The entire capital city had transformed into an open-air insane asylum in less than two hours.
Every single merchant, guard, beggar, and tavern worker was running through the streets looking for anything that resembled a clown.
People were ripping down theatre curtains, grabbing street performers by their necks, and breaking into toy shops to steal wooden painted masks.
Ten thousand gold coins was enough money to buy an entire town, three ships, and a personal army of servants. Nobody was thinking straight anymore.
Inside the junkshop, the air was thick enough to cut with a rusty butter knife.
Brandon was sitting at his wooden desk, staring blankly at a wall. He hadn’t moved for thirty minutes.
His fat fingers were tapping a steady, rhythmic pattern against the armrest of his chair, and every ten seconds, he would let out a tiny, high-pitched squeak that sounded like a dying mouse.
Philip was sitting across the room, leaning against a stack of bronze shields while casually peeling an apple with his sharp iron dagger.
"You okay over there boss?" Philip asked, taking a noisy crunch out of an apple slice. "You’re sweating so much you’re gonna warp the wooden floorboards."
Brandon jumped slightly, snapping his head toward Philip. He gave Philip a laughably fake, terrifying smile that showed way too many teeth.
"Me?! Sweating?! Ha! No way Philip!" Brandon laughed, his voice pitching up into a shrill squeal. "I am totally calm! Never been calmer in my entire life! Just thinking about... business! Yes! Junk shop business!"
"Right, business," Philip said, chewing his apple slowly. "Because usually when you think about junk shop business, you don’t stare at my left nostril for twenty minutes straight."
Brandon’s smile twitched violently. He quickly cleared his throat, wiping a thick layer of grease off his forehead with his sleeve. "I was not staring at your nostril Philip! I was just... noticing how clear your skin looks today! Very smooth! Almost like you’ve been using some kind of high grade magic powder!"
"It’s called soap Brandon," Philip said, pointing his dagger at Brandon’s chest. "You should try it sometime. It works wonders for the smell."
Brandon pushed his heavy body out of his chair, walking over to Philip with slow, deliberate steps.
He put his hands behind his back, trying to look like a wise, suspicious detective, though his fat stomach poking out of his apron completely ruined the effect.
"Philip," Brandon said, lowering his voice to a whisper. "We’re friends, right? We’re business partners! We share everything!"
"You pay me three copper bits a week and make me sleep on a wooden crate in a damp cellar next to a pile of rusty nails," Philip said flatly. "We are not business partners Brandon. I am your exploited child laborer."
"Details, details!" Brandon waved his hand impatiently. "The point is, I care about you! And because I care about you, I want to ask you a very hypothetical question. A fun game between friends!"
"I hate fun games," Philip said, taking another bite of his apple. "Go ahead."
"Hypothetically," Brandon said, leaning close enough that Philip could smell the sour onion sausage on his breath. "If a person... let’s say a skinny kid with messy hair who snorts magic scrap... happened to be the Secret Healer Clown... wouldn’t it be better if that kid turned himself in to the King?"
Philip raised an eyebrow. "Hypothetically?"
"Yes! Hypothetically!" Brandon grinned wider, his eyes practically dancing with golden light. "Think about it Philip! The King isn’t mad! He doesn’t want to hang the clown! He wants to give him a golden palace! A thousand servants! Unlimited magic cores! And most importantly, he is offering ten thousand gold coins to whoever brings him the information!"
Philip swallowed his apple slice, staring at Brandon’s greedy face with complete, deadpan silence.
"Brandon," Philip said slowly.
"Yes Philip?!" Brandon asked, leaning even closer.
"If a powerful absolute monarch who rules an empire with an iron fist suddenly offers a massive bounty to catch a guy who can single-handedly shoot dragon fire out of his rear end and heal thousands of people for free... do you really think he wants to give that guy a golden palace?"
Brandon blinked, his fake smile faltering for a second. "Well... the royal scroll said—"
"The royal scroll is propaganda you giant potato," Philip interrupted, shaking his head in disbelief. "In my past life... I mean, back in my hometown, whenever the big bosses offered a huge cash reward to find a guy who knew too much, it wasn’t to give him a promotion. It was to invite him to a nice quiet room in the basement and put a bullet in his head so he couldn’t threaten their power."
Brandon frowned, crossing his fat arms. "That doesn’t make any sense! King Eldritch is a good man! He gives bread to the church every Christmas!"
"King Eldritch runs a kingdom where human magic is completely controlled by artificial cores manufactured by his personal guilds," Philip explained, pointing his dagger at the royal poster on the window. "If some random street kid in a wooden clown mask can heal crushed bones instantly with two coppers worth of pink dust, the King’s entire medical and magic monopoly goes completely broke overnight. The clown is a threat to his entire economy Brandon. They don’t want to hire him. They want to execute him and steal his recipe."
Brandon stared at Philip, his mind clearly struggling to process the complex geopolitical reality.
But after three seconds, his brain completely bypassed the danger aspect and locked right back onto the only detail that mattered to him.
TEN THOUSAND GOLD COINS.
"Well..." Brandon mumbled, looking down at his own dirty boots. "Ten thousand gold is still ten thousand gold. That’s enough to buy three whole streets in the upper district..."
"What did you say?" Philip asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Nothing! Nothing at all!" Brandon shrieked, backing away toward the counter with his hands raised. "I was just saying it is a lot of money! A foolish amount of money! Anyway, I need to go... uh... buy some frogs! Yes! Frogs for dinner! I will be back in an hour!"
Brandon didn’t even wait for Philip to answer. He grabbed his heavy wool coat off the wall peg, practically sprinted out the front door, and slammed it shut behind him so hard the glass window rattled.
Philip sat on his wooden stool, watching Brandon’s heavy silhouette waddle past the front window at top speed, heading directly toward the upper district where the Royal Guard headquarters was located.
Philip let out a long, slow sigh. He tossed his apple core into the corner trash bin, leaned his head back against the wall, and looked up at the creaky wooden ceiling beams.
"Ten minutes," Philip said out loud to the empty room. "I give that fat idiot ten minutes before he sells my soul for a pile of shiny metal."