Charles stood in front of a mirror, buttoning down an Old Navy Oxford shirt. The fabric was dark red with tiny, orange Saguaro cacti stitched all over it. It was last year's birthday gift from his mother. He liked wearing it, even though the color made him think of that one obstinate lizard at Graham Logistics.

He shook his head. He shouldn't be thinking about work, he chastised himself. Today was Saturday. He was meeting some friends later for some well-deserved R&R. The sooner he got out of the house, the better.

Charles walked out from the bathroom. His bedroom was fairly austere for someone in his social class. There were only two things of great value in his bedroom: the bed itself and the wooden trunk at its foot.

His bed was a moderately firm, King mattress that rested on a frame handcrafted from kamagong ironwood. Imported from the Philippines, the wood was beautifully dark, expertly polished, and densely resilient. The four Sobakawa and goose down pillows on top were key to driving away all the fatigue and pressure that Charles constantly bore on his shoulders.

The trunk was a German puzzle box, handcrafted from Brazilian Ipe. It didn't rely on a lock and required exactly five simple moves to open. Charles recalled it had been a special, if expensive, commission, but it was worth the money. He stored all his prized possessions inside, including high-caliber firearms and tactical gear. The insides were reinforced with magnesium alloy, making it impervious to any attempt to open it.

The rest of Charles' room screamed minimalist. Where most of the affluent would have lavish furniture, the latest gadgets—IBM's $3000 PC and Pioneer's laserdisc came to mind—and expensive trinkets in bedrooms as spacious as his, the heir to the country's largest logistics firm had practically nothing.

And he was fine with that. 

Picking up the pair of jeans on the bed, Charles finished dressing, slipped on a pair of Florsheims, and headed out into the world.

Rather, he would have if Pops hadn't been waiting for him downstairs. Charles didn't notice the 55-year old waiting until the moment he stepped onto the marble flooring and caught him reading a newspaper.

"Pops!" Charles exclaimed in surprise. "I didn't know you were here."

The man looked up at him. "Morning, son. I was told you were taking a shower, so I thought I'd wait. Besides, your maids know me. I don't need to announce myself."

Charles scrutinized his father. Age had left its mark on his features. Wrinkles had begun to form and he no longer had the build of an able man. It seemed that, over the years, he'd developed some belly fat, with the rest of his body becoming lankier. However, anyone could see that time had no effect on his charisma. One could say it even added to the way he carried himself. 

“Okay… well, what brings you here?" Charles asked. 

Pops replied, "There were some things I needed to pick up from my old room. But, I also wanted to have a quick chat with you."

Charles hissed, but he quickly suppressed his reaction and hoped the older man didn't notice. He gestured for him to proceed.

Pops' eyes sharpened. "Sit down," he uttered.

"But I—

"I said sit down, Charles," Pops said. “Don't make me repeat myself. You'll have enough time to go out and do whatever you want later."

Clicking his tongue, Charles obediently seated himself on a couch facing Pops. He fidgeted anxiously, twiddling his thumbs as though he was still a teenager waiting for the old man to pontificate at him. Although… Pops didn't show any signs that he noticed. Or even cared.

"First, I want to talk about your cousin Jeffrey. It's been weeks since he joined the company. What's the update on him? I heard you made him a forklift driver."

Charles nearly scowled when he thought of his cousin. "Amongst other things," he stated. “I've assigned him nearly everywhere. We've put him in almost every low-skilled job we've got." He grumbled. "Every time I find something we can give him, three days later Vanessa comes to me saying his supervisor wants him moved somewhere else." 

Had Jeffrey been any other employee, he would've been terminated by now and sent packing. That was the problem with nepotism. Because of the family dynamic, firing someone so obviously unqualified for just about anything the company could offer became significantly more difficult. How could their business ever progress if they couldn't hold someone accountable for their mistakes and deficiencies? How could any organization?

"Forklift driver's one of the very few jobs left on the list, and he's terrible at it. Yesterday he dropped a pallet while trying to retrieve it from the racks. It's a ten-meter fall! He broke the whole thing!"

Pops set down the newspaper. Charles caught a glimpse of the article—HNP: MOTHER AND SON SHOT BY KILLER COP WERE COMMUNISTS. He gnashed his teeth. Just what he needed—another gruesome reminder that he was living in a shithole. 

Unaware of his inner thoughts, Pops hummed thoughtfully. "Have you considered making him a stableman? I don't think he's been assigned to the dragons yet."

Charles winced. Jeffrey Preston handling dragons? No. He was shaking his head in disapproval. "No!" Charles blurted. "Jeff shouldn't be anywhere near our dragons! He's always loitering around them when they're out of the dragon house, staring at the reptiles like it'd fly off when he stopped looking. I don't know what he's thinking, but he's got crazy ideas bubbling in his head, for sure! He shouldn't be given a chance to do anything that might harm the company." 

Charles had not told Pops about the perverse idea Jeffrey gave him on his first day here. If he had, Pops probably would've terminated his cousin on the spot. Yet, as much as he wanted to, he couldn't do that. Charles' conscience wouldn't let him do that. After all, they were still cousins—still family—and he owed him some dignity at the very least.

“Correct," Pops concurred. “Your cousin isn't the type to act in good faith. You remember what he did the last time he worked for us. I only gave Jeffrey a job because he begged me for it; I doubt he'll act in Graham Logistics' best interest. That ojete lives inside a fart cloud." He drank a glass of water that had been sitting on the coffee table in front of him. “In a way, he's like your Uncle Paul: hace lo que le sale de los cojones a la carrera. He'll pursue anything that can make money—and it probably would, for a year or so—but he'll never look at things from the long view."

"I'm open-minded enough to hear out his crazy shit, but I'll always put anything he suggests under strict and careful evaluation."

“Good to hear, boy," Pops said. He was actually smiling, to Charles' surprise. A smile from his father was extremely rare, at least to him.

Charles couldn't complain about it though. That was the closest he would ever get to an approval. He'd made the right decision, rebuffing Jeffrey and establishing his position on top of that. Still, it didn't resolve the question of where they could assign the bloke if the forklift job didn't pan out. Could he be of use in the warehouses outside Metro Magallanes? Now that would be worth thinking about.

“By the way," Pops questioned, “did you also address the concern we discovered from that incident at the dragon house?"

“The one involving the jornalero? We plugged that hole the day after. I had Admin Ops install security desks on both exits."

“Excellent." There was a subtle smirk on his face. “I'm impressed, Charles. You're doing good work."

“Pops, how's your senatorial—

Pops interrupted him, apparently not having heard a single thing, “I called Ann the other day. I like your initiative to tie up with Henrico Air and set up branch warehouses on the same properties that'll become their airports in the 2000s." He chuckled. “That's a creative way of expanding our service network. It'll go well with your idea to refit an old semi-trailer so it could securely transport our dragons by land."

“Thanks for the praise," Charles said. “But I didn't exactly come up with that roadmap. Berretti Mountains has been doing this in Europe for a few years now, according to their latest annual report. The CEO even wrote in his commentary that they're on track to doubling earnings per share in three years." 

Pops dismissed the credit. “It doesn't matter to me. You don't have to be original to be successful. Sometimes the only thing you need to do is bring in new ideas from abroad ahead of everybody else."

Charles' neck tingled at that sentence. That was his cue to leave. Margaret Ann had a terrible habit of talking through her elbows. Anything that Filipina knew, Pops already did, guaranteed. Unfortunately, she had recently learned about certain projects Pops wasn't supposed to know about, and today was NOT the day he wanted to discuss them. He rose to his feet. “Anyway, Pops, the dudes are waiting for me at Sharky's. I need to go—

“Provided," Pops suddenly raised his voice, “the ideas actually make financial sense."

Charles braced himself. 

“Which brings me to a twenty thousand dollar investment you recently made that's sitting in an unmarked office at Administrative. Twenty thousand US Dollars." He exhaled sharply. “For several PCs and what looks like a bunch of short radios with lots of buttons. ¡La Hostia! Why did you spend so much for those... those toys?"

Charles hated the derision in his words. Pops didn't understand. He would never understand. “They're not toys!" Charles argued back. “It's just a little bit of company money that I'm putting into technological innovation. They look like—well, they aren't much better than toys right now, but I swear they'll change the world—

Pops waved him off. “Oh, come on, Charles. Not this 'Internet' shit again! It's just too slow and clunky to be anything more than a novelty. Dial-up can't handle that much to begin with."

“Well decades ago, the telephone didn't exist!" He gestured at the Motorola StarTAC lying on Pops' lap. “And the guy who invented it probably never imagined his machine ever being that portable. For all we know, by the year 2000, we'll have an even tinier one—a phone so small it could fit in your pocket."

Pops frowned. “Get to the point."

“My point is, we shouldn't think that internet speeds will be at 40 kbits forever. We'll quickly come to ten—twenty—even a hundred times that, and more! I'm very sure the money will come from the applications. If we invest now, we'll be way ahead of our peers by the time this hits critical mass. Otherwise they'll rocket ahead and steal our—

"Stop!" Pops raised his hand. "I've heard all this before. You eat shit like this all the time. That's the only problem I have with you."

Hearing him call the Internet and everything it offered "shit" infuriated him more than the fact his own father implied he still thought of him as a comemierda. "This isn't shit, Pops!" Charles cried. "Haven't you heard of GPS? That 'toy' you think's a walkie-talkie is a Magellan NAV 100! With this thing, we can track our trucks' location on this in real-time! Monitor our drivers—see if they're taking the right routes—see if they're fucking us over, stealing time!

"And those PCs I bought? I want to use them, fly in people from Silicon Valley—one team to get the data from the NAV and another to set up a website. We'll be the first in Henrico to get into online retailing! We'll dominate the market!"

Pops rolled his eyes and scoffed, "You'll just lose it all. Land our entire family in those shanties with the rest of the garbage."

"No, it won't! It'll take a lot of support, but this will work! It's already being done! There's this radical company in California. They're called Amazon. They're selling books online and—

"And losing money!" Pops cut him off. He glared at Charles, an angry vein appearing on his head. "This has nothing to do with us. Your… your gambling will just ruin the company! Stop being a dreamer. We've got no business investing in something unrelated to logistics."

Charles sighed, "But it is related to it—

"¡No hay tu tia!" Pops bellowed. "Now sell those fucking toys as soon as possible and stop this nonsense! I am not—I will never let you throw our house out the window for this imaginary garbage. Just focus on expanding our fleet, our service network, and our customer base like any CEO would. And Blessed Virgin, we have a massive overhead! Think of a way to bring it down using the dragons. We pay the beasts literal scrap meat and they're smart enough to replace the rank-and-file."

"Come on. I'm looking at the long run here. We can use the dragons elsewhere. It's computers that will—

Pops grunted loudly. Charles went silent, nearly flinching. The last time Pops made that sound he slapped him on the head. 

"Did you know McDonald's is entering the Henrican market this year?"

Charles' mind went completely blank. The largest fast-food chain in the United States coming to Henrico? That was the first time he heard that. "N-No, I didn't."

"Furthermore, Banana Republic has reached out to me for a supply chain agreement. Their area manager told me you were sitting on a letter they mailed you last week."

Charles vaguely recalled that letter. He didn't know where it went. He could remember it arrived around the same time as the IBM PCs…

"You had no idea about that either, didn't you?"

Charles shrunk in front of Pops. He felt his cheeks turning red from shame. From his judging gaze. He sat down and looked away, unable to reply.

Pops concluded, "And this is what happens when you're distracted with meaningless passion." Charles clenched his fists in silent defiance. "Now, what will you do when you report to the office on Monday?"

Despite wanting to curse Pops and yell at him, Charles couldn't help but bow his head and submit. "Sell the fancy tech and concentrate on the roadmap," he said numbly.

"Exactly what I wanted to hear."

Pops stood up and walked to the stairs, presumably to go upstairs to what had been his room. He paused. "I almost forgot. You're headed to Sharky's, right? Where's Albert and your other guards?"

"They're waiting for me outside."

"Check their gear," Pops said. "And you start carrying something better than your M1911."

Charles immediately thought of a PPS-43, a Soviet-era SMG loaded with thirty 7.62mm Tokarev rounds. It wasn't something he usually carried, not when he had at least six trained men toting Kalashnikovs wherever he went. 

Pops' instructions unnerved him. "Why? What's going on? Is this related to your election campaign?"

The man replied, "Correct. IHP surveys say I'm gaining traction."

Charles nodded. Opinion polls conducted by Instituto Henrico de Pronósticos were always reliable. "Sounds great."

"We've already spent millions of Henrican Dollars buying votes," Pops continued. "And it's still just beginning. I'm meeting senior Church of Christ officers tomorrow at Fort Loreto Country Club."

"Whoa!" Charles gasped. "COC? You're going after big fish."

"I already have the numbers to attract them." A serious glint appeared in his eyes, and Pops' voice went down an octave. "My informants in the Senate tell me my rivals are so worried they're eyeing extraordinary means to force me to drop out."

Charles scowled. That meant assassins could come after him at any time. In this country, that meant gunmen riding pillion or some asshole popping up out of nowhere and going all Rambo on his ass. Jesus Christ, running Graham Logistics was hard enough. Now he had to deal with this shit too?

"Don't you have connections in the HNP or HIA? Can't they help?"

"I wouldn't be warning you if they could," Pops answered with a wry smile. "Unfortunately, this goes beyond police or secret agents. My rivals are well-connected to both the AFH and the NHA—

He recognized the acronyms. The Armed Forces of Henrico didn't surprise him; the military would always be happy to take dirty politician money. But… the New Henricans Army? That had Charles gaping at Pops. "They work with the communists, too?"

"Everyone deals with them," Pops shot back, a little irritated. "My son, I'm just telling you to be careful. They got people of their own but they might hire soldiers or rebels instead. You don't know who'll go after you, if they even will. Do whatever you can to protect yourself."

Seething, Charles gritted his teeth. If Pops didn't run for senator, they wouldn't be in this mess to begin with! He had no idea why he decided to do this. The Grahams were so wealthy Charles didn't think they needed a corrupt politician among them. He couldn't comprehend his father's goals here. What was he really planning? 

He resented Pops. The old man always did whatever he wanted regardless of how his loved ones felt about it. He chased young gold diggers, he rode sports cars, and he constantly dipped his hands into Graham Logistics' coffers like it had been a small business instead of Henrico's largest logistics firm. All while controlling practically every aspect of his life because it was "his duty" to never show weakness and put family first and it was un-Henrican to be anything but.

Charles Preston Graham exhaled heavily. "I'll keep it in mind," he said, wanting to get out of there even more than before. The business heir rose to his feet and walked several steps to the foyer. 

"Charles!" Pops called after him from above.

Charles glanced back, his gaze aimed high, towards the second floor, which overlooked the foyer and was illuminated by a slanted skylight. His father stood there, looking down at him the same way he looked down on the rest of the world.

"What is it?"

"Remember. Keep running Graham Logistics the way you've always been. Don't stray off into costly, fanciful adventures, and above all, stay safe! Understand me, son?"

"I do, and I will," he responded. Charles turned around and swung the door open, revealing a walled-off compound where the Jeep Wagoneer was waiting with Albert standing at attention beside it. "Bye, Pops!"

The man didn't even reply with a farewell of his own. Charles' face twisted into an ugly scowl the instant the door clicked shut behind him. If only God didn't put him in this shithole. If only he'd been born in Europe or America. He was sure he'd be much happier there, even if he wouldn't have as much money. 

There, they valued independence. 

There, they embraced outrageous ideas.

There, they sought impossible dreams...

And changed the world in the process.

Sharky's Guns and Shots had become one of Charles' favorite hangouts in recent years. It was one of the extremely few outdoor shooting ranges in Metro Magallanes, built into the low-lying floodplains that comprised the city of Mariquina. Situated next to the Rio Magallanes, it offered both privacy and exclusivity, catering only to the upper social class. 

Riding the Wagoneer down a long and winding road, Charles didn't feel that privacy as much as he used to though. Slowly the empty swathes of mangrove forests and the swampland were being replaced with subdivisions and private homes. Even now he noticed several backhoes in the area, clearing out land for future residential property. "So that's where those shipments went," he muttered, recognizing some of the machinery here from past warehouse inspections. Clearly none of the real estate developers cared that this entire area was a floodplain. 

Well, that wasn't going to be his problem, Charles thought as the Wagoneer and its entourage of Jeeps and police motorcycles entered the property. A large sign rose above the tree line like the poles of a fast-food chain. It depicted a muscular, anthropomorphic shark in Terminator sunglasses, holding a gun in one fin and a bottle of liquor in the other.

Sharky's, the sign read prominently, with the phrase "Guns and Shots" subtly printed below it. The policemen brought their motorcycles under a tree on the fringes of the property, while the Jeep Laredo spread out. The guards inside will take positions outside the main compound, where they would monitor incoming visitors from a position of stealth.

The Wagoneer in which Charles and his most trusted security escorts rode continued onward into the property. They stopped at the gate, which was nothing more than a guardhouse and an improvised boom barrier. The security guard flagged them over, hands gripping the old, rusty-looking 12-gauge shotgun as the Wagoneer stopped in front of the barrier.

Michael Jackson's voice filtered into the SUV, muffled by the closed interiors. 

"...I'm starting with the man in the mirror! I'm asking him to change his ways! And no message could have been any clearer…"

The guard dialed the radio volume to near-silence as soon as their driver brought down the window. "State your business here," he said nonchalantly, trying to put on an intimidating air.

Charles groaned. The guy must've been a new hire if he didn't recognize his vehicle, his entourage, or his license plate. At the very least, he was praiseworthy, not backing down despite the excessive display of privilege they arrived with.

His driver had a short talk with the guard, matching the latter's gruff curtness with his own. In a minute, he had the man shrinking back, sporting an embarrassed expression, and waving them through. "So sorry for giving Boss Graham the trouble." Charles overheard him as he repeatedly bowed in apology.

Charles forgot about the whole thing a second later when the asphalt became gravel and it led to a wide, covered parking lot. The few vehicles that were already there belonged to people who were more or less as affluent as his family. Every single one was an SUV similar to the Jeep with a driver sleeping inside. Some might have the rest of their entourage stationed outside. Others didn't.

His driver found an open slot beside a group of SUVs that he and Charles recognized on sight. Charles frowned. He was late. If it hadn't been for Pops earlier…

He banished the thought once more. No need to bring himself down when he was this close to seeing his friends again. He climbed out of the Wagoneer and, checking his gear, walked towards shooting aisles. He heard several gunshots thundering out. Only one series of gunfire was followed immediately by manic laughter. 

Charles grinned wryly. As usual, Antonio never failed to find something hilarious.

Every aisle in Sharky's was an empty 20x40 meter rectangular space. Thick concrete walls lined three of its sides and each one had movable obstructions and metal targets for Sharky's range assistants to arrange freely during use. Charles ignored each aisle he passed, heading straight for the penultimate one at the back of the compound.

Charles spotted five people loitering beneath the shooting shed in that aisle. Four were people he knew by heart—Roberto, a Filipino; Allen, a German; Emil, an Indian; and Antonio, a fair-skinned Henrican just like himself. The fifth was merely one of Sharky's range assistants. He counted at least six other bodyguards in the vicinity—all were either Antonio's or Berto's.

Roberto spotted him immediately. His mustached face lit up with a grin. "Charles, pare! Glad you finally joined us!" He raised a large, one-liter bottle of San Miguel Pale Pilsen in greeting.

The other three veered around and welcomed Charles in similar fashion, even shaking his hands. Only Allen and Emil spoke in English.

"Yooooo! What up, dude?"

"Hey Charles. Howdy."

"¡Gueeeyyy! You're here, finally! I thought you weren't gonna show up!"

Charles chuckled, his face breaking into a happy smile. He could forget about his problems whenever he was around his friends. "Sorry I'm late," he apologized, and to Antonio in particular. "Pops showed up suddenly. We had a quick chat."

"Couldn't get away from work, looks like it!" Antonio barked. He slapped Charles' shoulder. "Well, that doesn't matter now that you're here, guey. C'mon, grab a beer, get some food, and let's SHOOT!"

Charles eyed the table. There was an assortment of things on top. "Sure," he said. The five friends went over to the shooting shed as a whole group.

"So what did you guys get?" Charles asked. The shed came with two tables and benches to match.

"I brought beer and chicken," Roberto said, the smirk on his face twinkling with pride. He gestured to the three glass bottles on one table and the two paper buckets next to them. "Three liters of San Miguel and two buckets of Jollibee Chickenjoy. A feast straight from my country!"

"Radical!" reacted Charles.

Allen shrugged, pointing to a transparent bottle on the table. "I didn't bring much. Just this Johnnie Walker that's been sitting too long in my cupboard."

Emil raised his hands in defense. "I didn't bring anything, sorry—

"That's okay," replied Allen. "You don't have to apologize—

"I'm not apologizing, man," Emil rejoined, "You guys know me; I'm just here for the food. Besides, I chipped in on the barbecue." He leaned over to the range assistant and asked, "How's that going by the way, sir?"

"Anytime now, Sir Hadria," the range assistant said. He eyed the short radio on the table. "Kitchen will be calling soon."

"Good."

Charles put a couple drumsticks on his paper plate and poured ice cold beer into the plastic cup provided. He took a sip, relishing the feeling of carbonated drink in his mouth. He glanced at the guns on the table—a 12-gauge shotgun and a rifle. Antonio had taken the 9mm and waddled over to the shooting aisle, adopting an unconventional side grip. "I've seen this being done in Hollywood! Let's give it a try," he said with a laugh.

Charles shook his head. What an oddball. Everyone else had taken their positions around the shed. Roberto sat beside him, his plate full of food. Allen was drinking whiskey, watching Antonio with a derisive smirk. Emil had hands in his pockets, leaning on the post, chowing down on a piece of fried chicken.

"So," Charles opened, "what's going on in your lives? It's been a few weeks."

"Months, actually," Allen corrected him.

Charles' question led to a long-running conversation that spanned for hours as they shared details of each other's lives. 

Antonio, who was adventurous with his guns, stayed only with the pistol. He'd just gone to a beach party a week ago, to a Metallica concert. It was wild, he remarked, with the Henricans he met over there "screaming their asses off left and right". Charles probed him about the pharmaceutical manufacturer he was due to inherit from his ailing grandmother, but he found him rather tight-lipped, opting to set up a complicated firing course through their aisle. One that the entire group enjoyed immensely, watching how Roberto flung himself over a water barrel and fired his shotgun at waist-high targets while lying on his back.

Emil was the only one who didn't participate in the shooting. None took offense to that; everyone knew that his father was assassinated when he was 18. Charles found it better overall, as he was the most talkative other than Antonio. Emil was an officer at a think tank employed by government policymakers and large-cap corporations alike, and he was happy to share information with his friends so long as they maintained discretion. 

"There's a massive credit boom going on in Southeast Asia lately," Emil was explaining as he sipped on a cup of whiskey on the rocks. "Banks in Thailand and Indonesia are borrowing more and more—lending more and more. I've been talking to my expat friends over there, and you've got the Philippines preparing to jump in this bandwagon. There's a lot of speculation happening on the other side of the Pacific. Mark my words, this sort of thing's gonna blow up sooner or later…"

Roberto grinned at them, having just finished his turn using the rifle. "Ehh we don't have to worry so much, Emil! Henrico's mostly insulated from that crap. We weren't even affected by La Decada Perdida!" He raised his beer bottle—"¡Arriba, abajo, al centro y para dentro!"—and chugged everything down. 

Charles raised his cup of beer in response and echoed Roberto's toast word for word. Up, down, to the center, and inside. For a single moment, he felt at peace. Not a single thought about his father, his company, or his so-called duty lingered in his mind. 

After the toast, Charles asked him about his personal business in Lucena, the Henrican province located northeast of Metro Magallanes. Though he worked closely with his cousins at the Coronado family's Coca-Cola bottling plant, Roberto Coronado had managed to persuade his bosses—meaning his relatives—to invest in nearly a hundred hectares of raw mountainland. “What's your plan up there, anyway?" Charles asked him, hoping he didn't sound too envious. “Isn't that infested with NHA?"

“Pare!" Roberto blabbed. “That's precisely why it's so cheap! Here's the skinny: it's all part of a greater plan. The Republic won't let that last forever. They'll eventually send the military to stabilize the place. Once they do, that's when angel investors like me come in. See, most NHA people are just bandits at the core. When we gentrify the place—take away their reason for rebelling—we'll be sitting on a massive property Americans will be flocking to in twenty years!"

Charles scratched his chin. It sounded impressive, but he felt there was something wrong with that plan somewhere. “Have you actually thought this through? Don't forget, Henrico copied the Philippines with its treatment of illegal squatters and—

“Ay 'sus, Charles," Roberto dismissed his concern. “¡Pollas en vinagre! No need to worry about my business. I've got that problem taken care of." He gave him a rather confident thumbs-up. It oozed arrogance. Enough of it to have the Graham heir backing away. Hopefully his friend wouldn't end up being burned by this gamble.

Allen strolled towards the shooting shed. He plopped the shotgun unceremoniously on the table. “Whose turn is it now?" the blond asked the group. “Emil, you sure you don't want to shoot? You've just been here the entire time."

“I'm good just enjoying the feast, Allen. Y'all know me."

Antonio rose to his feet, for once snatching the rifle instead of the 9mm. “Then it's my turn!"

“Hey, Antonio!" Charles cried. “I'm going after you, got it?"

Antonio cheered, “Loud and clear, guey! WOOOO! Shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot!" For the nth time, he trotted into the aisle, with a buoyant skip in his step. 

Just as gunshots started cracking in the air once more, Allen glanced over at Charles. “Hey, Charles, have you heard? Doom's getting a sequel." 

"Sweet! That's a nifty title. Sequel should be just as good. Are you getting it when it comes out?"

Allen scoffed. "And spend $200 US? Pfft. Hell no! In a couple months, I can buy pirated copies from the store for a fraction of the price. I can wait." 

"Makes sense," Charles said. "That's what you did with Command & Conquer, if I remember right."

"Right," said Allen. The German then fixed his crystal blue eyes on Charles. "By the way, are you updated with the Usenet forums? There's some exciting rumors about AuctionWeb going around."

"What about?"

"Some people claiming to know Pierre are saying they're on track to hitting a few million in transaction volume. There's a consensus that it'll be at least $7 million by 1996."

"Whoa! That's, that's totally off the hook," Charles said, in a tone of both surprise and grief. The news practically vindicated what he believed about the future. It confirmed he'd been on the right track, throwing company money at the Internet. 

At the same time, Charles felt his mood plummeting, as it caused his talk with Pops to resurface in his memory. 

"You alright?" Allen asked.

Charles poured whiskey into his empty cup. "Not really," he said, taking a sip. "It's just that you reminded me about that 'quick chat' I had with Pops earlier."

"Sorry. Didn't mean to do that."

"It's fine. You didn't know."

"Mind telling us what happened?" Allen asked. 

Charles noticed that Emil and Roberto had tuned into their conversation. They were listening as well, out of curiosity if not concern for an old friend. "Well, I don't mind," he said, before retelling what had happened back home. 

Charles did not hide anything. He spoke even as his turn came up and he unloaded his emotions not just on his friends, but also on the targets he shot. Nobody judged him in Sharky's. Not his friends. Not even the shooters in the other aisles, if he even bothered sharing his story. Sharky's was his safe space. This was where he felt like himself. 

When he was finished, Emil was shaking his head in sympathy. "I don't know what to tell you, bud. You just gotta roll with the punches. In the end, Graham Logistics is still your dad's company."

"What else can I do?" Charles lamented. "I'd much rather leave this all to my siblings when they get older but, it doesn't look like they're interested in the family business." He buried his face in his hands. "¡Puta madre! All the fun's happening in California while I'm stuck in this fucking country." He emptied his second cup of whiskey. "I don't even know why you and Allen moved here from the US in the first place."

"It's pretty here," Allen answered. "Besides, the purchasing power of the US Dollar against the Henrican Dollar is—

"I don't think that's gonna help, guey!" blurted Antonio. "I think Charles just feels left out. I understand his viewpoint: tech's a lot more fun than the industries our families are in!"

"Pare," Roberto said, snapping his fingers to get Charles' attention. "Way I'm hearing it, you want to be part of all the… the new fads happening in the world."

"That's right. And?"

"Wouldn't you agree that innovation isn't restricted to computers? It's anything that breaks the system. Changes the game."

Charles mulled it in his head. There had been several revolutions leading up to the modern era, including industrialization, telecommunications, and aviation. All of them accomplished what the programmers in Silicon Valley were trying to do. 

"Yes," he replied. "I would agree with you. What's your point?"

"Aren't you already part of something like that? Graham Logistics has dragons. The last time we were in Sharky's, you told us they'll cause an upheaval in the labor force. Most companies in Henrico don't have access to the reptiles; there aren't any breeders yet and until now Arbat's the only supplier around. The Federative Republic doesn't have laws on them yet. What is that if not innovation?"

"Roberto, that's just not the same. Look, I'll admit, the dragons are amazing to watch. They're more intelligent than anyone's ever given them credit for, and we pay them with scrap meat!"

Allen couldn't help chuckling. "Ha! Sounds like they came straight from Toontown!"

Irritated, Charles glared at the German-American. "Hey! This isn't the same, okay, pendejo? Those beasts are wild, stubborn, expensive to control! They can even kill you if you don't handle them right! They're nothing like Roger Rabbit. Blessed Mary, they can't even talk!"

"Hey, hey, hey," Emil butted in. "We can't dismiss that possibility just yet. Some of those animals end up being exotic pets of very rich people. I doubt a lot of that ended well if they're as violent as you say they are, but I wouldn't be surprised if some owners have actually tried teaching them how to talk."

Roberto chimed, “I agree! I've been hearing rumors about it myself. As far as I know their throats aren't built for English."

“No, they're not," Emil concurred. “But they might be capable of German, Spanish… you know, something heavy. Guttural."

Antonio hijacked the conversation before Charles could even reply to them. “Guys! Don't you think it'll be a problem if we learn they can talk? You know humans have been the apex predator for hundreds of years. If people discover that dragons are truly sentient like us, I'm betting there'll be some sort of revolution!" He giggled. “It's funny, right? We've been searching outer space for intelligent life when it's just been with us the entire time! Oh I can imagine how the politicians will react to that one!"

Emil sneered. “I doubt it'll ever get to that point. Our society will do everything it can to crush that knowledge. Humans already have problems accepting people of color. What more an entirely new species?"

Roberto nodded. “You make a good point."

Charles hissed. He was practically growling at having been denied the opportunity to speak several times. He opened his mouth, to shout at them, to voice out his displeasure, when Allen beckoned him over with a wave of the hand.

He left the three men to muse over hypotheticals and joined Allen at the corner of the shed.

The German advised. “Let them be. We rarely get together like this."

Charles didn't respond to that. “What is it?"

“Charles, I'll give it to you straight. If I were you, I'd just focus on the dragons. It's not tech, for sure, but who knows? Maybe it's just as disruptive." The business heir tried to reply, but Allen wasn't done talking. “Like it or not," he cut him off, “that's the card you've been dealt with, and that's the hand you need to play."

Charles shook his head. “Allen, if I seriously try to fully replace our jornalero with winged lizards, we risk getting a 'People Power' moment. They'll revolt! You know how biased the Office of Labor is!"

Allen shrugged. “Then just think of another way to utilize them." He tugged at his beard. “They'll make wonderful security, for example. You'll absolutely massacre the K-9 industry if—and I know it's one giant if—you find a way to control them without the restraints."

“Easier said than done," Charles retorted. He couldn't help but recall the business his cousin Jeffrey proposed to him during his first day at Graham Logistics. Until now it still sent chills down his spine. “Still, that's a proper business idea. Multiple times better than the last one I received."

“Which is?"

“...Dragon escorts," Charles said in a reproachful and mocking tone. “The sexual kind."

Allen spat his whiskey out. He stared at him with dumbfounded eyes. “You're shitting me!" he stammered, his face a mix of disgust and amazement.

“Afraid not," replied Charles. “Someone seriously suggested that." He drank half of his drink. His third cup of beer. “Sell it to fetishists abroad, he said. Find a bunch of wackos who organize some weird 'furry' thing in California every year and come up with some tourism program." He shook his head in distaste.

Allen chortled. “Now that's one way of putting Henrico on the world map! You should tell the others about this."

“You're right." Charles then beckoned the rest of the group to join them. “Guys! Come over here!" he called out. “I got to share this stupid idea I heard a few months ago."

Their reactions were mostly unsurprising. Roberto denounced the idea as strongly as Charles did, even bothering to say that he would've fired the employee on the spot for proposing something so preposterous. Charles couldn't explain that the idea came from his cousin of all people. The four of them had met Jeffrey at least twice, and he didn't want to be unfilial and drag his name down.

Emil did not react the same way Roberto and Allen did. He was mostly calm, as though the idea had fluttered into his radar screen at least once. He merely commented that it's a good thing he wasn't seriously contemplating the idea. “It's a reprehensible direction to take," the analyst said, noting that it's just as bad as owning an actual brothel.

Antonio Satorre was the only one howling with laughter. “That's fucking hilarious!"

“But it's sick!"

“I know, but it's just so funny. Charles, guey, your employee definitely knows what he's talking about: people can and WILL fuck anything!"

Antonio gestured to their range assistant to start reloading the ammunition clips for the 9mm. He chugged down a shot of whiskey before continuing, “And honestly, between us five, if I had the opportunity, I'd try it myself once just for the experience… IF I'm drunk enough, IF I don't already have a French girl working my nailless finger, and IF they can actually talk." Then he cuffed Charles on the shoulder, still giggling like an excited little boy. “There's a perfect Robert Williams quote for it: carpe diem. Seize the day!"

Dumbstruck, Charles Graham couldn't muster a response to that. He didn't know what to say and frankly, neither did the other three. Thankfully. Antonio himself withdrew from the conversation. “Anyway, I'm headed back down range if nobody's shooting!" he said, hopping over to the aisle with the range assistant in tow.

They resumed shooting from that moment onwards. Aside from Emil, alcohol flowed freely in their blood. Impaired by the liquor, their gunfire became erratic and woefully inaccurate. There were times when they forgot their firearms had run out of bullets, and times that they fired at a wall or an object instead of the target itself. Everyone's stomachs were filled with fried chicken, pork barbecue, and plenty of drink. Even the chaste Indian-American couldn't stop himself from finally picking up the neglected rifle and joining their revelry.

The fun lasted until the sun bathed the skies in lush orange. Charles and Allen were covered in sweat, while the other three were short of breath. Taking his previous experiment further, Roberto had converted the entire aisle into a legitimate obstacle course with targets, and it only served to enhance the Sharky's experience. The clients in the other aisles also copied them, going so far as to approach Roberto for help in setting them up.

Charles no longer gave any thought to the talks they had earlier. He fully immersed himself in this rare moment of fun and games with his friends. They all did. Each of them had their own problems to deal with, their own paths to walk, and they relished the opportunity to bond, to share their experiences and thoughts. To Charles' relief, heavy subjects weren't discussed again and no one in their group condemned Antonio for what he said. Their friendship was too strong for something so insignificant to break them apart. 

When they were done, the range assistant came and offered them a VIP service: live targets. Specifically, stray cats and dogs caught fresh from the slums of Mariquina. The group voted to decline the offer. Allen and Emil were against it for ethical reasons, while Roberto and Antonio found it boring. Charles simply didn't care and went with whatever the group decided by majority. 

Emil left as soon as he could, saying he had to visit an old friend who retired to Henrico after working a full career in Dallas-Fort Worth. The four of them went to the nearest fast food place for a quick afternoon snack, not minding how their numerous bodyguards intimidated every customer inside. As they were finishing their meals, Antonio proposed they go to some nightclub a few minutes away from BDSM Supermall.

Antonio patted Roberto on the shoulder. “Our guey here knows someone there who can hook us up with some weed. What do you say?"

Allen smirked. “Nice! I'm fine with that. How about you, Charles?" 

Charles nodded. “Sure, why not?"

“Radical!" cried Antonio. He let out a loud whoop. “YEAH! WE'RE GETTING FUCKED TONIGHT! WOOOOOH!"

Charles Graham was not as vocal as Antonio, but he shared his enthusiasm. Alcohol, drugs, and sex would be a perfect way to end a Sharky's day. 

After all, tomorrow could worry about itself.

Author's notes:

I actually had to cut down a significant amount of content to keep the chapter within my target word count.

Originally, the group was supposed to take the live targets offer (with Emil taking a long restroom break and Allen refusing to watch), with Charles imagining the animals were business associates who messed with the company at some point during the seven-year time skip. This would culminate in the range manager coming out and personally offering the group a chance to shoot at a live dragon: a Vatran (fire-breather) just like Chanteirwen.

This would've been a way for me to showcase how differently other people treat the dragons they bought from the smugglers and also how callous people generally are in third-world countries like Latin America or Southeast Asia, where life does not have as much value as it does in America or Europe. It also would've been an opportunity for me to have Charles lay down some exposition on how tough dragonhide is and what it would take to pierce it, since 9mms and similar/smaller calibers aren't strong enough.

Unfortunately, that long talk Charles had with his father turned out to be... well... long! Oh well. I'll find a way to portray this elsewhere.