Rule of Thumb

Passenger

Lying in blood and auto upholstery, the man contemplated. It was all he saw fit to do. He didn't so much as feign frantics. To a degree, he was responsible for his predicament.

In the midst of his pondering, he was interrupted--thrown against the aluminum trunk door. Perhaps this was due to a pothole. A speedbump was also plausible. Even a dead animal was not out of the question.

The man found fascination in trivial matters such as this, to distract himself from the dire situation he had entered. The distraction was almost soothing.

In any case, the sound of the man helplessly slamming against the aluminum was met with laughter from those with the luxury of riding comfortably inside the vehicle. Those who's only restraints were their seat belts.

The man tried to reassemble his thoughts from before the pothole-or speedbump-or dead animal-or

The ring! That was it! It was beyond the man's comprehension why the inanimate object was of such importance. His higher-ups treated it more meticulously than any usual cargo. However, if neither his eyes nor his memory deceived him, the ring wasn't even particularly burdened by gold or gems. It was a humble silver ring, sculpted of weaving strands which formed an intricate design. The silver weaving inexplicably abducted the attention of the eyes, and still, it did not appear worth the struggles that resulted in this predicament.

The injury on the man's temple, the source of the blood pillow on which he lay, was of least concern. The pain was evident, but dismissable. It was not accompanied by any fogginess of thoughts, and so a concussion, at least a major one, was unlikely.

His hands were bound by no strangers of the art. The thick tape had been wrapped, not just around his wrists, but to conceal his interwoven fingers as well. Not that he would attempt escape anyway.

He was actually quite pleased by his situation. Though he was bound in a moving vehicle full of career criminals, the ring was no longer in his possession. He had delivered it as he was ordered, and he was convinced that he would say nothing of its whereabouts.

This was the lifestyle he had chosen. Maybe this was karma. Death of the unfortunate had met his hands before, and now he was the unfortunate surely to meet death at another's hand.

He smiled, to the degree permitted by the masking tape holding his lips closed. Life was sickly funny like that. He was one of the rats, who stared with envy through the floorboards at those who could afford to dance above him. One of the scoundrels born into scum, willing to do anything to become a dancer. He was one of the poverty stricken who would trade his limbs just for enough disposable income to never work again. To matter.

Most of those who could afford to dance away the daylight, upon seeing those less fortunate, such as the rats, offer not their scraps, but instead a phonecall to the exterminators. Those who afford to dance don't like to be reminded of those less fortunate. It burdens them as much as starvation burdens the rats.

Even of those who offer scraps, many do so to feed their egos, not their underlings. It allows them to construct their facade of kindness from their minimal sacrifice.

But in the ocean of uncaring there are some who care. Some of those who can afford to dance, but instead work. And they offer their underlings the lifestyle of their dreams by day, if they pay in what they can afford. Sin.

And sinned the man had, more than most. All for the pursuit to become one of those who danced above the rats.

There was only one problem--he no longer envied the dancers. While the rich had no fret for their next vacation, let alone their next meal, they also had no grasp of life. A skinned knee to the wild rat, equated to a bullet wound of the rich. Their survival skills had atrophied with their worries.