RP:Political Rascals

Part of the The Dust Up In Cenril Arc

Summary: Sarge, with the help of his buddy Rogatus, takes small donations (and launders them as bigger ones) for the Fitz Johnson Mayoral Campaign. In walks a tubby halfling named Zedidiah Gawkroger who is keen to make a good impression. As Sarge and Rogatus talk to Zedidiah, a feline thief makes off with the donation box! Sarge and Rogatus chase him, but only a little. Afterall, there’s only a handful of copper in that box anyway, though others thinks there’s hundreds of gold in there. They cook up a scheme to get a larger donation out of Zedidiah by hamming up their plight. It works. Zedidiah donates 100 gold, which the boys pocket and immediately head out on the town to enjoy their windfall.

Whaler’s Bar

Sargaso got here earlier than usual to hand out ‘Vote for Fitz’ buttons and hang up a ‘Fitz Johnson for Mayor’ banner. Having not planned ahead, he brought no nails with which to hang the banner. Improvising, he punctures the cloth on an ornamental harpoon and ornamental trident which are spaced a little too close together so that the banner sags in such a way that it reads ‘Fit for Mayor,’ though it is unclear just who is fit for mayor. The ‘campaign manager’ (? maybe? What did Huds say his title was again?) doesn’t seem too fussed by this haphazard bunting, and parks himself beneath it with a donations box and pledge list. Unwittingly Sargaso performs a much more basic civic duty than a ‘get out the vote’ drive: he’s indirectly informed the Whaler’s drunkards that there’s an election soon. The sailors and tramps who frequent this place don’t read the paper or care much for politics. Their lot never changes, and yet Sarge, a familiar face, seems to have taken a sudden and keen interest in the election. Odd. Instead of sneering at him, his cohort gently rib and question him, and Sarge’s sales pitch doesn’t get much further than, “Fitz’s a buddy of mine,” and “If he wins, all drinks on him at the Whaler’s come election night, all night.” What did Huds think he would do? Make a pitch on moral character and policy? Does Fitz even have a policy? Probably, but Sarge doesn’t read anything longer than a page- unless it has his name on it, then he keeps reading. Bribery is what these folk know, and come election night either Huds will deliver on Sarge’s promise, or not, and if he doesn’t, then these people will have their beliefs confirmed: politicians never did nothing for then anyway. Sarge balances on the back legs of a stool as he talks to One Eye Harry (not to be confused with One Eye Jerry or One Eye Larry, who are also here). “Whatever you can spare, Harry.” Harry spares 2 copper into the collections box and Sargaso writes down his pledge and donation as ‘Harry Codale’ (he made up the surname on the spot based on smell), “Donation, 25 gold.” Above Harry’s entry are several other names with donations each above 20 gold, one as high as 75, but when someone slams the bar in a fit of laughter, the donation box rattles with the familiar clink of copper.

Rogatus meanders and mingles, a bottle of ale in hand. Though he'd come out in a show of support for Sarge, he'd done practically nothing to help, well, apart from lending a brief hand with the banner. Having finished his rounds and bored himself with the present strangers, he pulls up a stool and plops himself beside Sargasso. "Fitz for mayor, jolly what." A second, unopened bottle emerges, which he offers to his companion-of-recent-political inclination. "Fitz all the way. There's a slogan, chum, ponder that one." He sniffs and demurely scans the next group of ruffians to walk in. "Oh, don't miss those burly fellows, boy. That big one counts twice, I've called it already," a budding smirk creeps up one cheek. "Oh the picture, the face on some geriatric pollster when that swarthy brute asks for two ballots." The very thought sets him chortling, and Rogatus makes the token gesture of hiding the smirk behind the neck of his beer. "Faith and mercy, and I still haven't toasted you. Cheers, then, to Fritz. Vote for Fritz, Fritz for mayor, Fritz our man," this could go on for some time.

Zedidiah roams into the tavern, tucking his thumbs into his overworked suspenders. The tubby little halfling makes his way up to the donation box. Inquiring aloud, "This Fitz Johnson, is he a friend to the businessman?" All the while the halfling tried to surreptitiously make note of the donation amounts listed on Sargasso's ledger, so as not to donate too much or too little.

Sargaso grins at Rogatus’s queer, foreign eagerness that baffles the morose and grouchy boozers that congregate here. They’re the type of folk who laugh at off color jokes that are funnier the closer they hit home. Rogatus’s senseless cheer becomes a joke, to some. A few snicker behind Rogatus’s back, and Sarge glares at them when their snickering gets too loud and obvious. He and The Rodge go way back. Can I call you The Rodge? No? Okay, that’s fine too. “Rogatus, I tell you about Amber? Amy’s new friend? Your kind of gal. She has these amazing-” Mid pantomiming of massive knockers, Sarge is interrupted. He looks left and right clear over the fat halfling’s head. Finally he looks down and blinks, setting his stool flat on the ground. “He sure is, pal. The smaller the businessman the better.” Wince. “Uh... I mean the smaller the business. Not the man himself. Small and medium business, you know. For the mom and pop shop, or the upstart. He uh…” Dammit, he should have read that policy manual. DIVERT AND DISTRACT. “Say, wait a minute.” Sarge squints as if to get a better look at Zedidiah. “Don’t I know you?” Hell no he does not. “On the docks earlier today?” That’s true for 90% of the people here. “You were looking for a boat?” True for 70% of the people here. “Maybe I can help you out, friend. What are you drinking?” Sarge claps a hand good naturedly on Zedidiah’s shoulder and turns him towards the bar where he’ll work this ‘businessman’ for a real fat donation, as fat as his belly. With his attention on the halfling instead of the donation box, Sticky Paws Pauly, a thieving feline Sarge didn’t see come in, swipes the donation box right off the bar and makes a mad dash for the door, literally climbing over furniture and people. “HEY!” Sarge shouts as he turns after that thief and chases. “Stop that cat!”

Rogatus blinks, raising both brows and Sarge enters the pantomime, but the arrival of the halfling interrupts his envisioning likewise, and his eyes snap down to spot Zedidiah. "He's a good friend," a confirmation, then a question, "isn't he? Righto." Another sip, and Sarge was already moving to lead the wee newcomer away. "That's the spirit," Rogatus quickly stands and brushes his shirt flat, not eager to be left behind and, consequently, leaving the donation box unguarded. In fact, it is with a beer bottle to his lips that the go-lucky Rogatus catches Sarge's warning cry, and he nearly spits out a fizzy mouthful, barely managing to choke it down unspilled. "Too close a call," he taps his chin, checking for dribbles. "Good, right, stop. Yes. Stop, thief, he's getting away." It's taking all his concentration to fight the urge to cough, as some of the beer had trickled down the wrong pipe.

Zedidiah claps his lips quietly for a moment while he tries to place Sargasso. What does he know?! What did he see?! The halfling stutters, then finally decides to squeak out an answer, "Ale?" He looks from Sargasso to Rogatus, to Pauly. The halfling is stricken by every form of terror. Thieves, spies, he just wanted to cultivate political favor!

Sargaso stops at the door, twisting at the waist to look back at Rogatus, arms open like ‘Dude, seriously’. “Rog, the thief. A little help.” Without waiting for confirmation, Sarge bolts out the door. Damn cat is already on the roof. The sailor jumps on an overturned wheelbarrow, then a lamp post, then onto a wooden awning, a balcony, lifts himself up by a gutter, onto the roof. Parkour, baby. But it’s no use even trying. The feline has already disappeared into a shadow and even if Sarge could place him, he suddenly remembers he’s chasing a handful of copper. A-ha! Five ales will do that to your short term memory. He rubs his forehead as he thinks up a new scheme. That halfling… his pockets looked deep. Assuming

Rogatus feigned enough concern to half heartedly pad his way out onto the street and cheer Sargaso on the chase, the sailor returns to his friend and clues him in the scheme. “Reckon we can get that halfling to donate what we lost? Say the boss’ll skin us or something?” Worth a go for more gold. Back inside, Sarge hangs his head and drops into the seat beside Zedidiah. He wrings his hair like a man who lost his job. Rubs his jaw, signals to the barkeep for a shot of the strongest stuff. Before the shot even arrives, Sarge leans an elbow on the table and rubs his eyes, exhaling loudly.

Rogatus thumps his chest a little, nodding affirmatively and trots off after Sarge, arriving outside just in time to spot the sailor standing on a rooftop in defeat. "Rotten luck, that," he calls up after him. Soon they're walking back in, Rogatus offering his victimized friend a consoling pat on the shoulder, his face a Grecian mask of gloom and woe. He had, of course, instantly consented to the ruse and now sought to play his part. "Expect it will come out of our hides. All that money, gone! You and I, two lowly henchmen, oh what will we say?" A shuddering sigh presses out from him, and he looks to the ceiling in fruitless desperation.

Zedidiah teeters nervously from one foot onto the other, looking hopeful as the two men return. He's invested in this narrative now, the plight of the poor put upon campaign workers. "Oh...oh no. No no no. I can vouch for you. Or we could fill out a report?" He toddles closer to the men, tucking his shirt back in after his belly tried to make its presence felt. "Zedidiah Gawkroger's the name, if you need it."

Sargaso nods at Zedidiah’s idea and name. “Sargaso Mar, but you can call me Sarge.” He downs the firewater shot in one gulp. “A report’s all well and good, mate, but the boss isn’t looking for excuses. The other guy-” who is Fitz running against?! “That robber baron,” he scowls at a political enemy he presumes exists (he really should have read that policy manual), “Has all the money he needs. How’s Fitz going to compete? No, what we need to do is come up with some donations. Fast, tonight. But how? Not enough hours left in the night.” He looks to Rogatus for confirmation that they are, indeed, screwed.

Rogatus nods and shakes his head as necessary, reaffirming Sarge's words at every opportunity. "No excuses," he echoes. "No time." In a moment when he feels Zedidiah might not be looking, Rogatus narrows his eyes in scrutiny and gives the halfling a quick glancing over. Sarge had scoped this guy, so fair enough. As quickly as it had come, the look of sharp inquisition vanishes again, dissolving into hopeless lament. "So kind a gesture, of course, that you might take interest," Rogatus clicks his tongue and looks to the floorboards, "but there's nothing to be done. So much money, and the night's nearly out."

Zedidiah sucks in a long breath through his teeth, then indicates to the bar keep that he'll pick up the men's tab for tonight. He muses quietly, before contributing, "What if... well no, no that's silly. Well. Maybe. What if you make ludicrous promises on behalf of the robber baron, and take donations in his name? Then you have the money, plus people are upset when he breaks his word?"

Sargaso suppresses a grin at Zedidiah’s idea. “That’s a ballsy idea.” He tosses Rogatus a dead-eyed look that communicates he’s giving up on Zedidiah. The halfling isn’t coughing anything up. “But we still run into the same problem of not having enough time. But uh, thanks, mate. For the ear and idea. Maybe we’ll try that out sometime. We should get going, yea?” Again, looks to Rogatus for the assist.

Rogatus stands up straight, orders one more drink on the (halfling's tab) and thanks him for the novel suggestion. "Capital idea, there," he commends, "Zerikiah. Cheers. Good health." Drinking deep, he brushes past Sargaso and heads for the door, forgetting their banner and accompanying setup.

Zedidiah nods, smiling to himself. He was helpful! He beams for a moment, looking back at the men. "Oh! And my donation. I was going to give fifty, but maybe one hundred, given the circumstances? " He produces a coin purse for Sargasso.

Sargaso stands just as Zedidiah announces his own donation. “Oh that’s real kind. Thanks, mate. I’ll put your down for 100.” Sargaso adds Zedidiah Gawkroger to the list, donation 100 gold. “You take care. Hope to see you around here again. I’ll put in a good word for you to Fitz, next I see him.” He takes the clipboard with him, but also forgets the banner. Outside, he flashes Rogatus a roguish grin as he palms off 50 gold. “Let’s go to Martha’s and spend this.” Hudson doesn’t need this gold. He isn’t stealing from anyone. Hudson is expecting any real donations, Fitz only seems vaguely aware he has a campaign staff (the term used loosely here), and Zedidiah gave that money of his own free will. Win-win.