“The system was stacked against me, so why should I comply?”
“I made the mistake of challenging Carson’s institution, but I couldn't penetrate the corporate protections. The Citadel Bank was too well fortified.”
“I had to stay focused on single villains and get the monsters one by one.”
“As a banker, Carson may have been safe, but as a person, he was vulnerable like the rest of us. I needed to strike when he was weak. I could kill the monster when he was alone and in human form.”
“The monsters used our morality and sense of fair play against us. They expect the rest of us, the good people, to play by the rules. They needed our civil complicity in order to feed off us. What would happen if we started behaving unpredictably?”
“What if I operated just like them?”
“I could adopt their methods to use them against them. Then they would see just how dangerous a this little farm girl from the middle-west could be.”
“If it was class warfare they wanted, I would give it to them!”
The manager of Razzles was groggy Monday morning after a long weekend of work and play. He moved like a turtle. Occasionally he stopped to wait out the drum beating in his head. He wore a silky robe and slippers that only covered his toes. It was 10 AM, but to him it felt like the crack of dawn. He couldn’t quite calculate the amount of sleep he had, or hadn’t had.
Through bloodshot eyes he made his way down from his office apartment to the main bar area. Most of the lights were off and it was quiet and dark in the nightclub. Through the kitchen doors he could hear the cleaning crew preparing for a new week.
He poured himself a glass of vodka, then added some pepper and orange juice. He shuffled to a barstool and planted himself. As he sipped his liquid breakfast, the front door opened, blasting the room with blinding white sunlight. He crumbled and yelled, "Shut that God damn door."
A deep voice grumbled, but complied.
Through amorphous blobs in his eyes he saw a stout, man in a gray cap and gun belt enter. It was the armored car driver. He arrived to pick up the weekend cash like he had every Monday 52 times year. The manager didn't realize it was time for the pickup already. He squinted at the clock and said, "You're early."
The driver grumbled, "Sorry."
The manager slid off his seat and walked to the office door. He sorted through his key ring and unlocked the heavy fire safe. There were four bags stuffed with money waiting to be escorted to the Citadel Bank. He motioned the driver over to collect them. The driver handed him a clipboard with a familiar deposit form on it. He squinted hard and slowly filled in dollar figures and signed it. Once finished, the driver gave him a carbon copy as a receipt, then tucked the clipboard under his arm and hefted the four heavy loot bags.
“I never noticed that I was taller than you, before.” The manager commented before sagging back in front of his breakfast. The miniature mountain shrugged his shoulders, grunted apathetically and exited Razzles.
There was no truck waiting for him outside. Instead he carried the money to a mysterious black car that was idling. He threw the bags in the back seat and climbed in.
The short, stout, male, armored car driver was actually Betty in disguise. She just robbed Razzles and laughed triumphantly as she sped away.
When the real armored car driver showed up at the scheduled time, both sides realized there had been a theft. Both sides suspected the other of foul play. The story didn't make any sense as they tried to sort out the details of the crime. This incident would cause an irreconcilable rift between Razzles, the Citadel Bank, and Carson. As a result Razzles pulled all their accounts.
Razzles was by far their biggest local client. The lost revenue was a significant blow to the financial strategy of the institution. No one was happy about it. These rich bastards all wanted each other’s money. None were sure what happened but all parties were suspicious. A conflict about money was the surest way to pit the Silver Spoons against one another. It didn’t matter if it was a million dollar deal, or getting stuck with a dinner check. Friendships splintered as sides were drawn.
Betty felt no remorse for her crime. Razzles had taken advantage of her for years, and after what they did to her she deserved it. The crime felt like a victory over the ruling class of the Citadel. They stole from everyone else. How did they like being on the receiving end of their scams?
She figured out a way to beat them. It was the only way to survive in the Citadel. Besides, didn't Robin Hood rob from the rich to give to the poor? He was a good guy, right?
There was one group of people that Carson was beholden to. It was the Citadel Bank board of directors. Only a few people, like receptionists, or assistants, were even aware of their relation to Carson. To the bank board, Carson was just a big cash register. And when his drawer was low, he lost his autonomy. They scrutinized his work and decisions. It had happened a few times in the past, but this time was the worst. They tormented him to whip him back into shape.
It was late morning, and Carson sat in his office with his adding machine and ledgers. He ran through his monthly billings again. The month’s projections didn’t look good. Normally the bank board would let him get away with murder as long as he was making them money. But with the loss of Razzles as a client and the collapse of Schadenfreude, revenue was down and they weren't too happy with him.
At least they didn't know that Jewel, his former assistant, that he hand picked, was the spy who exposed Schadenfreude. He stayed mad at himself for that one. Killing her wasn’t as satisfying as he hoped it would be.
It would take awhile to get a Schadenfreude substitute up and running. He already had some ideas, but right now he needed to turn around some quick deals to get his numbers looking better.
There was a knock on his heavy wooden door. He mumbled to his adding machine, "Now what?"
Then he called out, "Come in."
His new receptionist reminded him of an appointment he was late for. It was something about a real estate deal being transferred from Mr. Quimby from downstairs.
"What was the name again?" Carson asked.
The receptionist said, "Ms. Elizabeth Rockefeller."
He remembered. "That’s right. How could I forget that name? Did you find out if she is of 'the' Rockefellers?”
She said, "She was from the East Coast, and it is a really big family. She certainly dresses like one."
Carson put his suit coat back on, and said, "That’s good enough for me. Let her in."
He smiled and posed.
Moments later, Betty entered the room disguised as a statuesque woman. She was smartly dressed in an expensive French suit and bejeweled. She had black hair slicked back into a large brimmed hat. She carried a designer clutch purse in one hand, and a floral suitcase in the other. Carson had her pegged as a second-generation suffragette.
She walked in like she owned the place, set down her things and stuck out her gloved hand.
He attempted to greet her like the sales pro that he was, but he bumped his knee on the corner of his heavy desk. He winced and it hurt like hell. But it didn't stop him from limping over and officially greeting her. "I'm Carson, the President of Citadel Bank, pleased to meet you, Ms. Rockefeller."
"Please, call me Betty." She replied in the accent of the East Coast Elite.
He offered her a place in a sitting area and sat across from her. He rubbed his knee profusely.