One Man's Treasure - Part 2/3 (The Middle)

**Foreword: This is a short story based around the idea of making fictional characters inspired by Minds users. It's a bit of fun but I assure you it's crafted with the full weight of my ability. It's also the first piece I've written in a sci-fi setting. Don't get used to it. Enjoy! Please support me on Patreon or Subscribestar**

(Part 1)

The Curator was a devilish man of impeccable taste, standing as though an iron rod were cast down the center of his spine, made up in a fitting three piece suit with the amblings of a cravat brimming forth from his collar- all the visual markings of a man in control of his own destiny.

Few had ever known him by his real name, and fewer still remained alive to speak of it. For The Curator had become less of a man during his mortal walk through life, and more the personification of his now overly notorious occupation.

“Sarm,” He told himself, staring into the mirror as he sometimes did, saying his own name aloud just to hear it, just to make it real. “Sarm.” The sound rang like a foreign word, formed on a foreign tongue, etched on foreign lips, his own voice betraying his own ear. The world was forgetting him, or at least the man for whom the name represented. It made his own intoning of it a poor substitute of what it meant to have, speak, and hear a name. “Sarm.” He repeated again, staring at the features of his own face, examining the subtle flaws, the crevices carved by the sum total of his personality- the ever changing landscape of time portrayed in detail on the human face. He found himself equal parts impressed and disgusted, the curse of self-reflection for a man so sharp as he.

There came a knock at the door.

“Speak,”

“Mr. Curator, Sir, He has arrived.”

Sarm shrunk back from the harsh lights of the mirror, and ‘The Curator’ spun on his heel while straightening the folds of his jacket. The latch snapped sharply, the door swung wide, and The Curator walked briskly past his awaiting attendee. The two fell into lock step, gliding swiftly with long strides over polished granite, and through decadent halls.

The Curator’s house was about more than mere living, more than enjoyment, business, success, or the future of his progeny. It was a statement- from him to the world, that he, like it, was no mere trifle, and that he, like it, ought to be taken seriously. Most men recognised this instinctively, or could be taught it if need be. Most men were smart enough to listen to such wisdom, whether it bubbled up from the inner workings of their soul, or came from the outer workings of another with the authority to speak it into their being. The Curator knew many such men, and made it a habit to surround himself with such impressionable fellows. For they were the bread and butter of which a man such as he did what he did best. They were the men on which a curator could curate. Then, of course, there were the insufferable few.

The Curator marched into one of his many drawing rooms. This was a grand affair, a spacious interior of white marble, high ceilings, and cylindrical pillars that stretched to the soaring heights above. The room seemed based in a holy light, the architecture lending itself to capture the beauty of mother nature's givings so that they multiplied in their splendor within the room. The sparse yet profound selection of furniture did its job to both provide a satisfactory level of comfort, while adding a subtle touch of culture that both added to its appeal, while not detracting from the rooms function. For a drawing room it seemed overstated for its purpose, but The Curator loved it for that very reason, giving him a breath of fresh invigorating air every time he entered it.

Except, of course, when it was so besmirched by such in attendance as Captain Garbage.

The Curator’s nose wrinkled at the sight, little more than an involuntary twitch, a betrayal perhaps if he cared to mask his disdain, which he did not. He turned swiftly to his attendant, “Leave us. And close the doors, I do not wish to be disturbed.” The attendant gave a curt nod and did as instructed. Only when the doors clicked shut did The Curator turn back toward his guest.

Captain Garbage sat lounging upon a white sofa, one well worn boot hitched atop a glass coffee table. In his hand he held a bunch of grapes, dangling above his maw, being plucked by teeth behind a sucking set of lips. Wrapped in his arm was the entirety of the fruit bowl, overflowing with a wide selection of nature's candy, usually available for anyone to share, but now all seemingly belonging to the Pirate Captain. He bit down, a squirt of juice escaping his mouth, and a happy smile spreading across his face.

“Curator!” He greeted, leaning forward and setting the fruit bowl on the uneven cushion, the contents dangerously close to spilling about the upholstery. A dissatisfied look suddenly masked his face and he worked his jaw, bringing forth a seed which he spat onto the glass of the coffee table. It sat there like an offending slight, stark in it’s blemish on the otherwise once perfect room. “You know, they make these without the pips?”

“I assume since you’re here, you have it?”

“Straight to business then is it? I remembers a time when we were’s friends, you and I. Real pals, thick as thieves, making up stories with the business’ hatching on account.”

“Times have changed I’m afraid. For some of us, at least.”

“Aye, that they have.” And the two took a moments silence to stare at one another, drawing two different meanings from the very same statement.

“Still, what’s a walk down memory lane, aye? How’s about we have a seat, call that At-and-dee of yours, and have us a few drinks. We can talk about the good old days, maybe do you some good.”

The Curator considered this briefly before stating, “a compromise.” He clapped his hands twice causing a hidden mini bar to rise swiftly out of the marble floor. Sweeping forward he drew forth a crystal bottle filled with a dark liquid and two glasses from a matching set. Once on the table, he clapped his hands again, took up an opposing seat, and began pouring two drinks.

Captain Garbage looked on with both fascination and surprise, and seeing the bar disappear back into the floor, attempted to re-summon it with a stuttered clap of his own. The mini-bar promptly ignored him.

The Curator slid a drink over to the Captain, and the two savored the honey’d liquor within.

“This is a fine rum!” The Captain announced, brimming with a wide smile. “Always a man after me own heart.”

“I’m nothing if not prepared,” and the two chinked glasses before the Captain downed his liquor in one. He poured himself another.

“Now, as I was saying, do you have it?”

“Would it tickle your fanny if I do? Go on, say it, say how tickled your fanny will be if I have it, then maybe I’ll let you know.” Captain Garbage grinned, a self satisfying, toothy grin that The Curator knew all to well.

The Curator sighed. He knew where this was going, and that was nowhere unless he could entertain the small trifles of the Captains existence, such as they were. His eyes drifted away, marking his disdain, and all sense of playful emotion was bereft of his spirit. “Yes it would tickle my fanny.” He intoned.

“How tickled?! Go on, you didn't say how tickled is your fanny!”

The Curator sighed again, and rubbed at the bridge of nose between his eyes. If it weren't worth the prize he’d of walked straight out of the room. Fortunately for the Captain, and unfortunately for him, he had to endure. “My fanny is so tickled, you might say it’s tickled pink.” He recited in near robotic fashion.

Captain Garbage erupted with laughter, slapping his knee, and sloshing a good portion of his drink onto the floor. The Curator composed himself as he waited for the Captain to do the same.

“Now please, can we get on with business.”

“Okay, okay,” the Captain gasped for breath, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. He reached into his jacket and pulled forth a trinket. He set it down on the glass table with a click, pushing it forward until it rested beside the offending grape seed from earlier. The Curator reached forward, plucking up the micro-drive with his own fingers, and holding it up to the light.

“So much fuss for such a small thing. My contractors will be pleased. My thanks to you, of course.”

Captain Garbage leaned forward over the table and slapped The Curator about the shoulder. “My pleasure, Sarmy. What are friends for?”

(Part 3)

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