Leopold Strauss knew the gnawing feeling of hunger.
The aching feel of your stomach turning in on itself, biting at its own flesh. The weakness that filled your limbs as you shamble through the streets. It gurgled and clawed. Acid, bubbling and hot, sliding up your throat, coating your tongue in its acrid taste. How the hint of food made your mouth water. Spit dribbling out the sides like a waterfall. The sting of shame when the vendor turns their nose up at your paltry trade.
No money, no food
Yes, he knew the feeling of hunger. He had vowed never to feel that way again. He worked his way up the ranks and when he couldn't work, he blacked mail. The professors and headmaster, other students, businessmen, it didn't matter. They all moved on his command like marionettes, his hands deftly plucking their strings to make them dance. But there is always the issue with being a big fish in a small pond.
So he moved.
He traveled from village to burg to city, lining his pockets and bodies in his wake. He didn't kill them, he would remark to others at soirées, the poor folks simply didn't understand the terms of the contracts. Afterall they probably couldn't read. The others would laugh, teeth glittering like pearls in the light.
Life with the gang had not been like anything he wanted to remember. The looks on the faces of the people he gave money to reminded him of his past. He hated them. He got to where he was because of hard work. What's their excuse? They were salt of the earth. Common idiotic folk. He never questioned why they were desperate. Why they agreed to any terms he set. He admired men like Cornwall, who held an iron fist over the people, squeezing them of their wealth and body. He envisioned himself one someday.
He thinks of these as another fist kisses his face. As his glasses break and fall to the ground useless. He thinks of the green bills falling like leaves, scattering in the wind as he gathers them. The anger on the face of the man he thought too simple to understand the need- the point- of why he does what he does.
But maybe he always did know.
Maybe he was just as guilty as the rest. Instead of a gun, he killed with a smile.
He wheezes through his mouth, feeling the acrid taste of his stomach. Feel it knotting and biting on itself as he sat in the wooden chair.
He was so hungry.
His laughter echoes against the walls of the empty room.