To say that Grant Stonehouse had been keeping a low profile would be a monumental understatement. Any lower and the tall Englishman would be claiming the gold medal at the Olympic limbo dancing championships. Harper Rock was littered with clowns, and Stonehouse had never really been much of a fan of the circus. Rather than mingling with the masses, the dedicated entrepreneur had generally kept himself to himself, focussing on his moneymaking ventures.
However, something had drawn him out of the shadows, like a mystical pipe enticing the cobra to leave the comfort of its wicker basket. It was auction time. Stonehouse had offered his services up to the highest bidder during the previous cattle market, an escapade that had lead to a few interesting “friendships” being forged, but more importantly, to a tidy sum of cash being made. It was easy money, money that paid for the creation of two new business enterprises.
This time around, Stonehouse didn’t want to place himself on the centre of the stage. Now was not the occasion to parade about like a flamboyant peacock, it was a time to be inconspicuous like a tiny sparrow. Anonymity was key, so the normally elegant gentleman decided to be far more subtle than usual, choosing to wear a dark hoodie and army surplus combat pants rather than his preferred choice of a tailored suit.
Stonehouse casually entered the venue for the soiree, a nightclub called the Necropolis. He was fairly unfamiliar with the building, and more than likely would be a stranger to most of the clientele. Socializing was an unnecessary distraction on this particular evening; the businessman was here to view the goods on offer, before vanishing into the night once more.
One “slave” instantly leapt out at Stonehouse like a crazed jack-in-a-box wielding a blood-soaked axe. The owner of the nightclub, a woman called Amaranthia, had made herself available. Ideal, thought Stonehouse, surely she would be the type of person worth an introduction? How disappointing, then, for Stonehouse to discover that he’d entered the fray a little too late, and that his initial target had already been sold.
“$1,000?” whispered Stonehouse to himself. “Well, isn’t that a shame.”
With a gentle puff of his cheeks, Stonehouse moved on, keen to browse through the rest of the ponies on parade.
