The victory feast curdled in Michael's stomach long before the cheap, throat-searing liquor could do its work. The forced merriment around him—the clinking of mismatched cups, the raucous laughter that felt a little too loud, a little too desperate—was a stark counterpoint to the cold dread coiling in his gut. The problem was a simple, brutal equation, and the numbers refused to add up. Back in his world, the clock was ticking down with metronomic finality. Brother Dong's first payment was a vulture circling ever closer, and the pathetic hoard of bottle caps and blackened cans he'd inherited felt like a cruel joke. He could hide here, in this dust-choked backwater, playing lord of the flies. But could he survive a month? Could he even survive a week of the gnawing boredom, the primitive stench, the constant, low-grade fear?
His one slim hope was the merchant caravan John had mentioned—the fabled Hock Caravan. They were the lifeline, the connection to a wider economy where his modern-world goods might be traded for the gold he desperately needed. But they were a fickle, wandering hope. They'd left Cinder Town barely three weeks prior, and their circuit, according to John, was a slow, two-month plod across the blighted landscape. By the time they returned, his credit back home would be a smoking crater.
There was another, more perilous option. Fifty kilometers to the east, John had said, lay the skeletal remains of Detroit. The Motor City. In the old world, it had been a powerhouse. In this one, it was a promised land of scrap and pre-Collapse relics. A place where, theoretically, one could find 'worthless' things like jewels just lying around. The thought was tantalizing. It was also suicidal. A primary industrial target would have been hit first and hardest. The radiation there wouldn't be the ambient, low-level background of Cinder Town; it would be a silent, killing fog. The Geiger counter's frantic clicking was a sound he never wanted to hear. No, he thought, taking another grim swallow of his drink. This world might be a shithole, but I'm not ready to die in a slightly more radioactive one.
His gloomy reverie was shattered by a sloshing tankard being thrust towards his face. John the Minotaur, now thoroughly soused on the vile 'Spine-Tap' beer, had hoisted himself unsteadily to his feet. His single eye was glazed with alcohol and a fervent, newfound loyalty. "A toast!" he bellowed, his voice slurring slightly. "To the Great Lord Harry Potter! Whose generosity is vaster than the blasted plains! Drink! Drink to our magnanimous liege!"
A ragged chorus of agreement went up. Lynda, Faye, the other guards and servers—their faces flushed with unaccustomed inebriation—raised their cups. The 'Spine-Tap' was a horror, brewed from the ubiquitous, rubbery cacti of the wasteland. It tasted like fermented regret with a sulfuric afterburn. Yet to his new subjects, it was ambrosia. Under Andrew, such libations had been a rare reward. Now, their new lord provided it freely. Their gratitude was as tangible as the sawdust on the floor.
Michael forced a smile, raised his own cup, and downed the contents, wincing as the liquid scraped a path down his esophagus. The combined assault of worry and bad booze was too much. He nudged Lynda aside, muttering an excuse, and stumbled towards the stairs leading to the upper floor. The sanctum sanctorum. The late Andrew's domain.
As he rose, Old Gimpy, ever the keen-eyed sycophant, scurried forward with a battered kerosene lantern. "For your convenience, my lord," he simpered, thrusting the light into Michael's hand. The gesture, small as it was, underscored his new status. Even a trip to the bathroom came with service.
The only one not caught up in the bacchanal was Zach. The Ogre sat in a corner, methodically working his way through a pile of dried, jerky-like lizard strips. Between chews, he grumbled audibly, his voice a low rumble that cut through the din. "…stringy… not enough fat… when will Master provide more of the glorious, soupy feast? This is merely sustenance…"
The third-floor bathroom was, by Cinder Town standards, a marvel of luxury. It had a door. It had a toilet—a cracked ceramic throne that had probably last seen a proper flush before the bombs fell. It was also, Michael discovered as he pushed open the door, profoundly, eye-wateringly foul. The stench was a physical presence, a blend of ancient waste, stale urine, and a cloying, floral-scented chemical that had long ago lost its battle. He pinched his nose, set the lantern down, and proceeded with the urgent business at hand.
Relief, when it came, was tempered by a sudden, panicky realization. He patted his pockets. Empty. In his distracted state, he'd forgotten to grab a handful of his precious toilet paper from his pack. A cold sweat broke out on his brow. Oh, come on.Was he really going to have to adopt local methods? The thought of using a handful of gritty dirt or a smooth stone was deeply unappealing.
Desperate, he lifted the lantern, its yellow flame casting swaying, grotesque shadows, and scanned the small, filthy room. His gaze swept over stained walls, a rusted pipe, and then landed on a small, white plastic storage bin tucked against the far wall. It was incongruously clean amidst the grime. And inside it… were papers. Stacks of them, their colors just visible in the dim light.
His first thought was one of profound relief tinged with disgust. Flyers. Advertisements.Of course. Andrew, as a man of status, wouldn't resort to the primitive methods of the wastes. He'd use the detritus of the old world for his ablutions. A grimly practical recycling. Michael's only concern was the texture. Please don't be glossy magazine paper,he prayed silently, imagining the unpleasant consequences.
He reached for the bin.
Three minutes later, a sound echoed through the tavern that had nothing to do with drunken revelry. It was a sharp, choked cry of pure, undiluted astonishment, followed by a bellow that shook dust from the rafters. "JOHN! OLD GIMP! GET YOUR ASSES UP HERE, NOW!"
Downstairs, the music screeched to a halt. John and Old Gimpy, their mugs frozen halfway to their lips, exchanged a single, wide-eyed look of alarm. Displeasing the new, unpredictably generous lord was not an option. They scrambled for the stairs, taking them two at a time, their hearts hammering.
They burst into the bathroom, expecting blood, betrayal, or some fresh calamity. What they found was their Lord Harry Potter Michael, trousers still around his ankles, sitting on the toilet, his face a mask of electrified intensity. In his hand, held delicately between thumb and forefinger, was not a weapon, but a single, crumpled piece of paper. He thrust it towards them, his hand trembling slightly.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice a tense whisper. "How much of this do we have?"
John squinted, his alcohol-fogged brain struggling to process the question and the bizarre scene. "That? The… the wiping papers? From the old world?"
"YES!" Michael's voice cracked with excitement. "This! Exactly this! How much?"
John, thoroughly confused but eager to please, scratched his horned head. "Let me think… Two years back, maybe? Andrew traded a bottle cap to a scavenger for a big book of them, and a few smaller bundles. He used the big book first. Been using these colored ones since. Two years… should be almost gone? Maybe check the waste bin?" He gestured vaguely towards a foul-smelling metal pail in the corner.
Michael's head snapped around. There, in the bin, nestled amongst other unspeakable refuse, were more of the colorful sheets. Two more bundles' worth, by the look of it. His treasure trove. His salvation. His heart soared, then plummeted just as quickly as he registered their… condition. They had been thoroughly, disgustingly used.
His mind raced, performing frantic calculations. A hundred bills per bundle? Maybe more? Even soiled, even if half were unsalvageable… The numbers danced before his eyes, transforming from impossible debt to tantalizing possibility. He looked from the pristine sheets in the bin to the fouled ones in the bucket, his expression settling into one of grim, unwavering resolve.
He fixed John with a stare of utmost seriousness. "John. I have a task of the highest importance. A task of trust. I believe only you are equal to it."
The Minotaur swelled with pride, his chest puffing out. The Great Lord Harry Potter, the Scourge of Andrew, was placing his faith in him. In this moment, he would have charged a fully-loaded Sherman tank. "Your word is my command, my lord!" he boomed, standing at a ragged attention.
"Good," Michael said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "First, fetch me some proper toilet paper from my pack downstairs. Then… you are to take every single one of these colored papers from that waste bin. You are to clean them. Meticulously. Gently. And then you are to dry them, with great care. Not one is to be lost. Not one is to be torn. Do you understand?"
The color drained from John's face. His heroic posture deflated. The glorious task… was washing shit-stained paper. He looked from the bin to his lord's earnest, expectant face, a silent plea in his eyes.
"But… my lord," he stammered, grasping for a reprieve. "The day's water ration… there are only the two buckets left. You… you set them aside for Lynda and Faye. For their… washing. Perhaps this sacred duty could wait until the morrow, when the well has replenished?"
Michael blinked. In the whirlwind of discovery, he'd forgotten his earlier, impulsive decree about hygiene. The image of Lynda and Faye, clean and fragrant, flickered briefly in his mind. It was extinguished almost instantly by the far more compelling vision of stacks of hundred-dollar bills, even slightly damp ones.
He waved a dismissive hand, his decision made. "Forget that. The washing can wait. Tell them… tell them their lord requires solitude tonight. He has weighty matters to contemplate." He looked back at the bin, then at the precious, pristine stack in the white container. A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face. Filthy, yes. But potentially the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
The problem of Brother Dong hadn't been solved. But for the first time, he could see a path, however stained and malodorous, that might just lead him out of the hole. It was a path paved not with gold, but with carefully laundered, pre-Collapse United States currency, recovered from a warlord's latrine.