Intro to the mystic underground.
(c) 1995 Kienenberger

"Now Mr. Galdin, you will kill your self."

Waist-weed of life. It always seemed like someone was pokin their 
nose where it didn't belong these days, Trad hated loose ends. He stroked
the metallic talisman with his fingers. Dam useful thing. The greatest
investment he had ever stole. 

 He and the other boys of the streets would lift what ever they could get
their hands on. The cops could never touch-um, the blue bells were never 
fast enough to catch-um. Well at least not him, some of the others just weren't
very good. Most were dead now, or useless bums that should be dead. He
had survived, succeeded, and exceeded. That bronze talisman had made things
simple for him, clean, simple, untraceable.
 
Trad use to scope the neighborhood further out. He had chanced upon an old 
apocrocary shop and saw some old man usin the thing in the back ally. 
 
From the spot Trad was crouched in he was well hidden. He had planed to watch that old man, waitin for him to leave.  Unlike most street boys back then, he had patience. That was the way to do it, watch, wait then loot it.  Others had no brains. They would hit the stops at gunpoint. Burnouts.

It wasn't the talisman that had caught his attention as he sat waitin,  that was a dull 
and uninterestin hunk of metal. The man holdin it however seemed to be making a 
spectacle of himself. Talkin to no one and wavin his arms, loon. 

To think he use to shoot for such small change.