The door would open behind Lawrence and he would turn to see a freshly familiar face. "I'z actually changed my mind. I'z gonna thrash youz up good, and get paid 'afore the honcho throwz a hissy fit."

Before him stood Bars, now lacking his goon posse, but appearing quite agitated. Lawrence wondered what happened to cause such an inconvenient change of tack. "Not even half an hour out of the arranged timeframe you'd given me..." he'd complain.

The thug would reach out quickly and grapple the suited man by his shirt. "I thought about what youz said, and figured youz must be right! And iff'n I'z so bad at math, youz can't reasonably a'spect me to keep track of time accurately, yeah?"

Lawrence's eyes shifted in a few directions as he tried to parse this goon's mental gymnastics, and before he knew it, a fist was ploughing right into his cheek and he went flying across the shop, smashing numerous things between his starting position and the wall. Dust and debris filled the air for a few seconds, as Lawrence would pick himself up out of the clutter that cushioned his impact.

Dusting himself off to no avail, he would get a deadly serious look on his face, as the dust settled. "I see, you might be an idiot, but you're pretty strong. I'll have to deal with you if I want to do business here at all, then." The suited sailor began loosening his tie, as he tossed his briefcase towards Morgan, "That should cover the losses I'm about to cause, as well as the IOUs."

It was a risky gamble, tossing all the spending money he brought this far inland, but money solved problems, and there was about to be a lot of problems, he felt. Morgan would rush past with weirdly high coordination, and snatch the money case before scrambling up stairs, managing to disturb her stock no further by what Lawrence could only believe was a miracle.

"Youz gonna regret fuckin wit the Camalavalon Gang'z shakedowns, suit-for-brainz!"

"I'm thinking more and more about a certain proposition I've received recently, Bars."

[cowboyjotaro]

The mayor of Psolitolpitoctown was still sleeping, as he often was when the sun was out, when his door was almost knocked over with the force of what felt like a million different knocks. “Yes, yes,” he muttered, hurrying over, opening it to see a shocked face. His eyebrows rose and he grasped as he was apprised of the situation.

Hustle was not something the owl-like mayor was accustomed to. Instead, he fervently waddled his way over to the tavern, where upon seeing the devastation R.R had caused, the round, wire-rimmed specs almost fell off his longer-than-usual nose.

“Is this the mayor? Rather small fellow,” the Ring Renegade remarked, still holding the flintlock rifle the wrong way around. “I have a, uh, business proposition for you,” he continued, uttering the words as though they were newly spoken. Which, of course, they were. Several people groaned at the half-fishman’s efforts, already predicting the offer he was due to make.

“You know, all of this chaos, damage, fallen warriors, doesn’t have to happen again. There are people, like me, who would make sure of that. What I’m saying is…pay me and I’ll protect you.” There it was. The Mayor felt his cheeks flush as he began to vent his anger. Any more heat in his face and steam might have started coming out of his ears.

“This is absolutely unacceptable. I’ll not take your offer, sir. How dare you come in here and wreck the place in this fashion. Fallen warriors? These are good, ordinary people who you’ve made it your mission to deliver a beatdown to!”

“Yeah, what’s one more?” R.R asked. The Mayor folded immediately.

“It’s just, you know, there are ‘other people’ who are also in the business of offering their protection,” the Mayor sheepishly replied. The Ring Renegade paused, not quite knowing what to do. Lawrence hadn’t gotten around to explaining the different types of competition, or how to seize already established market share. No matter.

“Other people? I’ll protect you from other people. I could also get angry and smash your face in, too.” Distinctly lacking in subtlety, R.R’s response nonetheless made plain their situation. Internally, the Mayor was reflecting. It was just one man, but what harm would it do to have it play out? The gang who was already engaged in racketeering their poor town would simply beat him up and take his money themselves. But, if somehow this one outsider did defeat them, would anything change except who the denizens of Psolitolpitoctown paid their money to?

“H-how much?” the Mayor asked.

[Burgundy]

A brief flash of combat broke out between Lawrence and Bars, and the force of their exchange was enough to clear a bit of floorspace for them to play with. Neither was able to land a clean hit, even as the suited sailor undid his tie for a surprise attack, it seemed as though the illiterate thug was at least somewhat familiar with combat couture, as he avoider the incredibly starchy accessory like the blade it was. Instead, he opted only to intercept Lawrence's unimpressive punches and kicks, which were still fairly strong, but simply lacking the martial practice and general follow-through of his Tie Fighting. Meanwhile the sailing salaryman was used to dealing with scrappy back-alley thugs, and this Bars guy was only marginally more skilled than a typical drunk and disorderly.

"You'z got a three piece suit, but you fight like you'z been wearin' a suit of armor mosta your life. Where'd ya train?" Bars asked with some genuine curiosity, his fists still up in a pose loosely resembling a guarded stance.

"About twenty or so years training in corporate hell. I'm nothing special, any salaryman aught to know a little self defense," Lawrence replied, dismissing the compliment. "What about yourself?" he'd pry out of practiced politeness, as the two caught their breath.

Not for long though, as Bars took a few steps in, "Ah, a coupla nights a week at the boxing gym back home did it for me!" A quick barrage of rapidfire punches were launched at Lawrence. The suited sailor made a slight effort to dodge and weave between the attacks, but he wasn't exactly the picture of agility at that moment, so he took another couple of licks to the face, shoulder, and gut before stumbling back a few steps. A little blood dripped from his nose as a bruise was now starting to form on his cheek from the sucker punch earlier.

"I see. You've certainly got moves to show for your training, I'll give you that..." Lawrence would admit, wiping the blood from his nostril with his thumb and looking at it with an expression that mocked amusement. "I'm not sure I'll be able to ignore your little racketeering project with your skills like this. I won't be able to rest peacefully while I wait for work to come in at this rate..."

The suited sailor would sigh, before shifting his feet into a new stance. "I honestly hate flashy displays of power, personally. A slice or two with my Starch King usually seals the deal, but since you've got good instincts, I'll have to actually put in a little work..."

He brought his fingers and thumbs together to form a square shape, with a strange starry cube forming between them, "Cubicle." Lawrence spread his hands apart, scattering the starry gas to fill the room entirely, turning the messy antique shop into a beautiful technicolor starscape. Lawrence would then brandish he tie over his head, as the gas seemed to become thicker and more compact there...

"H-h-h–..."

"I haven't tried this move out in live combat before... I'll consider you a product tester... C—"

"Haaaahhhhchooooo!" Bars would sneeze loud enough to cut the salaryman off. It didn't stop with just one though, "Aaaaaahchooo! Achooo! Aaaaaaahchooo!" Apparently he had a pretty fierce dust allergy, and Lawrence's room full of stardust had sent him into a sneezing fit.

"Achoo! What kind of... Hahchoo! ...bullshit power is this? Hngchooo! I'z can't stop sneez– Gahchoo!"

"How unfortunate for you. You appear to have some sort of dust allergy."

"Hahhhchoo! I don't carez what it iz, just.... Ahchoo! Make it stop!"

"Alright. I'll make it stop. On two conditions. First, we stop this meaningless combat. Second, I need to discuss something with that 'honcho' you mentioned. You'll stop harrassing Ms. Morgan and take me to your boss, whoever's calling the shots."

"Achoo! Fuck! Fine, man, just turnz it off!"

Lawrence would clasp his hands together and the dust would all condense back into a cube before fizzling out. He noted that he didn't feel as much tension in his shoulders as he usually did after using that ability of his, and wondered if he may have incidentally been improving somehow.

"Normally I'd draft up a 10 page ironclad contract before making such a deal, but out of respect for your condition, I decided it would be best to accept your word for it. Just know that I can conjure that up again in an instant if you try to pull a fast one on me."

Bars would be catching his breath as Lawrence menaced him with his salaryman speak, all he could do for that moment was nod briefly: "Right... I'z getz it."

"Now then. Please be so kind as to take me to your manager. We have much to discuss, I think." The suited sailor would open the front door and gesture outside. Bars would begrudgingly exit the establishment. "Ms. Morgan! I'll be back in a while for those IOUs. Please clean this place up and have the product ready for my return!"