A/N: Wrote this while playing that kickass Not Doing European History Homework game. I'm already on level two.

So let me explain: my special friend Jack was over and pissing me off, then we started talking about how he's always broke. And then, an idea struck me. An idea most foul. A smile formed on both of our faces as we simultaneously shrieked, "To the computer!" where we agreed to document exaggerated accounts of his... financially challengedness. We were arguing over who to base him as: he said Ged, I said Nash, and once again Jack was outvoted, 0 to 1.

Some things have been changed for my own convenience. Cry me a river.

Nash is kind of out of character (he's such a bitch to write in first person), so don't expect any insight to what really goes on in his mind. He's sort of a Jack-Nash hybrid, which, at times, may cause seizures in small children and the elderly.

~~~

This is sort of a temporary replacement until I find out what the fuck I'm going to do with what's left of Life is Fragile and Absurd. God, I hate computers. The world would be better off without them.

Did I say them? I meant you.

~~~

Somehow this got deleted. I don't know how... but whatever. It's here now. And that's what really counts.

~~~

"D'you have the time, sir?"

I look up--or maybe squint is more the word-- at a man with a salt and pepper beard. He's balding, and is trying and failing to hide that fact with a comb-over. I would've considered saying, "Nope, don't have the time. Do you have hair? Who's asking the questions now?"--but alas. I am a man of morals.

When it's convenient.

I glance at my sleeve quickly, knowing that's where my watch is. Or where it's supposed to be. In one of my more inelegant moments, I busted the damned thing and had to take it to the shop. The policy at the store is to pay after the watch is repaired, so when I went to pick it up, I was figuring it would be 200 potch at most. But then the repairman took out my innocent little watch and demanded I pay... well, what he was demanding was high-way robbery that no one on my salary can afford, so until I can go back and pay for it, he's holding my watch captive. It's completely unjust.

I pretend to be totally pissed and shrug, taking a gulp of my G&T to emphasize my point.

The man frowns for a second, then slowly asks again, "Do-you-have-the-time-sir?" Then, just to make me even more annoyed, he points at his wrist.

Don't ask me why, but that's always bemused me. When people point at their wrists when they ask for the time, I mean. I know where my watch is, buddy. Where exactly is yours? Do I point at my crotch when I ask where the bathroom is? I give him another completely wasted stare, and he swivels his barstool around to talk to another man. I can hear him saying, "Just asked... Nah, this man's drunk off his arse..."

Seriously, these Zexens can be so common.

For the record, I'm not a drunk. I don't have a use for alcohol at my job (well, to be perfectly truthful, I never thought of it before). But my current situation is just lounging in a castle, which may seem simple enough, but the people at Budehuc don't come with laughing gas. I figure two gin and tonics will have to do.

The waitress comes over with my bill, and thanks to my trusty alcohol-induced lack of common sense, it takes me a moment to take the slip from her. She's not exactly what one would think of as beautiful, but there's something about her that's incredibly attractive. Her mouth is thin, and her dark blond hair has thick, eyebrow-grazing bangs, her nose has a bump in it, but her eyes are honey-colored and spirited, so I find myself staring at them and forgetting the rest.

She leans over to whisper. "Mr. Clovis, the bill."

I look in the palm of my hand. "Oh right. The bill."

Me and her are on a last-name basis. Actually, I have no idea what her name is, but I'll just call her Mindy. She looks like a Mindy for some reason.

Oh God. These G&T's are really strong.

I give the bill a nonchalant once over, but inwardly I'm thinking, 20 potch? These weren't even that good. I have no tolerance whatsoever to alcohol, and it still took me two gin and tonics to get even mildly pissed. It's obviously watered down and over-priced, but I can't complain. My method of operation when it comes to this bar is: get in, get out, as long as you get drunk.

I reach into my pocket for my wallet, and slip her a quite generous tip of 5 potch, watching her eyes widen and face break into a smile. As I watch her walk off to a different table, I finger around in my wallet for some more potch to pay my bill, only to feel... nothing.

Nothing?

Nothing. Oh God. This can't be happening. I can not be flat-broke.

Normally I don't worry about money. My job pays decently, but the courier pigeon (who I call Dominguez Junior for lack of a better name) is late with my pay. In fact, he's almost three weeks late, and I've been sweating this for a while. I can usually make my money stretch for a long time, but living at Budehuc comes at a crippling price. Between sleeping inside a nice villa (I still can not believe they make me pay for my room. They don't make Chris pay, and she's a trillionaire or something) and buying new things (my stuff keeps disappearing from my room, which is just peachy-- I'm paying an arm and a leg for living at this place and people can still easily break into my room), I had figured I had about five minutes until I'm completely broke.

But not even so. I'm already flat-broke.

I'm still in shock. Last week, I made a vow to myself: I was going to make my last 300 potch last until Dominguez comes. Where could it have all gone to?

I slip out a little black notebook, where I keep track of all my expenses. I've been doing it for years now, since it theoretically is supposed to help you cut back on spending. Or so they say. I run my eyes over the list:

1) Pen--10 potch

That's actually quite a lot. But everyone needs pens.

2) Bottle of gin--25 potch

Everybody needs booze.

3) Iron flask--50 potch

Huh? Oh yeah. Stupid flask.

4) Roses--50 potch

Well, it was Chris's birthday, and what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't give her a rose--or twelve?

5) Rent--150 potch

See what I mean? How do they expect the poor to live decently in this place?

6) Coffee expenses--10 potch

Essential.

So the total comes to--

Wait. That's 295 potch. I should have some left over.

And it hits me--if I didn't spend it, someone else did. Yes, of course. Somebody stole my wallet and then... put it back! But who would do such a thing? And what clever mastermind would steal only 5 potch? Whoever it is, it must be someone I know.

I can't believe it. I've never felt so betrayed in my life. I knew I couldn't trust any of these thugs.

Mindy is coming back over to collect my bill and I'm just about ready to tell her my sob-story (of course I'll exaggerate the 5 potch to 200--I'm a brilliant liar when I'm enthused) when my eyes fall on her hand. Carrying my last 5 potch.

Goddamn it.

Quick Nash, think. Think. It isn't that hard--just fall to her feet, kiss her hand and beg for a rain check. Then, smile sweetly...

"The bill, sir."

She'll understand. In fact, she'll probably just laugh and say, 'Don't be silly! It's on us, gratis!'

"Sir?"

If I need to, I'll just run. I'm a fast runner, aren't I? Just because I'm turning thirty-five for the third time doesn't mean I'm old or anything--

"Are you all right?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

No, I'm not fine! I'm tipsy and broke and old! Oh God, this is depressing. Quick, think about something else.

"Well, if you wouldn't mind, may I have your bill?"

I smile, handing her the slip. Maybe she won't notice that it isn't...

"Er... It's not paid."

Oh right. She's sober, I'm drunk. Damn it.

"Actually." I lean against the bar table, secretly stalling for time. "I think I'll have another gin and tonic, if you wouldn't mind." Quick, say something playfully nice... Oh, forget it. Too much effort.

As she walks off again, I think frantically for an idea.

Run away.

Tempting, but I live here. They'll hunt me down and throw my impoverished ass in jail.

Steal the money.

No can do. I have morals (damn it).

Explain the situation to Mindy.

But then she'll think I'm some poor, senile liar... and she'll be absolutely right.

Get another job.

What job can I get in the next five minutes?

Sell my body for quick cash.

Yes, this is by far the smartest option. But I'd rather not... I wouldn't want to get anything nasty.

Borrow the money.

But from who?...

I look around madly. There's Ged and his mercenaries. Lord knows merces are poorer than spies. It's a fact of life.

There's Duke and his mercenaries, but I suppose the same rule applies to all of them.

My eyes shift over to Chris no less, sitting by the window, her slender fingers curved around a cup of tea while she reads a book.

Oh, this is just too perfect. Chris Lightfellow, the disgustingly rich heiress of whatever amount of money it is she has, is sitting right in front of me.

I repeat, this is too perfect. Chris is a polite girl. She'll lend out some cash to the less fortunate, like me.

I walk up behind her, peering over her head to see what she's reading. I don't really care, honestly, but it's something I had to check out, just in case she was reading something useful like the Kama Sutra.

I must recommend that to her later. That's one thing I love about Chris--she's so innocent in her trusting way that she probably would check it out of the library. Then she'd kill me.

"Hey there, Chris. How are you on this fine morning?"

She barely glances back at me (she's obviously playing hard-to-get) as she turns the page with a perfectly-shaped nail. "Absolutely dreadful. And I'm assuming you only came over here to make it worse."

"I've had a nice morning too, Merry Sunshine. Thanks for asking." I pull out a chair, smiling smugly at her as she puts the book down.

"May I help you?"

"You already are."

"I told you, Nash, I am not having a pleasant morning."

"You just looked miserable over here, all by your lonesome." It's true, she does look a little lost and in need of a laugh. I drum my fingers against the table, knowing perfectly well it annoys the hell out of her, but at least it'll lighten the mood.

"What is it you want?"

"Can't one friend simply enjoy the company of another?"

She opens her mouth to speak, but instead finds herself looking at my fingers as they slowly tap against the redwood table. "Well... It's..."

"Is something on your mind?" She continues to stare as I slow the drumming, dropping each finger down one by one before picking the pace up again.

"No... but..." Her eyes flutter from my hand to my eyes quickly, back and forth, glaring at them as the beating grows louder. "Would you mind stopping?"

I'm not really concentrating on what's she's saying--I'm far too drunk to give half a damn, when I hear her asking me to stop in an angry tone. But by then, it's too late; she's already batted her fist on my hand.

I draw it back, clutching it in my spare hand as she glares at me. I slowly look up at her as I hear my fingers cracking from being bent so far back. "God! That hurt!" My eyes wander down to her armor, where I can slightly see part of my reflection; my eyes are red and my hair... well, I resemble a well-dressed homeless person.

I continue staring in bemusement at my reflection in her breastplate when I suddenly see her leap up. It's all a blur, really, and I don't have time to ask her what she's doing until I feel her leather-gloved hand thrust itself against my cheek.

I can practically feel her hand imprinting itself on my face. And God, it hurts. It hurts.

I jump up, too, impressed I can keep my balance in my current state. "God, what's your damage!?" As the pain sinks in deeper into my jaw, I rub my face, my eyes blurred with tears.

Oh marvelous. Not only is my voice high and irritating, I look like I'm about to cry. Note to self: no more alcohol.

Her cheeks are flaming red, like I'd just said something totally... well, badly chosen. It's happened before, and chances are it'll happen again. But I didn't say anything suggestive yet, did I? One can't simply charge into flirting--you have to build up to it.

"You disrespect me in every sense of the word!" she retorts, one hand over her heart.

I'm about to remind her that we've barely said two words when I remember looking at my reflection. In her breastplate. She thought I was staring at...

Good job, Nash. No, really. Nobody stands a chance against your idiocies.

"I can explain," I say with the utmost calmness. I'm a terrific liar. I really am.

"Then I suggest you do so!"

" I was--" I stop myself as we both realize the whole bar has gone silent. Everyone--the mercenaries, the waitresses, and the rest of the colorful cast--all of them. Staring at us. "Maybe we could have this conversation later."

God, her eyes are narrowed in on me furiously. I've never been scared of Chris before, but now I'm sure I have ten seconds left to live. I wonder who'll come to my funeral? Probably my wife and some of my co-workers, just to make sure I was dead.

She blinks, the red fading away and her eyes half-closed and her hands unclench, but her brows are still furrowed determinedly.

What's this? I'm alive?

Thank you God. I promise, I'll donate to charities and be nicer to my wife.

...Well, I guess there's no use in lying to God, so I'll just stop short at a 'thank you'.

"I am leaving," she states evenly, each word dripping with ice.

No, don't leave! You need to lend me money! Pause! Rewind! Give me the money first and then slap me!

Oh Christ. Oh Christ. Why can't anyone cut me a break?

Before she takes even three steps, she turns on her heel and glares at me again.

"I thought you were leaving," I say. Wait. No, that came out wrong. I was supposed to beg for forgiveness.

This drinking business is really killing me.

"No! This is my table! You leave!"

"Make me!" This is terrible. What the hell am I saying?

And right on time, as if things couldn't get any better, Borus Redrum barges into the tavern in a flurry of over-styled blond hair and stupidity, but mostly stupidity.

Yep, this is bad. This is bad. I'm not overreacting, am I? Borus is going to be all over me like a hobo on a ham sandwich when he finds out what happened. It'll be blown out of proportion, Chris will tell him to stop, and then I'll most likely say something brainless and that'll be the end of it.

It really was nice knowing you.

He's coming closer, and closer... and closer.

God, if you don't save me now, I'll convert. You may think I'm joking, but you don't realize how many religions there are out there. And they're all dying to sponsor a devoted worshipper like me.

He's standing right next to her, placing his wallet on the table as he flexes a fist. Ooh, I'm trembling. "Milady, is he bothering you?"

Ruffian? Stupid bastard. "Don't you have babies to eat?"

"Don't you have cradles to rob?"

Chris suddenly becomes aware that everyone's watching. "People are staring."

"Yes, dear. They've been staring for the last five minutes, ever since you clobbered me for--"

"For your wandering eyes!"

Borus pales, alarm swiping over his features. "W-wandering eyes?" His lips are even twitching. I must remind him what he looked when I get a chance later. "For your sake, she better mean that in the platonic sense!"

What the hell is platonic?

"Those word-a-day calendar's really do work wonders, huh Borus?"

"This is too much." Chris shook her head, still perfectly aware that the three of us have become a spectacle of sorts, and steps back.

Borus's expression suddenly becomes extremely sensitive, like he's been stabbed in the heart or something. "I was only trying to--"

"Oh, it's quite all right. I'm just in a frightful mood. If you'll excuse me." As she leaves, Borus predictably trails after her. I don't understand how he doesn't get the message. She doesn't--how would Chris say it?--'fancy' him. Not even remotely.

Alcohol is obviously going to play a key role in their marital well-being.

As they both walk out, everyone's exchanging glances while I'm standing there, half frozen and three-quarters drunk (see? I can't even get fractions right in my state). So there we all are, them staring at me, me smiling at them with as much pleasantness that I can muster up, and then they all break into applause.

It takes me a moment to realize they're clapping for me and my resistance to doing anything correctly, so why fight it? I bow, take my seat, and crack my knuckles. Yep, life is good.

Oh damn. I didn't get the money. I didn't get the money. Life is not good.

Okay, don't panic. Don't panic. There's a solution for everything. But what am I going to--

My eyes quickly meet Borus's wallet, still on the table where he left it. Of course. Borus is rich, isn't he? I'm sure he left it there intentionally. He wanted me to take it.

Then my lousy good conscience kicks in: But it's wrong to steal.

So?

Do you want to go to hell?

Well, no, it wasn't really on my list of things to do.

Then put it back.

But Borus is so rich and annoying. Besides, I'll only take what I need.

How much do you need?

Somewhere around--how is any of this your business?

Because I am part of you.

That's your excuse for everything. We haven't talked in years and all of a sudden you're making me feel guilty.

You're not exactly a cup of tea either, babe. You're full of yourself, you cheat on your wife, you never floss--

Shut up. I'm doing it.

Not if I can help it.

Look, I'm opening the wallet. Now I'm looking inside. NOW MY HAND'S GOING IN.

You're so immature.

Sticks and stones, Conscience.

Now I remember why I went on hiatus. Give Lucifer my regards.

See you in hell!

...From heaven.

I inhale and look inside, leafing through the money. There's only 50 potch in it. You'd think a millionaire would carry around more. This wallet literally could be anyone's. Hell, it could practically be mine.

Even so, 50 potch is 50 potch, and Mindy is finally coming over with my G&T and bill.

"Ready to pay?" she asks, clunking the drink down on the table. "The total's 30 potch."

I give her 30, taking the glass and smiling maliciously. And just then, I see a sign by the bar. In big, bold black letters imprinted on a white sign are the words: DAY-WORKERS NEEDED FOR GRACIOUS PAY.

My breath catches in my throat. This is great. I can get a part-time job tomorrow, and someone else entirely is paying for my drinks.

I raise my glass to no one in particular.

Cheers, Borus.