Free Abattoir by Christopher Leppek, Emanuel Isler

out to be just another rat. In the end, they were all the same: thieves who couldn’t keep their hands out of his till. He’d suspected it for years and years, just like he had his waitresses and bartenders; his hostesses, partners and wives. All they ever wanted was to fuck him, and he figured that he’d been sufficiently fucked by now.
    Stu Brown had put his foot down for good. There would be no more banks, no more professionals posing as friends, no more advisors, counselors or consultants. He’d worked way too hard for his money to allow those parasites—those rats— to suck it all away.
    The only man left to trust was himself.
    He stood in the kitchen, facing the expensive wood cabinets, copper pots and pans hanging unused from their racks. The cabinets were all open. Each shelf was lined with neat rows of cans. The counter was likewise covered with them. The refrigerator was similarly stocked.
    But they were not cans of food. They were coffee and soup cans, long emptied of their original contents, and now used for a new purpose. Each can had been messily stuffed with rolls and rolls of cash; everything from ones to hundreds. There were literally thousands of bills, and this was only the beginning. More than three quarters of his assets had yet to be liquidated.
    Brown had no idea how much money lay throughout his flat, nor did he care. He was driven by one overwhelming desire: to convert everything he was worth into more stuffing for his cans. He hoped desperately—he lusted—for the moment when he would realize that every last dollar had been gathered here under his watchful eye.
    Nothing else mattered to him. He hadn’t bathed in weeks, nor shaven, nor eaten properly. His clothing—once an expensive silk shirt and knit slacks—were filthy, wrinkled and tattered. His beard was growing in full, his gray hair reaching well over his collar. He stank.
    It took several days to complete the task. It culminated with the arrival of an armored truck, the contents of which required several trips by the guards to deliver in full. It came in heavy canvas bags. When the guards were gone, Brown methodically transferred all of it into cans.
    He didn’t bother to count it, somehow sensing that it was all there.
    Brown wasted little time. On the morning after the big delivery, he double-checked the locks on his door, drew the curtains, and stepped into his living room. He slowly turned in all directions, taking it all in. Each filled can represented another step in his long and profitable life, another step away from those lean and hungry early days. Each one symbolized hard work—the product of his own sweat and blood. Every bill in every can was a victory.
    And now, they were all here, before their creator. Now they were finally safe.
    But not for long.
    Brown knew that Steve and the others—the rats —would be coming. They knew that he was gathering his money here, and they wanted it, like they always had. He hadn’t slept in days. Sooner or later, fatigue would get the best of him. That’s when the rats would strike. They’d wait until he was sleeping, in the middle of the night; silently creep in, remove each can, leaving him nothing. He could picture them smiling; their drool dripping onto his precious bills as they skulked about his apartment. Not one fucking penny left . . . not one.
    He had to find a safe place, now, before it was too late.
    The solution struck him in an instant. He wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him before. He had a refuge, right here, right before his eyes. The company safe. A black, iron monstrosity: utterly impenetrable.
    Yes. It would be safe there.
    Brown looked at his clock, the only item of furniture that didn’t fit his richly appointed decor. It was a round electric model, emblazoned with the words “Miller High Life”—a relic of his first bar. The neon showed ten-thirty in the morning. If he moved quickly, he could finish by tonight.
    He set to work. Can by can, he