The Con

Dearest Brother,

Remember our family’s rusty, old sickle we played with as kids? I sold it today for a whopping 100 pounds! I think this qualifies as my best con ever.

This morning, as I was preparing for the annual village fair, Mike found it in the shed among father’s things — God rest his soul! I don’t think I can ever get over the strangeness of his death: You would think the doctors would have been able to tell us the cause at least. But I digress…

I set up the stall at the fair with all the trinkets I’d collected on my last trip to the city. I’d polished them just enough to give them that hidden sheen, that twinkle from beneath a layer of dust that will catch my preys’ eyes just as they start turning away.

That’s the moment when their financial discretion gives way to that primal lust to possess the long-forgotten, you know, that something from a lost and ever-elusive past. Forgive the philosophical digression, Brother. 

Anyway, the vases that I bought at the flea market, and the jewelry that I — ahem — acquired from unalert tourists at the city square quickly made their way into my charmed customers’ hands. Such credulous fools, I tell you! People will believe anything. Ming vase, Egyptian jewelry, Anglo Saxon chalice, Aztec box! 

You know, I almost feel like I’m doing them a service. I’m not selling them nice little fake trinkets for unfair prices. No, I’m selling them stories, beauty, and the conviction that the universe destined them to be rich, that the universe wanted them to be able to buy these precious things. I digress again! 

Mike had come along with me and had carried that sickle with him. It was almost dusk; I’d already packed up my wares when a vagrant, limping across the field, stopped at my stall. He’d seen the old sickle in Mike’s hands and he asked me the price. 

I almost blurted out that it was just old junk, my son’s plaything, when the artiste in me kicked in, and I said, “Oh that’s very old — nothing less than a 100 pounds will do.” My heart thumped wildly; was he smart enough to walk away or was he fool enough to cave to desire and start haggling? 

But he left me stunned: He didn’t say anything. He simply picked it up, produced a 100-pound note from his dirty, wrap-around cloak thingy (who knew it had pockets!) and strutted away. 

Hmmm — now that I think of it, what happened to his limp? Anyway, I know it’s weird to address diary entries to one’s dead brother — but who could appreciate my cons better than my accomplice?

Rest in peace.

Love,

Will

***

Dear Fellow Horsemen,

I have joyous news: I finally located the scythe, and it is now back in my possession. It was with a human, and the fool sold it to me for one of those flimsy papers they go nuts about. Tell Hades I will be back in time for the reaping.

Best,

Grim

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