jesé risser {district 11} fin
Aug 29, 2017 18:20:38 GMT -5
Post by rook on Aug 29, 2017 18:20:38 GMT -5
JESÉ RISSER
you're a void, a crack in the mirror, see me now, if you could see me now
People say that you've got to have money to make money; I've always found this to be a belittling contradiction that seemingly suggests that only the already-wealthy can make fortune significant enough to rise up above all the putrid dankness and live a life that is beyond the imagination of us mere shit-scrubbers.
This is undoubtedly a lie. You don't need any money to make money, you only need initiative.
I was born into a cold world full of dissension and discord, a house built on hard work became one of heartbreak and hearsays. Whispers of our noble father taking whores and drinking himself to sleep night after regrettable night. Me and my little brother watched from the kitchen durchreiche as our mother raised a carving knife from the carcass of a pheasant and pointed it accusingly at his throat, spitting words of such malice that we both thought we'd become witnesses to our father's murder.
I learned just how valuable human life is from that day. I saw it with my own eyes, how easily our mother could have stabbed him to death with something as simple as a kitchen utensil.
In this world there is only one thing that makes money: It isn't inheritence, or hard-work.
It's our own mortality.
Nothing sells faster than the preservation and betterment of our own wellbeing. Which is why, for the most part, District 11's cash flow tends to ebb in one general direction. The farming industry is dying, with this decade's three Victors, in succession no less, the influx of of money into the District has thrown the economy off balance, with the focus shifting from agriculture to more desirable businesses that can actually afford to hire staff internally and produce for the Capitol indirectly, without having to work the fields.
With such business coming into Eleven, and much more money passing between hands, crime spiked too. More money is in the District than ever before, with a lot of it moving withing the District's boundaries, right under the noses of the Capitol. Local Peacekeepers are paid off, whilst these new businesses are being strong-armed into becoming vessels for a new wave of hyperaccelerated money laundering.
It's like a disease. You can smell it in the fibrewood. It's rotting the very core of Eleven, and yet, it's the one thing keeping everything stable given the way the market is leaning. We're one shove in the wrong direction away from a financial crash.
And I can't let that happen.
Not when I've got more money than I can even count hidden under the floorboards of our two-bedroom farmstead.
They think that we can make a living for ourselves by taking a cut of what we wash, and we have to be grateful for the opportunity, else we'll be face down, floating down the river and there will be no one left to miss us, because all we've got is each-other now.
Our consciences are dripping red, and our hands soaked from manhandling countless amounts of blood money. I fear it is taking a toll on my brother, making him more anxious and unpredictable. We can't afford to make any mistakes, not when the stakes are so high. Not when they won't even hestitate to put a bullet through our skulls if it all goes to shit.
But I like to think I can keep him safe by being good at what I do.
I'll wash the living shit out of your money. It'll come out the other side so sparkly clean that no one will even think about it's legitimacy. That's a Risser brothers guarantee.
And I am good at what I do.
Really fucking good.
This is undoubtedly a lie. You don't need any money to make money, you only need initiative.
I was born into a cold world full of dissension and discord, a house built on hard work became one of heartbreak and hearsays. Whispers of our noble father taking whores and drinking himself to sleep night after regrettable night. Me and my little brother watched from the kitchen durchreiche as our mother raised a carving knife from the carcass of a pheasant and pointed it accusingly at his throat, spitting words of such malice that we both thought we'd become witnesses to our father's murder.
I learned just how valuable human life is from that day. I saw it with my own eyes, how easily our mother could have stabbed him to death with something as simple as a kitchen utensil.
In this world there is only one thing that makes money: It isn't inheritence, or hard-work.
It's our own mortality.
Nothing sells faster than the preservation and betterment of our own wellbeing. Which is why, for the most part, District 11's cash flow tends to ebb in one general direction. The farming industry is dying, with this decade's three Victors, in succession no less, the influx of of money into the District has thrown the economy off balance, with the focus shifting from agriculture to more desirable businesses that can actually afford to hire staff internally and produce for the Capitol indirectly, without having to work the fields.
With such business coming into Eleven, and much more money passing between hands, crime spiked too. More money is in the District than ever before, with a lot of it moving withing the District's boundaries, right under the noses of the Capitol. Local Peacekeepers are paid off, whilst these new businesses are being strong-armed into becoming vessels for a new wave of hyperaccelerated money laundering.
It's like a disease. You can smell it in the fibrewood. It's rotting the very core of Eleven, and yet, it's the one thing keeping everything stable given the way the market is leaning. We're one shove in the wrong direction away from a financial crash.
And I can't let that happen.
Not when I've got more money than I can even count hidden under the floorboards of our two-bedroom farmstead.
They think that we can make a living for ourselves by taking a cut of what we wash, and we have to be grateful for the opportunity, else we'll be face down, floating down the river and there will be no one left to miss us, because all we've got is each-other now.
Our consciences are dripping red, and our hands soaked from manhandling countless amounts of blood money. I fear it is taking a toll on my brother, making him more anxious and unpredictable. We can't afford to make any mistakes, not when the stakes are so high. Not when they won't even hestitate to put a bullet through our skulls if it all goes to shit.
But I like to think I can keep him safe by being good at what I do.
I'll wash the living shit out of your money. It'll come out the other side so sparkly clean that no one will even think about it's legitimacy. That's a Risser brothers guarantee.
And I am good at what I do.
Really fucking good.
