At around midnight on October 14, 2041, Steven R. Fort was standing in the center of a large parking lot of a dimly lit, deserted warehouse in Tyson’s Corner, around 16 miles from the center of Washington DC. The weather was biting and frigid, and the cold winds ungraciously grazed his bald head. Around his neck he wore a cashmere scarf, and underneath his leather jacket he wore a thick hoodie, but the ungodly nature of the cold still penetrated his clothing. The only thing that slightly warmed him up a bit was his blood boiling from the profanity he spat at Dylan M. Blackie, although it was insufficient to calm his shivering body and rattling teeth. Ten minutes after midnight a light rain began to fall, and Fort’s profanity became more vigorous. For a second, he had the urge to go back to his car and retrieve his umbrella, but changed his mind. As the light rain intensified, Ford began to philosophize and seek answers from a higher power.
He figured that despite his current series of misfortunates of caricature proportions, at least even serial killers and robbers would stay inside with the current state of the weather and whatnot. This thought was sort of ironic given the vast amount of cash contained within the duffel bag he was holding with his right hand. He would nervously look at his watch over and over, and finally at 25 minutes after midnight emerged a mysterious looking black limo from the shadows and pulled up to the deteriorating and overgrown gate to the warehouse. As it came to a complete stop, the headlights shut off and a spotlight suddenly flashed at Fort, illuminating his silhouette. The spotlight continued to comb the surroundings before finally centering back on Fort for a few moments until it shut off. The headlights flashed three times, signaling for Steve to approach the limo.
He continued through, attempting to avoid the potholes filled with muddy water, to proceed to the limo with the tinted windows about 120 feet away. The back door opened up as he got close to the car and a faint light illuminated the interior. The interior in the back had a leather sofa style seating arrangement, one facing forwards and one facing back. He sat down in the one that was facing back and shut the door beside him. As he sat facing the old man, the old man bluntly and coldly asked:
“Did you bring the cash?”
“Yeah it’s in this bag”, replied Fort with a cheeky tone, suspiciously staring at the old man.
“You can turn around and hand it to my driver”, said the old man, pointing and nodding behind Fort.
Fort could feel heat blasting the back of his head as the window slid down behind him, and he handed the bag over to the driver.
“Run it through the counter”, intoned Blackie.
Fort felt insulted. “What, you don’t think it’s all there? Don’t forget I’m a senator.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, you’re right. Run it through the counter twice, Mickey.”
Fort quietly sat in his seat in aggravation and repressed protest, periodically gulping down and clearing his throat, as machine and beeping sounds together with the rustling of the cash could be heard behind him, as well as the sharp sounds of elastic bands.
“Half a million, boss.” announced the chauffeur.
“Alright, let’s go.” Blackie instructed.
As the car drove on, they sat there in silence staring at each other with mistrust. There was tension but it was subtle.
It made sense, as Blackie was known to not like the public spotlight much and this modus operandi mimicked what was transpiring.
Blackie was still mysterious influencer of politics, a wealthy puppetmaster for decades who had no address, only a phone number to go by.