Written by fugi88 ( patreon.com/Fugi88 ), commissions open

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Part 5 of indebted, continuing from time spent in the hospital imagining stuff

I reached the brothel at the mid-afternoon.

It was empty as it usually was, most of the workers having left to pay off their debt with real jobs too.

Strangely, Slim Joe had disappeared. I hadn't an idea why. I asked black-arms.

He explained that Slim Joe was “busy". Maybe the promotion had hit him.

It was way more lonely in the brothel, being only with Muscle Mike.

“I missed you", he said.

“It was so boring in the hospital", i said.

“I guess we both are glad you're back, then", he said. “Everything's turned to shit."

“Hmm?"

“Slim Joe has, like, zero time to talk now he's taken the lawyership role. There's a lot of reading", he complained. “So i just sit here alone. Well, that is unless they tell me to go plaster up some crack."

“At least it makes a change from doing nothing", i said. Muscle Mike did need optimism.

“Eh, whatever, it's not that interesting. What's worse, the prostitution bill is going through parliament."

“Does that mean we'll be inspected?", i asked, drawing off what i had imagined in the hospital.

“Yeah. And we'll be killed", he said. “We're fucked."

“What do you reckon we can do?"

“Nothing.", he said. “As i said, we're fucked."

That's not an answer, Muscle Mike, that's an excuse.

“How are the other humans?", i asked, to change the topic.

“Oh, they're fine. The first lesbian's working with straight-ears on various aspects of the business", he said. “And the second lesbian sits next to her writing the adverts."

“The third one uses the time to do some drawing commissions for the werewolves", he said. “They request the weirdest things but pay so well."

“Like what…?", i asked, thinking about my time freelancing writing erotica.

“Oh, you wouldn't want to hear", said Muscle Mike. “But the latest one involves a human being dominated by a werewolf with the human being drawn in a half-werewolf way doing some kinky shit… eurgh."

“And the straight wing?" i asked.

“They're just chaos", he said. “Chad keeps bickering over the smallest things."

"Typical", i said.

We talked with each other to spend the evening time off. Muscle Mike kept throwing a negative spin on things. I didn't mind. I was happy to be back in the company of known humans.

I talked about Darren. I missed him.

I remember what happened so clearly now.

He ran down the motorway, excited to get back from our winter holiday down south in Murcia. He was picking up great speed, faster then 120 km/h down the overtaking lane, taking advantage of the night-time lack of traffic. The speed limit was 90 and the roads very curvy. It made for quite the exhilarating experience.

We talked to pass the time in the car.

He let out a little on the pedal. I watched as our speed dropped from 150 to 130 km/h.

We were still going fast. We were in the mountains and the motorway was just getting bendier. I was pressed against the door as we swerved left to follow the road.

It was us in our youth days, sweet seventeen, my birthday being just next week.

The signs we were passing were a flashing 90, a ring of red lights screaming at us to slow down. There were the big flashing signs warning us that the road was curvy, curvier then was normal on the motorway network.

Darren didn't want to slow down. He lived fast through life all his life, burning past the “boring school shit" and running straight into the world of work. He had already made a bunch from his freelancing and he was excited to finally begin working a full-time job, a high-paying one.

We had a job interview to go to. We'd need to get to Madrid by sunrise.

We passed the occasional car. Some honked, some just passively accepted our speed. We didn't mind either way, it was too fun going this fast.

We were fast, we were young, and we were stupid.

But Darren wouldn't be stupid for long.

I heard a screech as a puddle from yesterday's rains ran under our front-left tyre. It all happened so quickly, we couldn't react. Our front hit a car on the hard shoulder with the tyres screeching. A metallic screech. We had so much momentum we simply bounced off and ran a 180 degree turn straight into the central reservation.

There was the crunch of metal as we came to a sudden sliding stop, scraping against the concrete barrier separating the carriageways

I looked at Darren. He was hunched over, the seatbelt doing what little effort it could propping him up. Blood stained his white shirt, barely visible under the sickly yellow of the street lights.

I would have cried if i didn't black out. I woke up in the hospital. My wounds weren't that bad, as it turns out. Darren's were. At least he wasn't in a state to suffer from them.

A cruelty hit 4 months after my birthday.

No, what wound i did have was the financial wound. The car on the hard shoulder? Whilst having been abandoned, it needed to be repaid for. My insurance was rubbish. They wouldn't pay for it. It was obvious we had broken the law recklessly; the speed cameras made sure of that.

My parents didn't want to pay off the debt either. I had a job, they said, so pay it off yourselves, they said. I was getting my own flat, so pay it off yourself, they said. I was mostly gaining financial independence, so pay it off yourself, they said.

I didn't have the funds, though. And the banks wouldn't loan any more money to me after i had missed the handful of rent payments and taken the debt to pay them off.

I saw something beautiful on the internet, though. A group would happily give me the money i needed, €10,000. I thought about the options i had. I had €25,000 to pay off. If i took this, i'd easily be able to take off most of it and keep my financial independence.

It was a good idea, i thought. So that's how i signed my life away.

I was never good with financial planning. I never learnt how to do it, i guess.

I'm twenty now. It was such a daft idea to let Darren go at that speed. So damn daft.

Rest in peace, Darren. I miss you.

And i was here, alone with Muscle Mike, waiting for the time to come that i could pay off the €30,000. What a joke.

The time for the main business of the brothel came again. Slim Joe had come back.

“I missed you!", he exclaimed to me. “Oh, it's been such hard work!"

“I heard you became a lawyer here", i said.

“Yeah. It's all just a step in the plan forwards", he responded. “There's so much more reading then i expected!"

As the normie prostitutes walked in, i could feel the buzz of excitement they were having. The news of the bill, whilst a few days old, still brought new hope.

"Have you any information on that new law?", i asked.

“I've read the full manuscript and i've got some bad news", he said. “They'll do an investigation each year. We can ask for a date later in the year, but it's not going to be easy for us."

“They prioritise bigger brothels first, and we're the biggest in the city", he said. “I found a loophole, though; we could register each wing of the brothel separately and then be pushed down the queue"

“But then we'd need to go through three yearly inspections", said Muscle Mike. “Both options are absolute shit."

“Which is why we need human rights before the bill passes through", said Slim Joe.

“Do you have any ideas?", i asked him. “Couldn't i help?"·

“You wrote in the hospital, didn't you?" he asked.

“How did you know?"

“Black-arms saw the sheets of paper. He said they were well-written", he said. “You should write letters and handle communications."

“That's actually a good idea", i said. It was a little suprise. “But isn't the second lesbian doing that?"

“She mostly handles the PR bit, interacting with the public. I think you'd do well to do the more official things", he said. “I'd much prefer to just be the legal advisor."

“Hmm", i said.

I liked the idea of gaining influence and value here, becoming something indispensable to the brothel. It'd certainly help the human rights movement.

Next morning, whilst we were still in the sleeping room, we had a hushed conversation.

“Did you tell Slim Joe about why you're here?", asked Muscle Mike. “Something feels off about the debt."

I explained what happened to him; the car crash and the debt.

“What was your insurance company?", he asked.

“I've got bad news", he said after i told the name to him. “I've read their terms and conditions for a case once and… and… er…"

He hesitated. He thought about the way to phrase it. What was in the terms and conditions?

“It was an accident with a stupid driver, right?", he asked.

“Yeah", i said. “In a way…."

It kind of hurt to have someone call Darren “stupid". He continued, forcing me to interrupt my thoughts

“They should have paid 80% of the cost", he said. “And they paid 0%?"

“Yeah."

“Fuck, that means you only had to pay about €5,000 in theory."

“And i took the €10,000 debt for nothing?"

“Yep."

“Fuck."

“Indeed."

“I told you we're all fucked", said Muscle Mike.

A little break in conversation as we thought of new things to say.

“We should go work on getting you the job", said Skinny Joe. “They have typewriters. I'm sure you'd love it."

We left the room and met black-arms in the hall. A hushed conversation as Skinny Joe introduced my skills to him. A nod of agreement.

Yellow-hair came over and guided us up.

I was guided upstairs, into a small room.

“Welcome to the brothel management", said yellow-hair. “I'll find you a task. For now, just figure out the typewriter. Skinny Joe's your legal advisor."

It was certainly a weird thing. It wasn't quite like a computer keyboard. My keyboard, being locally bought, had keys for diacritics. This didn't, being an English keyboard. Skinny Joe told me i'd have to hit the side of the paper-holder every time i hit enter and that i really mustn't make mistakes.

This'd be quite difficult, i thought. I was aware of how much i used backspace and just how much more brutally aware i'd get.

I tried typing out some text. The keys felt weird to use. They had a little too much give. I kept making basic mistakes, little typos. It was difficult to adjust myself to this new size of keyboard, but i knew that with time and thought, i could get through this. This and the big this of human rights..

The two lesbians came in and got to work. The second lesbian began her graphic design, the first working out some numbers and scribbling them down in a sheet. 

I was sat next to Skinny Joe. He had notes and a bunch of legal books. Straight-ears bought them for him, said Skinny Joe. He liked the books. He seemed to love going back into lawyership.

I was given a task quite quickly; i had to write a letter out to the official guys responsible for businesses, a letter to be held in reserve a little while as prostitution marched towards legality.

I had finished the letter. Yellow-hair said it was to be sent as soon as prostitution became legal.

Yellow-hair had a little disagreement with us as i made the others realise that if it becomes legal, we'd be killed in an inspection.

Skinny joe did offer something useful, though. As long as we'd get to spend this time working mainly on human rights, he'd ensure the prostitution bill was held back.

That would be incredibly important, he said. There were a lot of rules, most of which would be expensive to start following. Muscle Mike, if he was here, would have said that they'd be fucked.

We're all fucked, he'd say.

Worst of all, i was sure yellow-hair was coming to realise, was that the staff would have to become legally registered workers. And that would mean that the trafficking that the loan sharks had done would have to come to an end.

He said he'd think about it. Slim Joe asked by which time we'd be told.

He said by tomorrow.

It was the next morning. We were put back to work in the office.

Halfway through, we were told of what had been decided by the management.

We could spend roughly half the time working towards human rights and the other half towards the brothel.

Skinny Joe was happy with it. He began work on delaying the prostitution bill. He kept telling me to write letters telling the government that a single line was ambiguous and would lead to misinterpretation.

There was a lot of such lines, he said. But they'd be told a little every so often per week. That was the way to keep them slow and undone. They wouldn't pay for a legal analysist as the letters were coming in for free. The government loved an excuse to procrastinate, after all. 

Wouldn't they send someone to check? No, they couldn't, there was never a return address. The ink used couldn't be traced either, as was common here; it was stolen from the human world directly instead of being bought from the shops.

We continued working, my thoughts drifting again.

I thought about life back in my old home.

I remember just what it was like, my everyday schedule.

It'd start with the morning and a little walk around the town to wake me up to the 11:00 hustle and bustle of the city. Maybe I'd go to the coffee shop or just the end of street.

The noxious car fumes and the loud beeping would keep me from the busier streets.

I always found it beautiful, though, to be on a quaint quiet street.

I would choose what i wanted to do at home. I could take a rest. Well, most of the time i couldn't. I was always understimulated. I needed to do some kind of work to keep myself sane. It always used to be work that wasn't the work that paid me. That sucked.

But then i realised that maybe the work i did off-task could do well as the task. So that's how i began my freelancing career, publishing the things i'm making, promoting them, selling my skills. Cheap, at first.

It took months before i got my first commission and years before they became consistent. But i had began making a living , even if a meager one. It prompted me to stop doing my full-time job. And i managed to grow my wage through focusing on my freelancing. Not that it was easy to focus. But i had the pills and i took them and they helped.

So, i'd spend days working for myself. There were days i worked harder then i thought was healthy, but never did it feel unhealthy. No, passion drove me forwards. I had a full set of side hustles; i was a jack of all trades. But hell, i was getting lonely back then. After moving away from Madrid, where my collage friends were,and after quitting the full-time job which made me feel like shit, i met literally nobody. I had slowly found friends online, but there was a lack of connection.

And the €10,000 loan was ballooning uncontrollably, touching €20,000. I was fucked. I contemplated taking a full-time job for some more income, but i wasn't quite sure it'd help. I was shit at managing my finances anyways. I was fucked.

I could have sought financial advice. That'd have been expensive, i stupidly thought. If only i knew how many sources there really were. No, i instead pushed through myself.

But i was trying to find new friends. It was difficult, but i thought that maybe looking at venues would be a good idea.

Thing is, i was kidnapped before i could set that plan into motion.

It was lunchtime. I was eating lunch. Black Arms came in, holding an envelope.

“Newbie, you have a letter", he said, handing it to me

Skinny Joe saw the handwritten address on the envelope, an scrawl. “That's the doctor's handwriting", he said. Well, no shit, it was almost illegible!

I tore open the envelope and took out a piece of paper covered in typewritten text.

I read it out loud, having seen it was addressed to us all.

There was a group to the north, a society that had accepted the human rights movement themselves. They were growing tired of the south and the capital. And the way the society was divided, it turns out, was between a group of regions and the north itself. The north itself had its own identity.

They were threatening to gain independence from the state-group, especially given that they were having their economic prosperity being taken and reinvested into what was the rust belt of the country, the opposite area.

But the south hated the idea of independence. When things started getting serious and the independence votes were in process, they stormed in with the national guard in a terrifying mass-culling against humans and the idea of independence. Humans and whoever was unlucky enough to happen to be walking near them were shot indiscriminately, many of them becoming flesh-bags of leaking blood, their red juice pouring out onto the cobbles and mixing with the water rains as it poured into the drains.

It was violence without reason. The south wanted to make a point, using their own riches to prove that the north was nothing without them. It wasn't true at all.

It was a horrific culling that the south argued was "necessary". That sparked the local guard of the north to begin mobilisation. They were moving south to give this city, the capital, a taste of its own medicine. Any not-human would be shot at. They were coming straight to the center. And we were on their route.

There'd be turmoil the whole way there. They'd shoot at everybody on the way and raid businesses, finding ways to cripple the capital economy. And we were the largest brothel and likely one of the main sources of police funds. Destroying us would weaken the police. So they'd do just that.

We weren't their targets, being the valuable humans they were fighting for, but they had powerful guns. Their bullets could go through three bodies and we'd die in the crossfire. 

We had only a few days to prepare, apparently.

But once they took over and had control, life would get much easier for all of us. Prostitution would be decriminalised. It would be ignored and seen as nothing worth government care. The brothel management would have easier jobs. 

And importantly, we humans would be legal. I'd get to walk about the street. 

We'd love to be able to do that. But there was danger involved. 

We'd have to find somewhere bulletproof to hide, away from the raid. If only not everyone else was going to do it.

“We're fucked", Muscle Mike said. None of us truly believed him, not even Muscle Mike himself, i was sure.

So, that was it. We had but a few days before the imminent invasion.

“I'll find someplace for us to keep safe", said Skinny Joe.

Stay tuned for part 6, in which the civil war starts

Some notes:

• I've gone for the events in the brothel being less important then the protagonist's remembering of the past. These memories are not presented in chronological order, which i feel offers a refreshing change from the very chronological other parts of the story.
• Yes, i do find such blatant foreshadowing devices like “little did i know that" and “But only if i knew that" to be of poor taste and writemanship when used improperly, so i tend to follow a “you should never know the future" rule.
• Well, in some cases, i prefer to let the reader know the future; see the flashbacks in part 4 (this part) and the various futures imagined in part 3.
• Could you at least leave a comment given that you've gone this far? Favorites and watches are great and i'm very grateful, but i'd like to see some feedback too!