My Predicament - Chapter Three

The kickback was tremendous, and I was unprepared for the the effect it would have. The man in front of me was allowed only a moment of shock before falling backwards, clutching his chest and gasping for air. The white of his shirt was already becoming red with blood. All I could think of at that moment was how if I did not escape from the remaining men, I would likely end up like the man who now lay bleeding on the floor.

The blonde man was the first of the remaining men to realise what was happening. He turned to me with his umbrella (I realise how silly that sounds) drawn. Before he could fire, I rolled out of the way, hearing the thud of the projectile against the wooden floor. Getting to my feet, I held my new weapon with both hands, and swung it against the man's face. He staggered backwards into one of his associates, who turned to see the catalyst of the inconvenience. Upon seeing me, he shouted - "Hey!" - and pointed in my direction as if he expected me to freeze in place.

Needless to say, I did not comply, and instead made a break for the door. The two men who had previously guarded it were at the other end of the room at the air vent, and were now raising their umbrellas at me. I grabbed the knob, turned it, and was in the hall before they managed to fire at me. Thuds and shouts echoed through the halls, and I turned to see the remaining six men making their way toward me. At this point, other people who shared this apartment with me were beginning to open their doors to see what the fuss was about, making the whole scene almost comical. I would have laughed at spectacle made by Mrs. Abernathy shouting "What the Devil is going on, you young rapscallions?!" at the blonde man, who seemed to be nursing a heavy nose bleed.

Instead of laughing, I ran like as if the Devil himself were in pursuit.

I managed to make it out of the building by way of the fire escape on the second floor. Upon reaching the bottom of the ladder, I heard the voices of the men from above.

"He went down there!"

"Stop him!" 

More thuds, and I knew that it was them or me. Raising my umbrella, I pulled the switch, and felt the kickback. A shout reassured me that the projectile had reached it's mark. At this point, I had no time to worry about the man lying in my apartment, nor the man who I had hit on the fire escape. They attacked me, and tried to kill me first. I was defending myself. No matter the justification, though, the face of the first man, and the shout of the second would haunt my dreams for nights afterwards.

To be quite honest, I do not remember much more of that night. I did not visit the police department, as I knew that is what I would be expected to do. Instead, upon checking myself in to a cheap hotel, I used a phone booth there.

"London Police, what's you emergency?" said a bored voice on the other end of the line.

"My apartment was invaded by eight, heavily armed men. I managed to escape, but I think they might still be after me."

"Mm hmm," he said, absently. "And what did they look like?"

"They were all rather tall. None of them were under six feet, I can say for certain."

"Clothing?" he said. I was getting the distinct impression that he did not care what they were wearing, and that he was simply saying this per regulation.

"They were all conspicuously dressed in black coats and top hats," I decided to give him all the details. "They also carried umbrellas which also seemed to be weapons of some kind."

There was an uncomfortable pause which lasted around fifteen seconds. 

"Oi! Jefferson! It sounds like we've got a drunk making calls!" he finally said. "Call again when you have a real emergency."

Over these few weeks since the attack, I have been reading the paper regularly. So far, there has been nothing about my apartment being invaded. I have not seen any of the men in black, so perhaps I have lost them for now. That, or they are getting better at concealing themselves, and aren't going about wearing black. Either way, you can expect to hear from me much more often, now. 

Good day, and stay safe.

❦ J.T. Marker

My Predicament - Chapter Two

When I saw the six new figures, my immediate instinct was to escape. However, there was nowhere to escape to! I could jump out the window, but that would be suicide. The fire escape was in the hall, and the men would no doubt beat me to it. Remembering how two of them so easily dispatched Yates, my panicked mind decided the best course of action would be to hide in a closet with a heavy object. Quickly searching my room, I found a fireplace poker. I then proceeded to hide myself as best I could in my bedroom closet.

I was unsure of what to expect, but my anticipation did not last long. A loud thud issued from the other side of my door, and I knew the men were going to break in. I tightly held the poker with both hands, hoping that some miracle would prevent them from entering my home. I have only rarely had to physically defend myself against a fellow man, and therefore, the thought of actually needing to use this makeshift weapon filled me with a growing sense of dread.

Several more thuds broke the silence. The men were not talking to each other. They knew what their mission was, and were not about to betray their intentions to me. Keeping me in the dark until they had me in their clutches. Even then, maybe I would never know what they wanted me for. I know not what they did to Yates, but I have no doubt that if he needed to be struck in the head, and dragged into an alley, it could not be anything good.

A final bump, and my door was ripped from its hinges. I heard several pairs of shoes clacking against the floor, going to ever corner of my home.

"I'm not finding anything!" shouted one voice. It wasn't one I recognised.

"Keep searching! And someone get us a damn light!" another voice said. I recognised this voice as belonging to the blonde man who struck Yates.

The sound of shoes on wood came closer to my hiding place. I did not know how to react. My senses were completely dulled. My only reaction at that point was to hold my poker a bit harder then before, which was pretty well impossible, considering how tightly I was already clutching it.

I was taken completely by surprise when the closet door was opened with all the force of an M&P Armoured Steam Walker ™. At the other side stood a man with the build of one. Even in the dim light, I could see that he looked surprised for a moment, but quickly replaced it with a look of determination.

"Found -!" said the man as I struck him in the face with the poker. I made a break for my door, only to find two more of the men standing guard in front of it. I had only a moment to assess the situation before I felt something come down over my neck, and pull me from behind.

Pulled to the floor, I looked up to see the blonde man staring down at me, as if in a trance. A strained glance revealed that he had his umbrella, of all things, held over my throat. With the look a of a man in a trance, he brought down the umbrella, sealing off the flow of air to my lungs. I did not know if intended to incapacitate me, or kill me, but I struggled with him, trying to push the umbrella off me. He pushed down with a grip of steel, and I knew it was hopeless to try and resist.

But try, I did. I seemed like an hour was spent, struggling to push him off me. The other men in his the group were beginning to close in. If I did manage to escape the blonde man, one of his associates would undoubtedly catch me before I could make it even a metre from them.

It was then my salvation came in a very strange form. An inconsequential detail at the time it seemed, but positioned behind the blonde man was a wall, and on the wall was positioned an air vent. The entire event happened in about three seconds, only one of which I saw clearly, but something seemed to pull at the blonde man from me. He dropped his umbrella, leaving it in my grasp, and for a moment I lived in the bliss of freedom from his grip.

This bliss was short lived, as I saw to my combined horror and relief that my attacker's foot disappeared into the vent.

His 'friends' seemed even more terrified by this than I, as they completely abandoned all interest in me, and were now doing a most peculiar thing; aiming their umbrellas as if they were rifles. Even more peculiar was the fact that they actually seemed to be doing something. Small pops issued from each of the umbrellas, and thumps were ringing out behind me, against the wall. What appeared to be small bullet holes were beginning to surround the air vent.

Barely even thinking, I felt around the umbrella, try to see what being used to convert these objects into weapons. One of the five remaining men finally seemed to remember what he was there for, and aimed his umbrella at me. In that moment, I found a small switch that a normal umbrella does not have. The only thing going through my mind at that moment was survival.

In less than a second, I aimed and fired.

❦ J.T. Marker

My Predicament - Chapter One

Let me first say that M&P, while paying well, were awful employers. Those favourable things I said about them in the early days of my journal? They were complete lies. I have no respect for them, other than how their technology got us through several wars. Even then, I cannot give them much respect, as it was also their technology which rendered much of Russia and China near uninhabitable wastelands. It is for that reason that the Clockwork Dragons are such a danger here in London.

Now, immediately after my March 17 post, I was sent to several more workhouses. Nothing particularly of note with the workhouses themselves, but what happened on the way was of much interest. After the incident outside the pub, I was under considerable stress. I was now constantly looking over my shoulder in search of the men in black. It was only a matter of time before I spotted one of them skulking in an alley. Contrary to the previous times I have seen them in daylight, this man was not talking to anyone. This time, he was watching someone - watching me!

Despite knowing even then what was the best course of action, I did not confront him. Something in the way he stared at me from the shadows frightened me on a fundamental level. I could not bring myself to go anywhere nearer to him.

After I carried out the inspection, I took a different route than usual. I think that I may have at one point intended to spend the night at an inn. But somehow, I felt safer in my home, so that is where I soon returned. On the way, I caught a glimpse of the two men in a fruit market. They nodded to each other, then went separate ways. I wasted no time in an attempt to lose the two of them by blending in with the crowd.

Upon returning home, I turned off all the lights. I closed the blinds and lit a small fire. For dinner, I simply warmed up some soup. Eventually, I peeked out the window. I saw the two of them standing on the other side of the street. They seemed to be speaking to each other, but I did not open the window to find out what was being said. I did not want to alert them to my awareness of them.

The next day, I set out as usual, but I took a different route. No matter which twist and turn I took, one or two of the men seemed to be on my tail. Even when I was inside the assigned workhouse, I kept looking over my shoulder. I swear to God above, I saw one of them going down a hallway.

This time, on the way home, I intentionally got myself lost in order to throw the men off the trail. I knew not what they planned to do with me if they got their hands on me, but I was in no hurry to find out. When I did return home, I was confident that no one had followed me. Naturally, they would be there eventually, but in the time it took for them, I could call the police. Since the shooting, the entire street has been under surveillance. The police would crack down on anyone who was reported as suspicious. I turned out the all the lights, and went to the phone, dialling the police department. 

But before I was even connected, the generator failed quite suddenly.

Now faced with the problem of no power, and the inability to contact the police, I looked out the window to the street. As luck would have it, I was just in time to see a man in a long black coat dashing from an alley, soon followed by his accomplice. Two men. As far as I knew, there were only two men, so my confidence (combined with panicked adrenaline) was boosted, and convinced me that I would be able to defend myself if it came to that.

Then I saw six more of them running out of the alley.

Damnation! A librarian is giving me a funny look. I will need to purchase this receptacle and continue at the inn. 

Good day, all!

❦ J.T. Marker

Return of the Real-Estate Inspector

These past few weeks, I have set my receptacle for automatic posts to this space. I assumed it to be working, so I never bothered to check. Only now do I realise that, in fact, nothing was posted. I have finally narrowed down the possibilities to one: M&P has managed to bypass the block I set up. As a matter of fact, I believe they have always known of the contents of this journal, despite my efforts at preventing such a thing.

It was a tedious and tiring process, setting up all sorts of safeguards, hoses, mites, and anti-invasion appliances, but I finally managed to ensure that nothing I say will be censored by M&P.

Now, I imagine that to the person reading this, I might not be making much sense. Allow me to explain; M&P do not like anything being said against them. They do not like it when their employees go off on  private adventures. They also do not like anything unusual being associated with them. I'm afraid what you see here is me, breaking all ties with the great Moulder & Primbol Industries in the interest of my personal liberty.

The first post I made after "Back to the Old Routine" concerned the wellbeing of child labourers in the workhouses. This was apparently the last straw for M&P, as that was the first of the posts they deleted while it was still in the nether. I found out only recently that M&P bought this site, and have complete access to the journals of anyone who works under them, like myself. To them, the thought children working for them in their workhouses is completely reasonable. To many, in fact, the reality of child labour is nothing to be alarmed or ashamed by. To me, it is something that no human being should experience. I was just like one of those children for most of my childhood.

As I have said, I was not aware of my posts never seeing the light of day until I looked over the original files and noticed a rather heinous spelling error in one. When I opened my journal to correct this, I saw that none of the files I had written since March 17 had been posted. I have them set to post automatically, so this struck me as rather odd. Nonetheless, I believed it to be a fault of the machine itself, so I ran various updates in the hopes the problem would correct itself. It was then when I noticed a message had been delivered to my receptacle mailbox. Upon opening it, I read a long newsletter of new policies which I could not care less about. However, what struck me was the announcement that M&P were now in control of the site.

That is not the only reason I have neglected to post in such a long while. I am currently in the Margaret Thatcher Library, using one of the public receptacles. The reason for this is that I am no longer safe in my home.

I am confident that I have broken many rules by setting up the protection I am using against M&P, but it is no matter, as I now have enough money from my employment (however short) with them, I think that I will buy this receptacle from the library. They were going to have to replace this model anyway. I will fill you lovely little charmers in on what happened tomorrow. Right now, I need to rest. Too much running.

❦ J.T. Marker

Back to the Old Routine

It has been over a month since my last post. Let me apologise for this. My life has become lively, now that good old M&P is sending me to inspect workhouses again. It feels good to be contributing to society in such a way. Unemployment will not be as much of a problem when my job is done, as each workhouse has the capacity to support a great number of people. 

The following are workhouses I have inspected. To be brief, I have broken them down their details into a simple system. Date of Inspection, Name, Size, Workability, Ventilation, Attitude of Manger, Quality, and Final Verdict. 

Date of Inspection: Feb 16

Name: Plinners Home For Those In Need Of Work.

Size: Medium, with a comparatively large courtyard.

Workability: Reasonable space and layout. Several walls might need to be taken down or modified.

Ventilation: Not bad. It could be better, but a logical investment might be widening the windows in the main work area.

Attitude of Manager: Pleasant, but ignorant of the outside world. He seems to think that Tony Blair is still Prime Minister. M&P might consider putting someone in to help him run the place.

Final Verdict: Yea.

Date of Inspection: Feb 20

Name: Mullwin Towers.

Size: Large exterior, cramped interior.

Workability: See above. Loading bearing walls would need to be moved for the sake of machinery.

Ventilation: Next to none. I could smell more human by-products than is healthy, and most light was from incandescent bulbs.

Attitude of Manager: Flamboyant, pompous, and overall a lot of fun to speak to.

Final Verdict: Nay.

Date of Inspection: Feb 25

Name: Jack Hall.

Size: Massive to the point that it is hard to navigate.

Workability: Given a map and a horse, or a bicycle, it would be the most efficient workhouse in the whole of the Empire.

Ventilation: So much so that it is freezing cold and wet.

Attitude of Manager: Unavailable. The head governess showed all the friendliness of an electric eel.

Final Verdict: Yea.

Date of Inspection: Feb 28

Name: Marshal & Jim.

Size: Medium. 

Workability: Efficient. Nothing is too far from anything, and it was easy to navigate.

Ventilation: Stuffy, but not particularly uncomfortable. Not much would need to be done to improve it.

Attitude of Manager: Unavailable. His secretary seemed to be interested in me on an uncomfortably intimate level. Have her replaced. 

Final Verdict: Yea.

Date of Inspection: Mar 1

Name: Seeder House.

Size: Small and cramped.

Workability: None.

Ventilation: None.

Attitude of Manager: Satan.

Final Verdict: Nay.

Date of Inspection: Mar 4

Name: Coalburn House.

Size: Medium.

Workability: Reasonable, but could use some improvement. The bathrooms are far too close to the dining hall. The intent is usually to keep them close, so if a worker is to ingest something disgusting, the loo is well within reach. Paradoxically, this is the very reason some workers may have to use the loo in the first place. 

Ventilation: Quite terrible. Improvements would have to be made before the place is suited for the needs of M&P.

Attitude of Manager: Better than some, I must say.

Final Verdict: Yea.

Date of Inspection: Mar 8

Name: The Pulpit.

Size: Small.

Workability: Good. Everything fits together like clockwork. Next to nothing would need to be done to adapt it. 

Ventilation: Quite good. The windows seem to be specifically designed for what I'm looking for.

Attitude of Manager: Pleasant and warm. Never in my life have I met someone who seems to have opened a workhouse for the one purpose of improving the lives of their fellow men.

Final Verdict: Yea.

Date of Inspection: Mar 13

Name: The Uncle.

Size: Large and drafty.

Workability: A little less room would be desirable. Also, a ceiling that does not threaten collapse at any given moment.

Ventilation: Far too much.

Attitude of Manager: He seems to think his workhouse is the best there is. I didn't have the heart to tell him he was right, I told him he was wrong. He told me he was right. The rest is better left to the imagination. 

Final Verdict: Nay.

Date of Inspection: Mar 16

Name: Josiah's Maximum Fun Room.

Size: ... Honestly, I don't know what to answer. It seemed almost variable.

Workability: If building automata was a children's game, this would not be the way I played the game with my children.

Ventilation: None.

Attitude of Manager: Insane, and dangerous to society.

Final Verdict: Nay.

And there you have it. I have been a busy man, haven't I? I am running out of workhouses to inspect, so we shall see how much longer this journal exists.

❦ J.T. Marker

Curious Happenings

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The affair is finally over. A long lost relative of the Brilbees was located in Spain, and it has been decided that the workhouse legally belongs to him. I admit, that the whole thing seemed almost comical, but I swear to God that one has never lived until they have seen a judge bury his face in his hands as the jury raises Hell over how none of them know how to speak Spanish. I could tell by the end of the hearing that everyone was satisfied that a resolution had been reached, though annoyed by the imminent language barrier they would face.

I paid my respects to the late Mr. Brilbee this afternoon, after the final hearing ended. I felt saddened by this, as I realised that I never really knew the man quite well. Such is life and death, though. One never has all the time to meet and become acquainted with all the people they want to.

Two unexpected things happened to me, Tonight. The first, happened when I entered the pub. I walked in as I always do, expecting nothing unusual. But without warning, quite suddenly, everyone stopped what they were doing to look at me. There was a moment of terrible silence, as if they were seeing something otherworldly in me. Paranoia has been running high since the shooting on my street, but I have been to the pub several times since that event. I knew not what might be the catalyst of this reaction.

I waited for any reaction, any at all. I simply did not feel comfortable sitting down as the eyes of the room were on me. Finally, sound began in one corner of the room: Clapping. In the same amount of time the room had taken to silence, it was suddenly filled with the joyous sound. The bartender (who I should mention, by the way, is named Jim,) hailed me over with a filled glass. 

The reason for this warm welcome? Apparently, word had gotten around that the 

"Brilbee Hearings" had finally come to an end. I have not read a paper in days, but the afternoon edition today had small announcement about it. And since these hearings had become famous around London for its tediousness, and I am a known frequenter of this particular pub, everyone decided that I deserved a round of applause for - as Jim put it - not blowing my brains out from boredom.

It was a strangely fitting end for the whole situation. I ate, drank, made merry, and generally forgot about the whole affair. It was also most refreshing, to say the least.

If only the day could have ended there, I would have been the happiest man in the British Empire. However, things took a strange turn after that. In fact, I am still uneasy about the whole thing, as it happened less than an hour ago. I will try to reconstruct the events to the best of abilities.

I left the pub. Everyone inside was wishing me a good night, and congratulating me on my "accomplishment". The night was cold, and I could see my breath in front of my face. I had barely stepped onto the sidewalk when suddenly, a man ran out from the alley opposite to me. I thought of it as nothing more than a vagrant, on the run from a constable. I decided that I had better not get involved, so I made for home.

Only, I was not fast enough. I felt a hand grasp my shoulder, and I turned around instinctively. I was greeted by the sight of Yates, the man who I had asked about the tall man. He looked panicked and flustered, and was not wearing a coat or vest. I guessed that he had left his home in a hurry.

"Marker! You have to help me!" he gasped, breathlessly. "I saw something I shouldn't have!"

"Slow down, my good man," I said, putting both of my hands on his shoulders. "First, let's get you into the pub. You need to warm up! What the Devil are you doing, dressed like that in this weather?"

"You bleeding fool!" he sputtered, shaking off my grip. "You don't understand; they're everywhere! I can't go in there!"

"What? Who?" I said, now becoming quite confused. "I can assure you that-"

"No, no, no! Get me to your home! Maybe they won't follow- Oh, Lord!"

Yates' expression changed from terrified and angry, to terrified and helpless. He looked passed me, to a point somewhere to my south. I turned to see what Yates saw. There, barely two metres from where I stood was the tall man. He carried an umbrella under his left arm, and in the light of the gas lamps, I could see his face clearer then I had before. It was that of an older man, grizzled and pale. Other details were still obscured by the low light, however. I heard the sound of shoes on pavement, and turned to see that Yates was running toward another alley.

"I say!" I called after him. "Where are you going?!"

I could tell that he had no intention of answering me. He ran like a man possessed. I turned back for an instant to see that the tall man had raised his free arm. He snapped his fingers, and I heard a sickening crack from behind me. I turned back to where Yates had been an instant before to see him sprawled across the sidewalk.

It took a moment to register that there was someone else standing above him. You can imagine the shock I felt when I realised that it was a man of similar height and dress to the one behind me. He also carried an umbrella, and from the position he held it in, like a cricket bat, I could tell that it must have been the weapon with which he had struck Yates.

Yates groaned, trying to get up. The man in the black coat grabbed him by the right shoulder, and hoisted him to his feet. Yates offered no resistance. I turned back to the first man, saying, "I say, what in God's name in going on here?"

"There is nothing to see, here," he responded in a deep, cold voice. "Return to your home."

"My good sir, I happen to know the man your friend has just struck," I persisted. "May I inquire as to why you must treat him in such a way. Has he done something of an illicit nature?"

"That is of no concern to you," he said. "Return to your home."

"I'm afraid that it is," I said, growing impatient. "What are you going to do with him?"

"Sir, you need not worry about your... friend," said a new voice. It was high and cold. I turned to see it was the second man. He was younger than the first, and had blonde hair that fell from under his top hat. "He is in safe hands. We will not harm him."

With that, the two men made off through the alley which Yates had ran out of when I first saw him. I was far from reassured by the tall man's words, but what could I do? I returned to my apartment, and tried to fathom what had just occurred. I was confused, and, quite frankly, scared out of my wits. Typing this has helped a great deal, but I still have no Godly idea of what I have witnessed.

Obviously, Yates did something to make the two men angry with him in some way. Perhaps they were members of a gang? Undercover police? Multiple theories came to me, but none made sense. 

Perhaps some of you have an idea of what might be going on? I know that next to no one reads my journal, but it would be appreciated if someone could help me understand this.

I'll work on getting rid of that warning on the top of the page.

❦ J.T. Marker

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My God. I hate this. No, I don't hate this; I absolutely loathe it! I'm a real-estate agent, not a jury!

Perhaps I should explain: Since the murder of Mr. Brilbee, things have gone from bad to worse. Apparently, M&P have decided that I should attend each hearing related to the incident. Their reasoning behind this, I cannot fathom.

Every day, I wake up, have a cup of coffee, (though I prefer tea, must have coffee to wake me up faster) and go the courthouse. I sit and listen to men in powdered wigs read papers, argue, read more papers, argue some more, then call a recess. I grab a bite to eat, then go back. I have not payed any mind to half of what has been said, much like when a workhouse manager gives me the grand tour.

At the end of the day, I stop by the pub for a meal and a drink, then I go straight to bed. I can never be bothered to write anything about my day because of how dull it was.

Needless to say, as I have already said it: I loathe this greatly. I wish Mr. Brilbee had never died. He had much to live for, and I would not be in this situation.

Maybe when this damnable situation is over, I will entertain you with more posts of my adventures in real estate. For now, goodnight.

❦ J.T. Marker

Day Five

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Day five.

Marker here. Don't give the error message a second's notice. Try as I might, I could not get rid of it.

Now, I am not up to anything shady, I assure you. This simply has nothing to do with Moulder & Primbol. Since they operate exclusively on Private Servers, they won't be able to see this post, while you lovely little charmers on Public Servers, should. It is all the better for them of course, as they do not want to concern themselves with the worries of the World.

My apartment and neighbourhood were in lockdown, yesterday. I was not able to enter after inspecting Madison Trench, and needed to spend the night in an inn. The reason for this was a violent insurgence which began in the apartment across from my own. The Clockwork Dragons have struck again.

Most of you have probably heard of the Clockwork Dragons, one of the many reasons you would not want to venture too deep into the slums of London. A brutal street gang, who's dirty dealings often get them involved with undesirable people.

A man on this street, one Mr. Iggins, had gotten the Clockwork Dragons angry with him. Exactly what he did has not been specified, but apparently, when the Dragons came to call, he started shooting a military-grade machine gun from his hallway, killing the gangsters in the immediate line of fire, and injuring several bystanders.

Dragons started swarming the neighbourhood, returning fire with guns of their own. Residents of the surrounding apartments were evacuated, while the police began shooting at any gangsters they saw.

It was a complete bloodbath. When it ended, four Clockwork Dragons, one policeman, and the Dragons' target, were dead.

When I returned from the inspection, I found that the entire street had been closed off. It didn't take long to find out what had happened, and I rented a room at the Bardelbee Inn. When I returned to my apartment this morning, I found that a bullet had went through my window and struck the incandescant bulb on the ceiling!

And there you have it. I have decided not write a description of Madison Trench. It was painfully dull, and M&P will not want to buy it.

❦J.T. Marker

Day Four

Day four.

It has been a while, has it not? 

Anyhow, allow me to enlighten you on the days passed. Various legal issues have arisen. M&P are trying to resolve them as we speak. It has come to my attention that the manager of Emerson Wall has died. Murdered, actually. It seems the young woman I spoke to when I first entered had a psychotic streak, and shot him with a pawned revolver as he slept.

A ghastly business on its own, but now there is a question of who can actually sell the building. With the manager (his name was Arnold Brilbee) gone at a relatively young age, he never wrote a will. Therefore, Emerson Wall should legally belong to the Emerson family, as they sold it to Mr. Brilbee in the first place. But they are all long dead.

Dreadful. What a tragic end for such a lovely fellow. 

I was sent to inspect Smith Castle, yesterday. I have no doubt that M&P would sooner tear it down than put any of their machines in it. At the time, I thought Mr. Pultham was the most vulgar man I had and ever would meet. At least he attempted to be Polite and seemed to genuinely like me. Mr. Berring gave me no such courtesy. I could tell he loathed me for no other reason than I was dressed well. This gave him the wrong impression that I was from an aristocratic life, and the excuse to treat me frightfully.

I am not ashamed to admit that his workhouse was by far the worst I have seen in my career. The entire building smelled of mould, rot, and various human by-products. The floors were made exclusively of rotting wood. This might have been bearable if it were not for the horrendously poor ventilation, heating the place to uncomfortable levels.

I left, saying to Mr. Berring, "We'll let you know." Which is a fancy way of saying, "We are not interested in your Hell Hole. Good day to to you, sir."

To my relief, the man in black has not returned to the pub. Taking the opportunity to find out about him, I approached the man I witnessed him talking to. Though, as I have said, I have never spoken to him, I am an observant fellow. I noticed that he was enjoying a stronger drink than usual.

"Good evening," I said, extending my hand. "I'm Marker. And, would it be to much trouble if I were to ask you a question?"

The man looked up at me. I could tell he was drunk. Slightly, but still drunk.

"No, not at all," he said, looking back down. He extended his hand to shake mine. "Yates is the name. I pray you won't ask me anything too queer, though."

"Thank you," I said. "I won't ask you anything strange, at least I hope. Would it be indecent of me to ask who that man was last night?"

He took a swig of his drink and laughed. "And why would you want to know that?"

"I had a run in with him," I said, deciding to tell him the whole story. "He knocked me over, and never helped me up, like a gentleman should. I should like to know who he is."

"Not very gentlemanly of you to be holding a grudge." he said, laughing again.

"I'm aware," I said. "But I also do not think bad deeds should go unpunished. And on the off-chance that it was merely and accident, and he somehow did not notice me, maybe we could become the best of friends, if only we could be acquainted." The man raised an eyebrow. "I was only joshing about that, of course." I added.

The man laughed once more, coughing up some of his drink. "You know why he didn't act like a gentleman? Because he's no gentleman."

"Pardon me?" I said.

"And I've already said too much. Do yourself a favour, and forget you ever saw him. Otherwise, he might come after you next, and "question" you." He raised two fingers, forming air quotations.

"But-" I began.

"I've said too much!" he said, getting up from the table and walking out the door, slamming it behind him.

In conclusion, I do not know what to make of all this. Maybe it would be better to just forget about the incident. After all, I was not hurt. I have, however, drawn the scene. Maybe this will give some of you a laugh. At the time it was quite frustrating, but now I find it to be rather silly.

❦J.T. Marker

Day Three

Day three.

Thank heaven above! The rain who's sound plagued my sleep all through the night ceased before I set out this morning. For good measure, though, I brought my umbrella with me.

I stopped by Ms. Granite's Bakery again. She claimed the rats were becoming bolder, now they were no longer in her roof, but in her attic. While I doubted there was much I could do to quell the matter, I had a peek into the attic to see if I could find any of the beastly creatures. All I could find were sacks of flower and grain, no rat droppings or nests in sight.

One curious thing which stood out to me, however, were scratch marks on the walls. Upon closer inspection, I saw that they were each about half an inch deep. Curious...

"My dear lady, are you quite sure it is rats who are causing such a din?" I asked her.

"Indeed I am, Mr. Marker. I have had experience with the little devils," she replied. "Quite loud, they are."

"Well," I said. "I looked and found no sign of vermin of any kind. I did, however, find what I believe to be the claw marks of a large bear."

I had a guilty laugh at her shocked reaction before I calmed her, saying: "Fear not, my dear lady. If anything, they are scratch marks left from crates being jostled about. If, however, one night you should hear a growl, I would suggest you leave immediately, and go to the hunting club. I am confident that someone there will be more than happy to take care of the problem."

Today's workhouse was Illidge House. By far the most glorious of the ones I have so far seen, this one looked like a mansion from the outside. The inside was like a mansion as well. A very dirty mansion. While the entrance hall had wooden floors, the work areas' were made of solid stone. The ventilation left a bit to be desired, but It might be a worthy investment to improve it, considering how wonderful the rest is.

While the manager was not able to see me on account of a bad cold, the head governess took me around the premises, giving me the history of the building. What I heard was so hopelessly dull that I will not even begin to describe it.

For the first time, I saw where the children live. Quite cozy indeed. A little boy, not older than ten, came up to me. He seemed to want to say something to me.

"Yes, lad?" I said.

"Sorry sir. Are you going to close us down?" he said.

"No, no, lad," I shook my head. "But hopefully, I'll be able to get you some more work and better living conditions."

I have submitted my report to M&P. Yesterday's did not seem to go over so well with them, so I hope this one will suit their fancy more.

Oh, one last thing. I saw that tall gentleman again today. He was talking to a man I recognised outside the pub I usually go to. This particular man, I have never spoken to, though I know he is a tall man, certainly taller than myself. The man in black, however, was about a head taller than he! How curious indeed.

Call me a coward, but I did not go to the pub tonight. That man made me too nervous. I will go tomorrow night, when, hopefully, he will not be there. 

❦J.T. Marker

Day Two

Day two.

A most peculiar thing it is to see a day so very rainy, yet certain gentlemen in this town seem to find it practical or enjoyable to not use an umbrella! I set out this morning with a spring in my step, in spite the weather. I was in a good mood, my digestion working its natural routine with the pastries I collected from Ms. Granite yesterday.

I was walking down my usual route to the square, when I noticed a tall gentleman standing with his back to the wall of Mr. Stortchy's Funeral Parlour. Ordinarily, I would have paid him no mind. He was hardly close enough to get a good look at, and his face was obscured by the umbrella of a young lady he was speaking to. What caught my attention was the fact that he carried an umbrella, yet he was not using it. Baffling!

The rain this morning was quite heavy. I myself own a large orange umbrella, most likely made for the use of two individuals, and would never dream of leaving my home without it in weather such as this.

I passed without a word. The man seemed familiar to me somehow. It was only when I was several blocks passed when I realised the man I had seen was the man who had knocked me over as I left the pub the previous night. The glimpse I caught of him matched that of the man I had just seen. I neglected to give description of the man I saw, as I did not think it was important. But now my interest is piqued. 

He wore a long black coat, reaching to below his knees, grey trousers with black vertical pinstripes, and a top hat. Now, such a description is hardly uncommon, but his image, however rushed the glimpse or low the light, was burned into my mind. Both times, I hardly got a look at his face. He obviously has one though, as a lack would make it impossible to have the conversation, which he seemed to be having with that woman. 

I could hardly turn back and confront him about it now, of course. I continued on my way. The one thing that kept my mind occupied for the rest of the walk was: "Why wasn't he using his umbrella?" A silly question, maybe, but I swear to God, I will ponder it to my dying day.

I inspected Mr. Pultham's Home For Those In Need Of Work. Such a name sounds charitable enough, of course, but names are a marketing tool.

Mr. Pultham was a large, vulgar man. He smelled of a hundred foul things I daren't name. While it was obvious he attempted to be pleasant, the fact that he seemed incapable of going more two sentences without using a certain rude word which will be left unsaid, made it impossible for me to consider ever giving him a ring for a social gathering.

"And this is where all the youngins eat their meals, Mr. Marker Sir." He said, addressing me as if I were a man of power.

"Splendid," I said, not really paying attention. "Now, what are these floors made of?"

"Wood, stone, or somethin' of the sort," He said. "It changes from room to room. What does your company do, Mr. Marker Sir?"

"Automata," I said for the third time. "And it isn't my company. You are aware of Moulder & Primbol, are you not?"

I explained to him the importance of stone floors and good ventilation. I know some of it must have gotten through to him, as he stated that the windows in the work area are quite big. I saw for myself that they were quite large indeed, more than capable of suiting the needs of M&P. However, the floors in that particular work room were made of wood, filled with cracks and crevices, and eaten by termites. It was a crying shame, seeing as the rest of the workhouse was in relatively good condition.

Oh well. I submitted the report to M&P. The previous workhouse was approved, but I doubt the same will be said for this one. No matter, there are still many more. I am confident that the wins will out weigh the losses.

❦J.T. Marker

Day One

Day one.

It is a five kilometre walk from my apartment to Emerson Wall. On the way, I took the time to stop at a bakery to reserve some pastries for tomorrow's breakfast, and catch up with Emily Granite, who owns the place. A motherly woman with a big heart whom I have known for many years. We spoke of the usual things; weather, politics, how each other's lives are playing out. She complained of animals scurrying about on her roof.

"I was thinking they were rats," she said to me. "But they sounded quite large. Of course some breeds do grow to be unusual sizes."

"It is little wonder you have attracted the monstrous little creatures," I said to her. "The smell of your baking is hardly a scent to be ignored. If this continues, I will see if I can't get someone on top of it."

I bid her goodbye and continued my walk. Though the day had started with the threat of rain, the sun eventually prevailed.

When I first entered the gates of Emerson Wall, a young woman asked me of my business. I told her that I was an agent from Moulder & Primbol Industries and wished to speak with the manager. The manager, a portly man sporting a Coal War era British Army jacket and a flamboyant hat, greeted me like an old friend, asking me how my wife was. When I informed him that I had no wife, he gave apologies so sincere that to the un-initiated, it would seem that he was offering his condolences for the loss of a loved one.

Entering the work area, I immediately noticed massive skylights, sunlight pouring through to illuminate the room. The ground beneath my boots was made of stone, closer inspection revealing it to be smooth from the decades of people walking on it. I asked the manager what this workhouse has been used for in times passed. He told of the history of the building, most of which was of no interest to me, but gave me the needed information. 

As luck would have it, this building has been used for smelting before. During the second World War, the War of the Philippines and the Coal War, this factory churned out guns, swords and armour. 

I informed the manager that he would be allowed to keep his current position, the only difference being his employment to M&P. The manager seemed to be content with this, and wished me well.

After submitting a detailed report to my employers, I retired to a pub I frequent. It was most relaxing after all that walking, to sit down in front of a drink and a warm meal. I finished my meal, payed for it, and walked through the door to the street. The next thing I knew, I was on my hand and knees, my hat rolling into a gutter and my glasses nearly falling off of my face.

I looked up to see a tall gentleman (I use that term lightly) hurriedly making his way into the pub. I shouted: "I say, help a man up!" but he payed me no mind. Philistine...

Besides that little spill, I would say it was a most productive day. I am now awaiting a response from M&P. I am confident that they will want to use this space.

❦J.T. Marker

Something I Should Have Addressed Earlier

Let me introduce myself. My name is birth name Jasper Tyson Marker. I have 44 years to my name, which will soon amount to 45, and my favourite colour is bronze. I was born in London, have lived in London my whole life, and will most likely die in London. Really, anything else besides that is best left to the imagination. 

I am unsure of your opinion on me based on this information, but I can assure you that no matter how dull, interesting, charming, or - God forbid - abominable you find me, I am all of these things and more based on the wide variety of opinions possessed by this world's large population.

I shall begin my job tomorrow, ironic, as there is no work on Sunday. Workhouses can be found all over London, but M&P were very specific as to which ones they wanted me to visit. The first one is Emerson Wall. Just the name brings to mind an impenetrable wall of industry. Hopefully, this will suit M&P's uses. 

The building materials are a major deciding factor, since these workhouses are to become factories for the construction of automata, the floors must be able to withstand and not warp from molten metal. M&P is trying to do this as cheaply as possible. Not to say that they are a cheap company, but it would be convenient for their needs. The money they have would be much better put to the development of new machines than it would be to replace floors.

Reasonable ventilation is also a must. Not only do we want to avoid damaging equipment through excessive steam, but we simply cannot have workers fainting or suffering from heatstroke. Keep in mind, many workers will be under the age of sixteen and will be less able than a full grown man or woman.

❦J.T. Marker

Introduction and Explanation

This is a rather surreal experience. Here I am, an ordinary real-estate inspector being hired by the economic powerhouse, Moulder & Primbol Industries. What did I do to deserve such an honour? My eternal gratefulness to whomever decided I was the man for the job. 

The job in question, you ask? As a real-estate inspector, I know the ins and outs of what makes an effective place to work and generally live. Moulder & Primbol are looking buy workhouses in London area, and I intend to seek out the most suitable ones for their needs and purposes, which, being the construction of automata, are rather specific.

The purpose of this journal is to document my progress. Naturally, I will send detailed reports of these places to the executives at M&P, but I intend to share this information with the general populace of this planet as well. Rest assured, this is completely authorised by M&P, so I will not get in any kind of trouble.

God bless you, Moulder & Primbol. With this job, I may finally be able to buy a new model of VAPR. This one is outdated by eight years at least, and the keys are nearly unreadable.

Oh, one last note. I may not be the most gifted of artists, but I will try to add illustrations to compliment certain future posts.

❦ J.T. Marker