Dirty Work: Volume 1

Siala: Part 1 - 1

Anyone reading these entries might think that I get no time off, any time to reflect from all of my nefarious deeds in the name of Dirty Work. I must admit, this is a fault of mine. However, I did get some time off, and it was during one of my days off that my next tale begins. It begins in a place one might not have thought I would be the kind of person to visit, or would even have the opportunity to visit in Region 26. An art gallery.

Many people have got the idea into their heads that there are no art galleries in Region 26 or even in Celestria at all. This is a common misconception, even for many that live here. There are many galleries, more common in the regions higher up of course, and they are only free to enter at around Region 43 or below, at least somewhere around there. Most of them are tucked away in little corners, with enough advertising to attract the eye, but only if one has paid particular attention to look for these things. Bright lights are, one must remember, Celestria's finest hour.

And so it was that on that Wednesday I found myself inside a smaller gallery, the smallest of the three that I know of in Region 26, run by a few older curators that are some of the only ones that seem to think that art is of the utmost importance to development and appreciation of life, whatever that means. I was there for a number of reasons, of which I shall explain now for those that are curious as to what the hell I was doing there in my spare time.

The first is that, as I have detailed in my last story, I had started to come to a slight, shall we say, moral crisis, revolving around the work that I do on the darker underbelly of Dirty Work. For this reason many in my position might turn to religion, but I have never been a particularly religious man, and the religions that are out there, the more prominent ones and the ones that have had to be forced into the dark nooks and crannies of streets on the way of rusting to the ground both, have never found a particular connection with me. Religion, I think, is something that one can only really come to appreciate in two ways. Either they come to it through their upbringing, or through a singular, revelatory moment of personal insight or acceptance. I had neither of these things, and so whatever gods or beings that are out there to be praised, are seemingly beyond my reach for now.

And so it is, of all things, to art, that I decided to first of all try to glean some kind of philosophical wisdom, that I might be able to overcome my thoughts which were, I must admit, becoming darker by the moment. I won't go into the amount of times I had woken up with the stench of that man's breath on my hair, and the feel of flecks of brain falling from the blast hole onto my own face, but I am sure you can understand my mindset at that time. It isn't what one would call, perhaps, healthy.

Secondly I had decided to continue my efforts and work for Grasslea, the boss, at Dirty Work. There were several incidents of no particular interest that happened before this story that revolved around the boss' profound love of classical works of art. Many have been delivered to and taken from his hands by myself. Perhaps, if the time arises, I shall detail one such event which revolved around a fake piece, and gave me a slight scar to my left wrist which healed only after three weeks.

And so to aid, in my own way, the boss's endeavours, I had decided to try and take a glancing interest in art, in order that I should have at least a vague understanding of his conversations and movements in the underhanded dealing sphere of the medium. I didn't wish to have to shoot another person over a misunderstanding of whether this piece actually did date from 3698, and not 3699 as they claimed. He survived, but lost his arm.

And thirdly, for perhaps the most genuine reason, with both of the former reasons being underlying reasons, I had some spare change now, and I was bored.

The gallery in question was not far from Dirty Work, and as I wandered in out of the cold and into its warm glow, all the lights white, I recognised one of those standing by the entrance lobby. A young man with a mug of hot drink in his hands, hat pulled far over his head and great, hulking leather boots, was one of them. As I paid my fee and had a barcode scanned onto the back of my hand as authorisation, I caught his eye. He cast it away, seemingly recognising me also, and not wishing to alert his friend who was in deep conversation with him, to his night-time adventures at Dirty Work.