Chapter 1.2; The Faustian Bargain (part two)

"There are known knowns. These are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we know we don't know. But there are also unknown unknowns. There are things we don't know we don't know."

–Donald Rumsfeld

I honestly don't know what I was expecting when I ordered my Adorable Little Familiar (TM) to take me to a "hidden treasure." I suppose that, when most people think of treasure, they think of Pirates of the Caribbean types of things, with large oaken chests full of gold coins, outlaws, and treasure maps with X marking the spot. Evidently, this is not the kind of thing treasure spirits think about in modern times, which makes all kinds of sense in retrospect.

Opi led me directly to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. The place was a positively charming industrial building complete with peeling paint, broken windows, ample graffiti, and a rusted, padlocked chain that was barely keeping a set of half-rotten doors from falling open. And I was willingly walking into it while talking to an adorable hooved schoolgirl only I can see... Oh well, there didn't seem to be any people around at the very least, so, I suppose there could be worse places to be at 7:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning?

I park the car and get out, anxious to get my impromptu expedition over with as quickly as possible. Opi can be seen ahead and slightly to the left of me, happily bouncing towards the side of the building without a care in the world.

"Hey, Opi, are you certain this is the place?" I am greeted by a jingling laughter that reminds me of coin and rainbows.

"Of course it is, silly! I know all the good places – the treasure is just over there!"

I let out a sigh as I climb in through the broken window and lift up the loose boardOpi points out, painfully scratching my left hand against a rusted nail in the process. Damn, at this rate, my "treasure" is just as likely to be a tetanus infection. Maybe I should look into seeing a psychiatrist?

Those thoughts all come into a halt when my hand brushes up against a rather bulky, rubber-banded zip-lock bag… a zip-lock bag that is stuffed with tightly-packed twenty and one hundred-dollar bills. My first thought is shocked disbelief – somewhere in my mind, I still thought it was more likely that I was crazy; that magic wasn't real at all. But, unless I am straight-up hallucinating the small pile of money currently sitting in my hand (something I will most definitely verify in Las Vegas later this week, for entirely scientific purposes of course), magic is indeed real. Which means the adorable, smirking little demon in front of me can really lead me to money! Come to think of it, who abandons this kind of money anyway? I am getting a funny feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with winning the lottery.

"Opi..." I unsuccessfully try to keep my voice level, "...is this place, that is to say, is it ... safe ... for me to be here?"

The little demon has the nerve to shrug and giggle – to giggle – while twirling her hair. "Safe? You never asked me if it was safe, silly! Besides, I'm just a low level treasure spirit! I only know the places where treasures are kept, not if it's safe to retrieve them!" The damned creature looks genuinely smug now, as if she just told the funniest joke in the world and I was the punchline. You know, I don't think my Adorable Familiar is so adorable any more…

Shit.

Earlier I've thought about why someone would abandon this much money. The answer is, they wouldn't. I've read about places like this – entire organizations used to get caught all the time when exchanges in drugs and money got busted up by police. So the gangs started getting smart and minimized their exposure. To protect themselves from the cops and pesky, snitching eye-witnesses alike, they started setting up places like this one – seemingly abandoned, rotating drop off locations in gang territory that provided the protection of anonymity to everyone involved. In fact, the famous meth cook Walter White (the real guy, not the Breaking Bad character named after him) was able to spend years as a successful wholesale dealer without even once seeing any of his buyers' faces, or having a single in-person conversation!

Thanks to drop-off locations like this one.

The one I am at right now.

With a bag of money in my hand.

Let me just put that back and get the Hell (ha ha) out of here before the – I squint to read the graffiti on the opposing wall – 211 crew (?) shows up to collect their paycheck…

Aaand there goes that bright idea ... I hear the distinct noise of an approaching car with way-too-many sub-woofers in the trunk.

Parking next to my vehicle.

Cutting off my only real escape route.

I push aside the giddy feeling of oncoming hysteria as I look at the still giggling child-demon. "Opi, I don't suppose you can offer me a bit of help here?"

"Oh, silly, I'm not a..."

"DON'T EVEN say it! If I hear you saying that you are not a Combat Demon, I SWEAR, I am going to find a way to beat your demonic…"

***