Ensuring Success

Gripping his sheets, Father Goodfellow awoke with a start in his Eronia Minor home. Restlessness gave way to nightmares and nightmares gave way to reality, only for the cruel cycle to begin again the following night.
Brewing a pot of coffee, he sat down to finish the previous night’s accounting. The numbers had been disappointing so far, and things were not looking up in the back half. Between the town’s cold reception and vandalism on the church, he had barely made a profit.
Pouring an equal amount of coffee and whiskey into a tall mug, he sat back down with a heaving sigh. “This just isn’t working” he said aloud to his cluttered kitchen, cradling his head in his hands. “A month’s travel, a murder for godsakes, and yet here I am with almost nothing to show for it!” Sunlight filtered in around his window coverings, illuminating the dust motes that played in the air. “What can I do?” he shouted in a rage, sweeping the miscellaneous contents of the table, his accounting, and a precarious stack of haphazardly heaped letters onto the wooden floor. His mug shattered, sending glass shards and coffee across the room.
Breathing heavily, he began to regain his composure, noting the catharsis of devastation as his respite. Maybe his next setup would have something to do with that. Carefully tiptoeing through the jagged minefield, Father Goodfellow made his way out of the kitchen and back to his bedroom, where he added an extra couple layers of protection in the form of socks and shoes to his previously bare feet. Throwing a towel on the worst of the mess, he began by picking up the letters when something caught his eye.
It was a letter addressed to one Tudhle Huvrelbi, a resident of Charlamaine Hill from the Paragon Trust Group. However this ended up in Eronia Minor, it was meant to be. Grabbing a silver letter opener and his still hot coffee pot, he made a careful effort to unseal the letter without damaging it. The heat of the pot loosened the glue and the opener sliced through it like butter.
The parchment within revealed the answer to all of Father Goodfellow’s frustrations.

New Claims Welcomed! Life, Home, Renters, And Commercial Property Insurance Now Available At Paragon Trust! Protect Yourself, Your Loved Ones, And Your Way Of Life Today!

It was so obvious he couldn’t believe he didn’t think of it sooner. If the assholes in Mythrite wanted to destroy his church, then let them come. Let the walls crumble and the floorboards give way and all the spires cease to rise into the sky. Oh, how he would mourn the loss, mourn it all the way to the bank!
After skimming further included papers for additional information, he found the most expensive policy he could afford with a payout up to ten times what he would be putting into it. Never before had he seen money easier for the taking.
Vast oceans of blood have been shed in the name of riches and Charlamaine Hill floats atop them, a vulgar monument of excess incarnate. Staunch gates perforate the thick exterior wall and stauncher gatekeepers control the flow of traffic through them. Guards patrol frequently, though, or perhaps because of their presence, the crime rate is the lowest in Mythrite. Anybody who’s somebody lives within the walls, and, for the most part, the nobodies are kept out. One day, he would be there.
Well, today actually, but in a different sense. Father Goodfellow, dressed in formal attire, passed through the gates to Charlamaine Hill with no issue, wished a good day on his business by the keeper, unaware of his true nature. Walking down the evenly paved street, he silently cursed the undeserving bastards that lived here, keeping a smile on his face all the while.
Finely dressed aristocrats shuffled to and fro in the morning light, pompous and ignorant as can be. A stray thought wandered into his mind and he felt the strong urge to pickpocket an especially egregious woman with her bag hanging open, but he stayed his hand. Why fill up on appetizers when the entrée was within his grasp?
The curved exterior wall of the massive Paragon Trust stood between several similarly extravagant buildings, a hub for commerce and exchange for the wealthy. Entering the massive chamber, he felt the glaring of eyes upon him from several uniformed employees, but was not advanced upon by any of them. Filling a cup with coffee, Father Goodfellow took a seat in a supple leather armchair and waited for the next available representative.
However, the next representative crossed in front of him to a finely dressed woman that had shown up minutes after him. A simple mistake he could let slide. The next did the same, but this time for a heavy-set man with a large mustache. His frustration was building but he recognized that he would get nowhere without patience.
Finally, he was the only one left waiting. Over the corner of the chair, he watched a group of representatives conversing in hushed tones, and he imagined that they were deciding what to do about him. Today, luck was on his side.
A well-dressed elven man with a name tag reading “Rich”, how fitting, came over to him and offered assistance as well as an apology for the delay. “Oh, I hadn’t even noticed” mused Father Goodfellow, lying through his teeth. Informing the man what he was there for, he said he would take him to get paperwork signed and settled, at which point he launched into a spiel.
Cold marble gave way to beige as Father Goodfellow was led from the atrium into a sprawling maze of cubicles. “...and with minimal upkeep fees and monthly collection, it’s never been easier to keep your workplace protected.” prattled the embodiment of middle-management.
Signing his name on the dotted line and handing over a case of gold, his future was insured.