10-20-2013, 11:20 AM
The door to the liquor shop swung open, chiming the bell. A middle aged man with a long tan coat entered, his features almost as run down as the shop itself.
"We don't get many visitors."
The old shopkeeper was right, Remington County was a small town with a dismal population, serving the even more dismal population of farmers that remained in the area. It used to be a bustling hub of activity back in the day when farming and mining was more common. Most townfolk knew each other, visitors were rare.
The man nodded at the old shopkeeper but said nothing else.
"So....what'll it be?"
The man kept silent and looked about the shop. Soon, something caught his attention, a glass cabinet with a lone bottle perched on a wooden stand. The label was yellowed by age yet the bottle was unopened. "That. The one in the glass cabinet." He said in a rough voice while pointing.
The shopkeeper remained silent for a while before grabbing a ladder from under the bar. "You know...You're a man of good taste, despite your looks."
He pulled out a key ring from his back pocket and ran through the keys, stopping at a small iron key rusted by age. He inserted the key into the lock and fumbled a bit trying to open the lock. Gingerly and with the utmost caution, he took out the bottle, cradling it with two hands and brought it to the bar. "Unfortunately, I can't sell you this. You ask how much, but this. This is priceless."
The man in the coat took a closer look at the bottle. It was an unspectacular glass bottle and the label was slightly torn. Upon closer inspection there appears to be the word "Greenwich" on the label, the rest is intelligible, rotted by age.
"This is a bottle of "Royal Greenwich Reserve", 672 A.S. Made by the now bankrupt Greenwich Brewery Company. The whiskey they sold used to be an old favourite here, especially amongst the workers. My father used to say that it was the only thing my great-grandfather would drink. Back that was during the Silver Rush... Now, this bottle is a rare item, any bottle of Greenwich can fetch a decent price in Liberty."
"Is that so? Why did they go bankrupt?"
"Some lawsuit or something. Recently in fact, just 10 years ago. Heard that the lawsuit was fixed but nobody had proof. Anyway, I can't sell you this, perhaps something else?"
The man in the coat shook his head and left without saying a word.
-----
11 years back, a mansion in the Denver countryside. An old sign was hung at the front of the gate, in big bold letters the sign read "Greenwich Brewery est 458 A.S".
A well built man, clearly Bretonian was sitting the living room. His features were sharp and cunning, accomplishing the "businessman" look. Opposite him was an old man in his 70s, hair whitened by age, next to him was a younger man, possibly in his mid-thirties. A bottle of whiskey with three glasses stood on the table between them. This however, was not a simple friendly meeting, the tension was great, almost tangible.
"I'm telling you, I won't sell the brewery. Are you blind? Have you not read the sign?! It says "established 458 A.S". This brewery has been a family run business for centuries. I will not give it up for some bits of imaginery cash."
"Are you senile you old man?! I'm offering you the deal of a lifetime. We're offering you the deal of a lifetime. Sell this to the Castell Corporation and we'll provide you enough credits to last you several generations."
"You're the damn senile one. This is the third time you've knocked on my door and this is the third time I said god damn no to you. Do I -have- to get my damn shotgun to chase you out?!"
"You don't know what you're missing here. This is your last chance to accept our offer. Absolute last chance, no more concessions. If you take it, we're both happy. If you refuse, I promise you, bad things will happen." The Bretonian was getting flustered and in doing so, getting more aggressive.
The young man suddenly butt in. "Is that a threat? My father here said no. So scram."
"Why you little!-" the Bretonian stood up in a fit of rage.
The young man rose as well and, calmly, whipped out a blaster from his holster. He pointed the pistol at the Bretonian, staring him down the gunsights.
"I said, leave. My father doesn't want you here. I don't want you here. Leave our establishment and never come back. Make your decision snappy or my trigger finger might get itchy."
The Bretonian was clearly shaken up by being held at gunpoint. He straightened his tie while glaring at the young man. "Trust me. You, all of you. You'll all regret this decision." With that final threat, he stormed out of the mansion, slamming every door along the way.
-----
7 months later. A funeral procession is being held.
Citizens of the small town have gathered to oversee the procession. A black coffin with its lid open stood on an altar, inside it was the pale body of an old man. Judging from the number of people gathered, he was well liked and well loved amongst the people of the town.
Dressed in black was his son, Richard Carson, now the young heir to the Greenwich Brewery. The look on his face was pained, tortured. Alex Carson was more than just a father to him, he was a teacher and a mentor. He taught him all he knew about brewing whiskey, all the family secrets, all the methods and all the knowledge he knew has been passed down to the next generation. That was how the Greenwich Brewery Co. operated, generation after generation of owners and maestros of brewing Denver's favourite home-brand. Now, it is his turn.
In the distance, a luxurious looking car caught his eye. A familiar figure was standing next to it. The figure was smiling, almost happy, in stark contrast to the mournful faces as the funeral. Richard glared at the figure with contempt. His father died in an accident, but the Bretonian businessman's presence was a clear indication of the opposite.
His father's death was no accident.
-----
Just a month after the funeral, the businessman was back.
"Oh how very very unfortunate. The previous owner passed away. My sincerest condolences." Sarcasm permeated every syllabus that he muttered, perhaps even on purpose.
"What the hell are you here for? I'm busy."
"Don't be so cold to me. I'm just here to propose a business offer. It is highly unfortunate that a pillar of your establishment just happened to...crumble...so I thought, perhaps I could relieve you of your burden." the businessman's cunning smile only served to irritate Richard even more than he should.
"This establishment is not for sale."
"Oh I'm sure you'll change your mind, the payment is very good, we at the Castell Corp. will be offering-"
"No, get lost."
"I haven't even said-"
The young man's patience was thinning at a rapid rate. He whipped out his pistol and violently shoved it under the businessman's neck. He restrained himself from pulling the trigger.
"Ouch ow ow...don't be so rough!" The businessman gritted his teeth and raised both his hands.
"Get the hell out of my establishment. Now!" He further pushed his pistol against the businessman's throat. "Don't make me pull the trigger."
"Gah. Fine, but I warn you, the Castell Corp. will get your establishment. I pray for your sake you don't end up like your beloved-"
A loud shriek was heard as a photon bolt seared through the air and hit a nearby wall, burning a hole into it. Richard had slipped his pistol sideways and pulled the trigger, shooting the wall behind the businessman. The businessman, freaked by the sudden occurrence, immediately cowered out the door. "Damn you!" was his parting words as he slammed the door behind him.
-----
9 months later, an electronics store on Sky Boluevard, Manhattan Central District.
A television on display is showing the news.
------
Manhattan Federal Prison, Planet Manahttan, Central District.
A man sits in a dark corner of a cell, in a foetal position, his eyes were sunken and his body was run down. A guard walks up to him and strikes his stun baton on the bars to his cell.
"Mr. Carson, you have a visitor."
A familiar figure came from behind the warden. His arm was bandaged and his eye was black. He grinned and laughed to himself, enjoying the pitiful sight that stood before him.
"Ha, I told you you'd regret this. Your company owes us a debt and you're stuck here in prison with no money for a bail."
The man kept silent.
"However, I am a kind man, a very kind one at that. I will provide you a final chance. I will let you sell your brewery to us for exactly 14 billion credits plus, we'll bail you out."
The man said nothing.
"If you agree, you get out and it'll save us the trouble of filling out the paperwork. How about it? Just sign here. I'll even provide a pen for you."
The man looked up with his sunken eyes. His face was blank but rage stirred within him. However, his choice was limited. He could stay in prison for next few years and be released as a penniless man, or he could sign the contract and be released early as a penniless man. He chose the lesser evil.
With 5 strokes of the pen, he signed away the centuries of work the many generations of his family toiled to produce. Greenwich Brewery Co. was no more.
"We don't get many visitors."
The old shopkeeper was right, Remington County was a small town with a dismal population, serving the even more dismal population of farmers that remained in the area. It used to be a bustling hub of activity back in the day when farming and mining was more common. Most townfolk knew each other, visitors were rare.
The man nodded at the old shopkeeper but said nothing else.
"So....what'll it be?"
The man kept silent and looked about the shop. Soon, something caught his attention, a glass cabinet with a lone bottle perched on a wooden stand. The label was yellowed by age yet the bottle was unopened. "That. The one in the glass cabinet." He said in a rough voice while pointing.
The shopkeeper remained silent for a while before grabbing a ladder from under the bar. "You know...You're a man of good taste, despite your looks."
He pulled out a key ring from his back pocket and ran through the keys, stopping at a small iron key rusted by age. He inserted the key into the lock and fumbled a bit trying to open the lock. Gingerly and with the utmost caution, he took out the bottle, cradling it with two hands and brought it to the bar. "Unfortunately, I can't sell you this. You ask how much, but this. This is priceless."
The man in the coat took a closer look at the bottle. It was an unspectacular glass bottle and the label was slightly torn. Upon closer inspection there appears to be the word "Greenwich" on the label, the rest is intelligible, rotted by age.
"This is a bottle of "Royal Greenwich Reserve", 672 A.S. Made by the now bankrupt Greenwich Brewery Company. The whiskey they sold used to be an old favourite here, especially amongst the workers. My father used to say that it was the only thing my great-grandfather would drink. Back that was during the Silver Rush... Now, this bottle is a rare item, any bottle of Greenwich can fetch a decent price in Liberty."
"Is that so? Why did they go bankrupt?"
"Some lawsuit or something. Recently in fact, just 10 years ago. Heard that the lawsuit was fixed but nobody had proof. Anyway, I can't sell you this, perhaps something else?"
The man in the coat shook his head and left without saying a word.
-----
11 years back, a mansion in the Denver countryside. An old sign was hung at the front of the gate, in big bold letters the sign read "Greenwich Brewery est 458 A.S".
A well built man, clearly Bretonian was sitting the living room. His features were sharp and cunning, accomplishing the "businessman" look. Opposite him was an old man in his 70s, hair whitened by age, next to him was a younger man, possibly in his mid-thirties. A bottle of whiskey with three glasses stood on the table between them. This however, was not a simple friendly meeting, the tension was great, almost tangible.
"I'm telling you, I won't sell the brewery. Are you blind? Have you not read the sign?! It says "established 458 A.S". This brewery has been a family run business for centuries. I will not give it up for some bits of imaginery cash."
"Are you senile you old man?! I'm offering you the deal of a lifetime. We're offering you the deal of a lifetime. Sell this to the Castell Corporation and we'll provide you enough credits to last you several generations."
"You're the damn senile one. This is the third time you've knocked on my door and this is the third time I said god damn no to you. Do I -have- to get my damn shotgun to chase you out?!"
"You don't know what you're missing here. This is your last chance to accept our offer. Absolute last chance, no more concessions. If you take it, we're both happy. If you refuse, I promise you, bad things will happen." The Bretonian was getting flustered and in doing so, getting more aggressive.
The young man suddenly butt in. "Is that a threat? My father here said no. So scram."
"Why you little!-" the Bretonian stood up in a fit of rage.
The young man rose as well and, calmly, whipped out a blaster from his holster. He pointed the pistol at the Bretonian, staring him down the gunsights.
"I said, leave. My father doesn't want you here. I don't want you here. Leave our establishment and never come back. Make your decision snappy or my trigger finger might get itchy."
The Bretonian was clearly shaken up by being held at gunpoint. He straightened his tie while glaring at the young man. "Trust me. You, all of you. You'll all regret this decision." With that final threat, he stormed out of the mansion, slamming every door along the way.
-----
7 months later. A funeral procession is being held.
Citizens of the small town have gathered to oversee the procession. A black coffin with its lid open stood on an altar, inside it was the pale body of an old man. Judging from the number of people gathered, he was well liked and well loved amongst the people of the town.
Dressed in black was his son, Richard Carson, now the young heir to the Greenwich Brewery. The look on his face was pained, tortured. Alex Carson was more than just a father to him, he was a teacher and a mentor. He taught him all he knew about brewing whiskey, all the family secrets, all the methods and all the knowledge he knew has been passed down to the next generation. That was how the Greenwich Brewery Co. operated, generation after generation of owners and maestros of brewing Denver's favourite home-brand. Now, it is his turn.
In the distance, a luxurious looking car caught his eye. A familiar figure was standing next to it. The figure was smiling, almost happy, in stark contrast to the mournful faces as the funeral. Richard glared at the figure with contempt. His father died in an accident, but the Bretonian businessman's presence was a clear indication of the opposite.
His father's death was no accident.
-----
Just a month after the funeral, the businessman was back.
"Oh how very very unfortunate. The previous owner passed away. My sincerest condolences." Sarcasm permeated every syllabus that he muttered, perhaps even on purpose.
"What the hell are you here for? I'm busy."
"Don't be so cold to me. I'm just here to propose a business offer. It is highly unfortunate that a pillar of your establishment just happened to...crumble...so I thought, perhaps I could relieve you of your burden." the businessman's cunning smile only served to irritate Richard even more than he should.
"This establishment is not for sale."
"Oh I'm sure you'll change your mind, the payment is very good, we at the Castell Corp. will be offering-"
"No, get lost."
"I haven't even said-"
The young man's patience was thinning at a rapid rate. He whipped out his pistol and violently shoved it under the businessman's neck. He restrained himself from pulling the trigger.
"Ouch ow ow...don't be so rough!" The businessman gritted his teeth and raised both his hands.
"Get the hell out of my establishment. Now!" He further pushed his pistol against the businessman's throat. "Don't make me pull the trigger."
"Gah. Fine, but I warn you, the Castell Corp. will get your establishment. I pray for your sake you don't end up like your beloved-"
A loud shriek was heard as a photon bolt seared through the air and hit a nearby wall, burning a hole into it. Richard had slipped his pistol sideways and pulled the trigger, shooting the wall behind the businessman. The businessman, freaked by the sudden occurrence, immediately cowered out the door. "Damn you!" was his parting words as he slammed the door behind him.
-----
9 months later, an electronics store on Sky Boluevard, Manhattan Central District.
A television on display is showing the news.
Welcome to the Libertonian Broadcasting Corporation, the latest news concerning Liberty for the Libertonian in the know. For home news today, we're live at the aftermath of a heated court session between Bretonian based "Castell Corp." against local alcohol manufacturer "Greenwich Brewery Co." So, Mr. Anders, how it's going over there?
Thank you Mr. Parson, I am Edward Anders, live at the scene. For those of you uninformed, recently the "Castell Corp." have sued the "Greenwich Brewery Co." over copyright issues. Apparently, Greenwich's "Old No. 8" contains the same ingridients as Castell Corp.'s "Royal Knight's" whisky. As any Libertonian will know, the Greenwich Company has been around for centuries, so many believed that they would win. However, things took a sudden turn when it is discovered that Castell Corp had registered Royal Knight's ingredients as copyrighted. Greenwich however, holds no patents. The judge decided here that Greenwich has to pay reparations of 14 billion Sirius credits and immediately halt the production of Greenwich brand whiskey.
Libertonians all around are not happy with the decision and are calling bias on the situation. Greenwich has many supporters here but the judge's decision is final. Things look really bad for the Greenwich Co. and current owner, Richard Carson.
Oh, we see Richard over there, he looks absolutely shaken by events. Still, we'll see if I can get a word out from him.
Excuse me, sir, Anders, LBC. Can I have a few comments?
What is your take on the situation?
"This....this is a set up....I can't take this..."
Oh look, I see the opposing representative of the Castell Corp, Mr. Wellington Castell. He's looking really smug, he's approaching Mr. Carson here.
"Heh, I gave you a chance-" *Smack*
Oh oh, looks like a fight has broken out. Richard Carson has just punched Wellington Castell in the face. Cameraman, got a good look at this?
"You set me up! Damn you!"
"Get off me! Security! Security!"
Oh no, this is starting to become a bit of a tussle, some Libertonians have joined Carson in knocking the living daylights out of Castell. Oh wait, the LPI have just entered the scene and are trying to control the-
"Excuse me sir, no filming from now on."
Looks like that's it folks, the LPI said we can't film this anymore but you guys get the idea. This fight could spell trouble for Greenwich Brewery Co., this is Edward Anders, signing off. Back to you Mr. Parson.
Boy, do things look bad over there. If things get out of hand, Mr. Carson may end up being faced with another lawsuit, this time for assault. Well, moving on to sports news....
Thank you Mr. Parson, I am Edward Anders, live at the scene. For those of you uninformed, recently the "Castell Corp." have sued the "Greenwich Brewery Co." over copyright issues. Apparently, Greenwich's "Old No. 8" contains the same ingridients as Castell Corp.'s "Royal Knight's" whisky. As any Libertonian will know, the Greenwich Company has been around for centuries, so many believed that they would win. However, things took a sudden turn when it is discovered that Castell Corp had registered Royal Knight's ingredients as copyrighted. Greenwich however, holds no patents. The judge decided here that Greenwich has to pay reparations of 14 billion Sirius credits and immediately halt the production of Greenwich brand whiskey.
Libertonians all around are not happy with the decision and are calling bias on the situation. Greenwich has many supporters here but the judge's decision is final. Things look really bad for the Greenwich Co. and current owner, Richard Carson.
Oh, we see Richard over there, he looks absolutely shaken by events. Still, we'll see if I can get a word out from him.
Excuse me, sir, Anders, LBC. Can I have a few comments?
What is your take on the situation?
"This....this is a set up....I can't take this..."
Oh look, I see the opposing representative of the Castell Corp, Mr. Wellington Castell. He's looking really smug, he's approaching Mr. Carson here.
"Heh, I gave you a chance-" *Smack*
Oh oh, looks like a fight has broken out. Richard Carson has just punched Wellington Castell in the face. Cameraman, got a good look at this?
"You set me up! Damn you!"
"Get off me! Security! Security!"
Oh no, this is starting to become a bit of a tussle, some Libertonians have joined Carson in knocking the living daylights out of Castell. Oh wait, the LPI have just entered the scene and are trying to control the-
"Excuse me sir, no filming from now on."
Looks like that's it folks, the LPI said we can't film this anymore but you guys get the idea. This fight could spell trouble for Greenwich Brewery Co., this is Edward Anders, signing off. Back to you Mr. Parson.
Boy, do things look bad over there. If things get out of hand, Mr. Carson may end up being faced with another lawsuit, this time for assault. Well, moving on to sports news....
------
Manhattan Federal Prison, Planet Manahttan, Central District.
A man sits in a dark corner of a cell, in a foetal position, his eyes were sunken and his body was run down. A guard walks up to him and strikes his stun baton on the bars to his cell.
"Mr. Carson, you have a visitor."
A familiar figure came from behind the warden. His arm was bandaged and his eye was black. He grinned and laughed to himself, enjoying the pitiful sight that stood before him.
"Ha, I told you you'd regret this. Your company owes us a debt and you're stuck here in prison with no money for a bail."
The man kept silent.
"However, I am a kind man, a very kind one at that. I will provide you a final chance. I will let you sell your brewery to us for exactly 14 billion credits plus, we'll bail you out."
The man said nothing.
"If you agree, you get out and it'll save us the trouble of filling out the paperwork. How about it? Just sign here. I'll even provide a pen for you."
The man looked up with his sunken eyes. His face was blank but rage stirred within him. However, his choice was limited. He could stay in prison for next few years and be released as a penniless man, or he could sign the contract and be released early as a penniless man. He chose the lesser evil.
With 5 strokes of the pen, he signed away the centuries of work the many generations of his family toiled to produce. Greenwich Brewery Co. was no more.