Epilogue

A simple case of mistaken accounts

One month ago...

It was just a normal day at Piggy-Bank Dover. Or it would be if all went well. For now the doors were still closed to the public. There were some people already inside, mostly janitorial staff and clerks doing flick-flacks and other stuff they didn't normally did in front of clients. Amongst them – the janitorial, not the clerks, though no doubt he thought himself to be more than qualified for that job – was a man. He'll be of some importance later on, for now his identity is unimportant. Plus, revealing it would ruin the surprise.

Enter Raphael Baker, account-manager to every bank account belonging to The Centre and The Triumvirate. The question of why would two multi-national criminal secret organizations deposit all their savings in one place, when the majority of people knows better than that is another question easily answerable: it facilitates this whole story. If not for this convenience it would be hard for this whole plot to be feasible.

(Yes, it's a bad premise, but it's all I got.)

Every morning, except on weekends, he would be at his desk at 7:15 sharp with a cup of coffee and a keen resolve to sort through his daily affairs. His position earned him the right to an assistant and a personal secretary, but he preferred to do the work himself. He didn't mind asking for help when he needed it, he simply didn't see the point of paying someone to do what he was already being paid to do.

“You're one of a kind, Raphi” his colleagues would say, all of them with their personal assistants. He didn't care. He liked it that way.

That Monday, Raphael was pissed totally and utterly pissed off. Not only had his alarm clock failed to wake him up, due to a power outage the previous evening, someone had stolen his personal mug. After spending almost ten minutes looking for it, he finally gave up the search and decided he had had enough.

At 7:23 he reentered his office and a smile was born instantly. His mug had been returned and was waiting for him on his desk, next to a box of muffins.

Raphael sat down, all the anger evaporating as he grabbed the mug. He took a sip and spat it out, appalled. “Salt? What the hell kind of sick prank is that?”

It was at that moment that he noticed a small card taped to the box of muffins. He read it out loud: “«A good day to you, Mr. Baker, signed»” He couldn't read the signature. “Orville? Angus?” It did not matter. He would find out who that person was and he would make him pay.

~*~

It was the first day of his second week at Piggy-Bank Dover and he wanted to make a good impression on his superiors. He had moved across the continent to be closer to the people who had given his life meaning. So far he hadn't had the guts to contact any of them. He needed – he wanted – to settle down first.

All very noble goals, but Life and his cousin Luck usually had a way of kicking him in the nuts no matter how noble his goals were. Probably it had more to do with the choices he made to get there than with the goals themselves.

That was why he was treading lightly, thinking carefully before doing anything. Unfortunately, no amount of careful thinking could prevent the inevitable from happening, it only postponed it.

During the weekend he had thought about ways to enhance his popularity among his superiors. When he came in the next day, he collected every manager's, every director's and every associate's mug and prepared coffee for all of them. Because he was taking this matter seriously, he had collected a detailed report of the particular tastes of every caffeine aficionado and prepared all the beverages accordingly. Black, cream, two sugars, cinnamon, honey, milk, etc. He got everything right.

What he didn't know was that the person who normally was in charge of preparing coffee – the person who would only get there in thirty minutes - had snitched about a colleague using the Xerox machine in an inappropriate way; that colleague had taken his revenge by replacing those substances with other not so nice, or better yet, not so adequate.

If he had taken the time to taste them, he would quickly realize something was wrong. Then again, since coffee was not among his list of favorite drinks, maybe not.

He saved Mr. Baker's mug for last. He didn't know why – it just felt right. Careful not to spill anything, he put the mug on the desk, followed by the box of muffins with a personal note taped to it. Mr. Baker would surely appreciate his effort. He smiled.

Then the inevitable happened.

As he was about to turn around to leave, his hand bumped against the full mug and spilled some coffee on a few papers that were neatly arranged on the desk.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I'm gonna get so fired! Oh man...” He took a couple of deep breaths. “Okay, calm down. You can still save this.”

He collected the stained sheets, examined them carefully and determined that it would be within his skills to replace that document with a copy almost as good as the original. Provided he had the time and the necessary tools.

Since that wasn't the case, he printed a blank form and copied all the data from the stained document to the clean one. Once he was done, he wiped all evidence of his presence there and left the cabinet, confident that his actions would soon be acknowledged. Even though he didn't know what “acknowledged” meant.

And that was how all the money from The Centre and The Triumvirate was transferred to an unknown location.

THE END

“That's it?”

What else is there to tell? I just told what happened.

“In the worst possible, less interesting, way. Who am I, for starters?”

I didn't say your name? Oh crap...

“I told you were delaying that revelation for too long.”

When did you say that?

“Just now. Two lines ago.”

It doesn't matter, anyway. I'm sure every smart reader already figured out who you are.

“I'm not so sure. I can be quite unique.”

Yes, yes. You're one of a kind, Argyle.

“No!!! Not like that! You ruined the moment!”

Typical. I'm assuming you're also going to complain about the way I portrayed you, and how silly your story was and--

“Actually, compared to the rest of the stories in this series, I think mine was probably the seriest of them all.”

That's not a real word. Actually, forget it. What's on your mind?

“Well, personally, I think me spilling coffee on some papers and then copying them wrong is a lame justification and very poorly thought up. Plus, it makes me look dyslexic, which I'm not.”

And how would you suggest I'd done it?

“May I?”

What?

“Retell that part.”

Okay...

~*~

I used the lock-pick to enter the office. Once inside, I closed the door quietly behind me, turned on my flashlight and walked over to the desk. After a quick search I discovered what I was looking for. I then proceeded to collect all the documents I wanted and replace them with almost identical copies, except on a few details that wouldn't be detected unless someone was looking for them.

Once that was done, I left the office, locking the door behind me. Soon, very soon, The Centre and The Triumvirate would be finished and all their money would go out to help all the people they'd hurt. Minus my share, of course.

Argyle saves the day!

THE END

That's your version.

“What? You didn't like it? What is that? Whatta you doing?”

I'm shrugging. Can't you tell?

“I can, but the readers probably don't.”

Okay, let's wrap this up. Let me just check my list to see if I got anyone.

“Do I have to wait?”

No, you can go. Close the door on your way out, please. Let's see... Oh no! I forgot about her. Hum... How awkward would be for a new chapter to appear after the epilogue?