Congratulations Fishmonger!

“FISH FOR SALE!” you’ll cry to the passers-by as they go about their business, cupping your hand to make a make-shift megaphone for your voice. They’ll ignore you by and large, bustling about their business in Victorian garb, smoking pipes and adjusting their top hats as needed. Occasionally they’ll look at you, shake their head, then walk away, off to Long John Silver’s or some shit, as if to say “we want fish, but we don’t want real fish, so fuck you buddy.” It’ll be enough to make you break down and cry the way you do alone in your apartment with a bottle of gin, but you’ll stand strong and continue your ceaseless efforts to sell the freshest of fish to the assiest of holes.

It’ll all come together for you when an adorable orphan girl comes up to you.

“I’d love some fish guv’na, but I haven’t any money,” she’ll say, wiping some soot from her cheek with a sooty hand, making her entire facial-situation that much sootier.

You’ll look at her face, then your stall full of unsold fish, then at her face again and shrug.

“Have a bowl of fish and chips!” you’ll loudly declare, handing her some grease soaked newspaper filled with food. Then your business partner will see you and shout “Robbers!”

A pair of men in masks will leap from a side street and beset the little girl, knocking her fish to the ground and grabbing her and holding her in the air so that her little girl legs can do naught but kick and kick and kick.

“What ho!” you’ll shout just as loudly as you declared that the little girl should have some fish and chips. You’ll leap up with your shout and clock one of the robbers right in the face with your British-style punch, then threaten the other one.

“Mercy, m’lord!” he’ll cry, then run off, leaving the young girl to weep over her fish and chips. A crowd will be gathering around her by this point, their interested piqued by a child’s weeping. That’s when you’ll come to her rescue a third time, heading back to your cart a third time to hand the girl one last newspaper full of fish and chips.

“My apologies for your hardship, young lady,” you’ll say to her in a stage whisper before handing her another batch of fish and chips and stepping back to the stall, where a line will already be forming. At the head of it will be your best friend, who you’ll have paid to show up today and do this. He’ll be holding money in his hand before you’re even back at the stall and, as you hand him a newspaper full of fish and chips he’ll declare:

“This man puts all the care he gave to that young woman into crafting these fine fish and chips!” he’ll shout, grease dripping down his chin. Then a loud hurrah will go up from the crowd and, by day’s end, you’ll sell out every single fish in your stores.

From this day on business will boom for you. You’ll always sell out your stock and you’ll always have enough money to pay your mortgage and to keep making payments to all those actors you hired to help get your business up and running again to keep them from telling the press. You’ll even make enough to save some and plan for a rainy day, or retirement. It’ll be good for you. That is, until you snap in a fit of paranoia and then murder everyone who helped you get your business back up and running, inevitably being captured after you kill that sweet little girl who pretended to be an orphan in exchange for nothing more than free fish. Aside from that little hiccough it’ll be nothing but smooth sailing for you.

Congratulations Fishmonger!