The Briefcase

Strange whispers strayed the man from his path; they were unintelligible and soothing noises of which spoke no true words, yet he could sense their intended meaning, this way and that they would guide him under branch, over root, through boggy mud, and around bushes. Though walking calmly throughout, so wearied was he, he took no notice of no longer being betwixt house and road, but within forest. The whispers grew joyous as they seemed to cheer 'he found us! He found us!'

What the man found was the body of another man - no, the bodies of two men laying side by side - one middle-aged and graying, in a black suit more accustomed for a funeral than wedding or business; the other seemed younger, late teens of early twenties perhaps, and wore ripped blue jeans and a dirty white hoodie covered in stains. No, not dirty, not stains, on a closer look the man saw this youth had been stabbed multiple times, and in the hand of the suited one, who the man now noticed had pinkish-red marks on his neck, a bloodied penknife.

He was horrified by what he saw, the aftermatch of two men killing one another, he thought to go back and get someone, the police most like. But this thought was overridden by the whispers, 'no, no, to us' they seemed to plead, and so to them he went. A metallic briefcase he saw, and the whispers once again cheered joyously. He opened the case, for it had been unlocked, but in doing so he felt the tight grasp of the suited man and his shout of 'thief!'

'Thief!' the whispers seemed to echo.

And 'thief!' the man hesitantly muttered also.

He raised the briefcase and smashed the suited man's face, splitting an eye that began to give out a river of blood. Again the man raised the briefcase, and again he ungently lowered it. And again. And again, until the suited man's head could be mistaken for bolognese. He tightly clutched his prize and weapon in grip of both arms, and went back the way he came.

The man found himself back in his apartment, a small but cosy place for himself and his ginger cat.

He set the briefcase on his small bed, and Mr. Mittens took some curiosity to it also. Upon opening the case, the man saw it full to the brim of money, in notes, and to his surprise in US dollars. He took his time and counted twenty thousand to be the total, and wondered now just what would so much American money be doing in England? Why, he felt much like a big business tycoon from one of those American movies he so liked! Mr. Mittens seemed to share this jovial feeling.

That night neither man nor feline slept, but the briefcase slumbered in man's arms, watched warily by feline's eyes. But these eyes did not always watch the case, they darted between it and the eyes that sat by it, always watching them. Upon opening the case again the following morning, the American money had changed to gold bars of, unbeknownst to the man, equal value. 'Gold, gold!' he exclaimed, as the whispers returned to echo these words, 'gold, gold!'

Mr. Mittens hissed at these whispers, scratching the man before fleeing into the cupboard; the cat would continue to grow aggressive, as the man grew possesive, dissolving a once loving bond of five years in five days. This companionship turned to duel once the feline was seen to have found a way to open the briefcase - or perhaps it opened for him - revealing the twenty thousand dollar treasure in form not of notes, nor of gold, but in rat and bird cadaver.

'Thief!' the man and whispers shrieked in unison, and, to the former, it seemed as if the cat did too, in the hissing of his feline tongue. Mr. Mittens did leave two arms bloodied, but in short time had been strangulated until his neck snapped violently. The man was content to see this ginger once-friend of his gone, a thief caught in the act, he'd told himself; the whispers agreed.

The man did not sleep this night, or any night after, thieves could come at any time.

After this hollering of such a word, thief, with loud noises followed, and bloodied arms, and a missing cat, the tenants all knew something was amiss that night in the apartment, and so landlord and police both queried into it. He ran with the obvious story one would conclude: a thief came into his apartment, scratched the man in an attack before running out, and Mr. Mittens ran out the open door. Mr. Mittens was actually, however, sliced by kitchen knife and flushed down toilet in chunks, and this knife was simply cleaned and put away.

The landlord seemed kind to help search for Mr. Mittens, even convincing other tenants to help search, but the man became convinced this week long search party was not of kindness, but rather a way to get closer to stealing what was his, for the landlord had seen the briefcase and behaved perculier upon doing so, at least that was what the man believed; and his suspicions were confirmed as the landlord visited each day after, each time behaving more anxiously than the last.

'Thief!' the whispers whispered more loudly each time.

On one occasion, as the man closed his door, the landlord stopped it with his foot, and asked for a look, just one look at that which called to him. When the man refused, his landlord grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, aggresively demanding to have what he claimed was his briefcase; the landlord retreated after several right hooks.

Each night after that occassion, the man would sit upright upon his bed, weilding the very same knife used to mince Mr. Mittens.

Other tenants - from what few times they saw him - assumed the rotten-looking black skin under his eyes, weakness in movement, and sudden collapses were to show his grieving for Mr. Mittens, or trauma from his alleged fight with a burglar, or both, but in truth the man believed his ginger companion to have deserved the fate he had gotten, and any other thief would too deserve death ... or worse. And sleeplessness was not an ailment upon the man, but a duty; he could not allow thieves to take what was his by right. He had not slept since the night before finding the briefcase.

This time upon opening the case, he saw his beauteous treasure in the form of a black notebook of leather, with a strap in the same likeness. Upon opening the notebook, the man saw many cheques all written out to various amounts in British pounds to be drawn from various accounts of different banks. 'No,' he thought, seeing one cheque written out for £500.00, his due rent; he would not part with any piece of treasure.

The man knew in his mind this must be some ploy from the landlord to steal his precious case piece by piece. 'The rent is a lie,' he declared.

He opened his case later in the day to see still the notebook, which he caressed as any man would a lover. He took in the scent off its fine leather cover, felt the paper betwixt his fingers, took in the true beauty of its sight; his treasure, he cherished it more than himself. A knocking on the door disturbed his peace with the treasure, the landlord, he knew it was. He gently placed the notebook in its case, which he closed and hid under the bed. 'A thief has come to take what is mine,' he told himself, or was it the whispers that said that? The two men brawled from the moment the door opened, which started it none can say, all that's known is how it ended, reported in the local newspaper as follows:

'Tenants were horrified to find their landlord kneeling beside the body, holding a metal with briefcase with both hands, and shouting at them "stay back thieves, it's mine!" Inside the briefcase, police found twenty thousand US dollars. It has since been stolen, police say.'