Chapter 1:
Son of a Rat-Catcher
In a large Dickensian office, a company of clerks sat around at roll-top desks, rows and columns of them like the pages inside the ledgers they wrote in. They calculated various figures and formulae with large registers and other devices, keys clicking and clacking inside the machinery with the totals popping up behind a glass screen.
Of course, they could have figured out all of the numbers themselves, but it was faster to rely upon the mechanics of these machines. Any slip-up, of course, was blamed upon the clerk and not the machine, and so they had to be precise and careful.
They wrote reports and stamped documents, sending off various paperwork through messengers and office-boys for processing and recording. There was talk of installing some contraption of pneumatic tubes for faster delivery of this paperwork to other departments of the company, but it was decided that such a system was more bother than it was worth.
Just outside the office in the hallway, a short, hapless city kid posing as an urbane man in his late twenties, Beck, returned from his break. He brushed the crumbs off of his vest and waistcoat, adjusted his tie and the kerchief in his pocket, and smoothed down his slick black hair that he oiled in the morning.
He wiped his glasses again, mentally going over a problem he had been dealing with before he left, and entered the office. He should have noticed that the office seemed unusually quiet and productive even by the strict standards imposed upon them by their bosses. That should have alerted him something was wrong, but he was still distracted and preoccupied.
It was important to the firm that his work should continue unabated, never mind the small interruptions and breaks that were necessary for a simple human being like him. He wasn’t a bleeding calculator.
Meticulous and studious described most of the clerks at the Lavonya banking and insurance firm for good reason. The firm’s reputation depended on their work and the clerks wished to appear as assiduous as possible for better promotion and compensation.
Smug might have also been the word that Beck would have used for some of them. But he attempted to keep his opinions to himself and hold his head down to his work, even as difficult as that sometimes was.
Beck walked down an aisle between desks, ready to get back to his job. Most of the clerks didn’t look up at him, preoccupied. However, Greg, a tall, snobby clerk smirked as Beck sat down at his own desk, which was unoccupied with its roll-top closed.
Beck unrolled the top, and quickly closed the top again. He glared at the others sitting around him, wondering who was the culprit. Most of them appeared to be hard at work as if they didn’t know or notice what was going on. However, several of them started squeaking like rats or mice. Beck fumed to himself.
Beck rolled open the top again and stared down at a dead rat lying on top of his desktop and paperwork. Greg looked up from his work and seemed to notice the rat.
“Oh, look, a rat. Always a problem, aren't they?” Greg said.
Beck got up from his desk, pretending to ignore Greg for now, and headed toward the supply closet where the night cleaners stored their equipment. However, he had to pass by Greg’s desk on the way.
“Rats get you everywhere.” Greg remarked as if to thin air while Beck passed by him.
Beck paused and shook his head, not looking back at Greg. “You all are nothing more than children at heart. The school bullies who refuse to grow up.” Beck said.
Beck continued on as Greg glared at him. “How dare you insult us like that.”
Beck opened up the supply closet door, fetching a pail, gloves, and a bag. “This is something that should have been left behind at the schoolyard ages ago.” He said, slamming the closet door shut before heading back to his desk.
Beck slipped the gloves on, unrolled the desktop cover again, and snatched up the rat, disposing of it into the
Son of a Rat-Catcher
In a large Dickensian office, a company of clerks sat around at roll-top desks, rows and columns of them like the pages inside the ledgers they wrote in. They calculated various figures and formulae with large registers and other devices, keys clicking and clacking inside the machinery with the totals popping up behind a glass screen.
Of course, they could have figured out all of the numbers themselves, but it was faster to rely upon the mechanics of these machines. Any slip-up, of course, was blamed upon the clerk and not the machine, and so they had to be precise and careful.
They wrote reports and stamped documents, sending off various paperwork through messengers and office-boys for processing and recording. There was talk of installing some contraption of pneumatic tubes for faster delivery of this paperwork to other departments of the company, but it was decided that such a system was more bother than it was worth.
Just outside the office in the hallway, a short, hapless city kid posing as an urbane man in his late twenties, Beck, returned from his break. He brushed the crumbs off of his vest and waistcoat, adjusted his tie and the kerchief in his pocket, and smoothed down his slick black hair that he oiled in the morning.
He wiped his glasses again, mentally going over a problem he had been dealing with before he left, and entered the office. He should have noticed that the office seemed unusually quiet and productive even by the strict standards imposed upon them by their bosses. That should have alerted him something was wrong, but he was still distracted and preoccupied.
It was important to the firm that his work should continue unabated, never mind the small interruptions and breaks that were necessary for a simple human being like him. He wasn’t a bleeding calculator.
Meticulous and studious described most of the clerks at the Lavonya banking and insurance firm for good reason. The firm’s reputation depended on their work and the clerks wished to appear as assiduous as possible for better promotion and compensation.
Smug might have also been the word that Beck would have used for some of them. But he attempted to keep his opinions to himself and hold his head down to his work, even as difficult as that sometimes was.
Beck walked down an aisle between desks, ready to get back to his job. Most of the clerks didn’t look up at him, preoccupied. However, Greg, a tall, snobby clerk smirked as Beck sat down at his own desk, which was unoccupied with its roll-top closed.
Beck unrolled the top, and quickly closed the top again. He glared at the others sitting around him, wondering who was the culprit. Most of them appeared to be hard at work as if they didn’t know or notice what was going on. However, several of them started squeaking like rats or mice. Beck fumed to himself.
Beck rolled open the top again and stared down at a dead rat lying on top of his desktop and paperwork. Greg looked up from his work and seemed to notice the rat.
“Oh, look, a rat. Always a problem, aren't they?” Greg said.
Beck got up from his desk, pretending to ignore Greg for now, and headed toward the supply closet where the night cleaners stored their equipment. However, he had to pass by Greg’s desk on the way.
“Rats get you everywhere.” Greg remarked as if to thin air while Beck passed by him.
Beck paused and shook his head, not looking back at Greg. “You all are nothing more than children at heart. The school bullies who refuse to grow up.” Beck said.
Beck continued on as Greg glared at him. “How dare you insult us like that.”
Beck opened up the supply closet door, fetching a pail, gloves, and a bag. “This is something that should have been left behind at the schoolyard ages ago.” He said, slamming the closet door shut before heading back to his desk.
Beck slipped the gloves on, unrolled the desktop cover again, and snatched up the rat, disposing of it into the
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