Coffee and Sandwiches - 2: I Hate Beggars
I hate beggars. It's not like they took one look at me and pegged me for a murderer or anything. No, I just hate beggars. It's not some baseless loathing or uncontrollable impulse—it's a disgust built up over a string of incidents. The first one started back when I woke up in the martial world.
One day, I opened my eyes and found myself collapsed at the edge of a village, looking like a total bum. All around me were old-style buildings and people in ancient garb straight out of some Chinese folk village. Was I dreaming? But the overwhelming reality of the scene screamed otherwise. I must've looked so pathetic and lost that passersby started tossing coins my way—one, two at a time.
And that's when the crazy beggar bastards showed up. That was the first time. Back then, I was so out of it I didn't even register the coins people were throwing at me. But these guys came charging in, babbling in some Central Plains dialect I couldn't understand, and they beat the shit out of me as a group! Pretty sure they were telling me to get out of their turf, but since I didn't speak the language, I had no clue and just took a thorough thrashing. That's when I started hating beggars.
Sure, those fuckers might've been unusually trashy, but in all my life since then, I've never met a decent beggar. So yeah, I hate beggars. Of course, I know the Open Faction beggars from my past life and these city drifters aren't the same. If it'd been Open Faction guys, I wouldn't have just whined internally—I'd have beaten their asses and sent them packing on the spot.
"This is really just from slicing the ham thinner?"
"……."
I was sitting at the entrance to the lodging, chowing down on a sandwich, when a hulking beggar named Gustaf started making a fuss beside me.
"It's ten times tastier just 'cause it's easier to chew. How good does it have to be for my kids to spread the word everywhere?"
"…No way."
You guys?You made me into some sandwich-making machine?
I couldn't let that slide, so I stopped chewing and looked straight up at the beggar. Oblivious, he kept yapping excitedly.
"Man, I didn't think a little word-of-mouth would draw this big a crowd. It's nice repaying the guy who looks out for us now and then… Why're you staring like that?"
Did my murderous intent get through? Sipping his coffee, the beggar glanced at me and flinched.
"…No wonder the place was packed."
"Good business is good, right?"
You might be busy, but I ain't.
From his hearty laugh, he thought I was glaring because of all the orders. Half right. The other half? He just looked too damn happy for a beggar.
"That's coming to an end anyway. I was just helping out 'cause the power was out."
"Aw, that's a shame. Can't eat more of these sandwiches. Should've savored 'em slower."
Smacking his lips, he dumped the rest of his coffee down his throat. That stuff was cheap swill, bitter as hell, but he downed it like a champ.
"So, you quitting to find new work? I'd treat you right if you stuck around."
"…Probably."
Even if the ingredients weren't the freshest, the couple who ran the place—the Lopez duo everyone around here called them—were good enough folks to hand them out to beggars without complaint. I'd seen plenty over the past few days: reactions from customers, guests, street drifters. But that aside, I still needed a job to survive. I wasn't planning to sling sandwiches here forever.
Not like I had a grand purpose right now, but…
"Gonna keep poking around fixers, then? Things have been noisy lately."
As I zoned out pondering some vague future, the beggar piped up out of nowhere.
"…How'd you know about that?"
What the hell? Is this guy Open Faction?
His unexpected words caught me off guard. He caught my stare and burst into a booming laugh.
"How could I not know after you made such a splash? Lowlifes might be clueless, but anyone who matters knows you messed with that old Heian fox."
I didn't know all the city's spots yet, but Heian sounded like it tied to Dongying—Japan. Thinking back, the third fixer I'd hit that first day was in a Japanese-style district.
"I didn't start the fight. I asked politely if I could come in, and the guy at the door swung first."
"You're no ordinary nutjob. Looking at you… you're weird, man."
"Plenty weird about me. Must be the beggar vibe."
We traded "nutjob" and "beggar," but I felt oddly shortchanged. Beggar fit him; nutjob didn't fit me.
"You act like you know nothing, but you don't seem clueless at all. So you just don't care?"
What the hell was this beggar on about, grabbing at clouds? I shot him a look conveying that, and he kept going like he knew it all.
"Listen, fixer types watch their own backs like hawks. Some outsider who knows zilch can't just waltz in and stir shit without inside info. I get you want work, but that'll make things dangerous around here."
"……."
I'd just shoved the last bite of sandwich in my mouth when it hit me why this guy sought me out. It wasn't for a free meal. He was worried about the owners up on the third floor and came to check.
He had some real rep, apparently. …The beggar king himself showing up packing heat.
That explained the gun he'd been holding. I'd wondered about the faint killing intent and the pistol tucked casually in his waistband. Made me rethink him—not your average joe. Though I'd clocked that from the start, the way he'd gripped his piece like he was ready to draw anytime he looked at me.
"Don't know where you're from or what you did. Got guesses, but that's not what I'm here for. Just hear me out."
His guess was probably way off, but I kept quiet and listened.
"Why'd you come to this city? To be another moth burning out by the dozens every day? Or climb as high as you can and flame out like Icarus? Chasing money and fame?"
"……."
His tone was too serious for "craving chicken and cola," so I just stared at his weathered beggar face. For an old bum, he was still built solid, scars crisscrossing his face and body screaming a life far from peaceful.
"You some retired merc or what?"
"……."
He didn't answer. But I figured I knew, so I nodded and answered his question first.
"Right now? No big purpose. Money's nice if it's a lot, but moderate's fine. Fame? Who needs it. Just doing what I know. You know, the saying—don't give away your best work for free?"
"……."
"I get the worry. I'll lay off the fixers. If you got lines there, pass on my apologies. Hurt feelings? I'll square it personally. That cover it?"
I finished with a swig of bitter coffee, and he eyed me like I'd surprised him. Guess my quick agreement threw him.
"Since we're being straight: I didn't expect this."
He glanced at my left hand as I held it up.
"To get tangled up in it like this. Figured poking a couple places would land me a bullet-sponge gig at best."
"…Those kinds are pure trash."
I shrugged and set down my empty cup. He watched me a beat, then said, "If you're done with the risky stuff, I could hook you up with an old fixer contact."
"…Thought you'd tell me to fuck off."
This beggar was a psych warfare pro, jerking me around. I'd figured he'd demand I leave before endangering the owners, but nah—job offer out the gate.
"Honestly, still think you look like a killer."
"And?"
"But damn, these sandwiches are too good."
I couldn't help laughing. Pure beggar logic.
"Joking aside, better you make some cash and leave on your own terms than chase a homeless psycho and trash the street."
"…Deal. Let's do that."
I grabbed my cup and stood. As I headed for the stairs, Gustaf added from behind, "How 'bout sticking around for mornings at least?"
"……."
Total beggar move. So I hit him back with one.
"No gun drawn means you'll see me making sandwiches tomorrow morning."
Leaving the flustered beggar, I climbed the stairs.