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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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The handguns vanished in a matter of minutes. The prices didn't stay at three thousand, as the supply rapidly dwindled from ten, to five, to two, the panic set in. The final M1911 Collector's Edition sold to a desperate shipping magnate for a staggering six thousand dollars.
Then came the shotguns and the rifles. The bidding wars grew even more vicious.
"Three thousand for the Auto 5!"
"Four thousand!"
"Five thousand dollars and my absolute gratitude, Don McLaughlin!" shouted Chief Lambert, entirely willing to empty his entire life savings and his corrupt precinct bonuses just to own the devastating silver inlaid scattergun.
Meanwhile, Arthur who stood near the entrance, his massive arms crossed over his chest, watching the absolute spectacle unfold. He looked over at Hosea, who was leaning on his cane, a look of profound, deeply amused shock on his weathered face.
"Look at them, Arthur," Hosea whispered, shaking his head slowly as a railroad baron just paid eight thousand dollars for a single Vanguard rifle. "We spent twenty years robbing banks and trains, risking our necks for a few thousand dollars in dirty bills. And Caleb just convinced the richest men in the state to stand in his living room and willingly empty their own bank accounts into his pockets for pieces of machined steel."
"He didn't just convince them, Hosea," Arthur chuckled darkly, adjusting his tuxedo jacket. "He's making them fight each other for the privilege of giving him their money."
But what they don't realize that the true climax of the evening haven't arrived yet, and when it occurred when Caleb finally stepped back up to the crate holding the ten Sweeper submachine guns.
The crowd grew terrifyingly quiet. The handguns and the rifles were beautiful, but the Sweeper was power incarnate. It was the weapon that every military contractor, every industrialist who feared union strikes, and every paranoid tycoon in the room desired above all else.
"The Sweeper," Caleb announced softly. "Opening at three thousand dollars."
"Five thousand!" a massive military contractor from the East Coast roared immediately, completely skipping the base price to establish dominance.
"Seven thousand!" a notoriously ruthless oil baron from New Hanover countered, his eyes locked onto the massive fifty round drum magazine.
"Ten thousand dollars!" screamed the contractor, his face turning purple.
The bidding for the Sweepers became a bloodbath of unimaginable wealth. These men saw the apocalyptic potential of the weapon. They saw how a single guard armed with a Sweeper could hold off an entire army of striking workers or rival corporate spies.
"Twelve thousand!"
"Fifteen thousand dollars!" yelled a wealthy mining tycoon, practically foaming at the mouth.
Even Caleb, with his max level Business skill, was momentarily taken aback by the sheer, unadulterated desperation of the elites. They were throwing amounts of money that could build entire hospitals for a single firearm.
"Fifteen thousand going once... going twice..." Caleb called out smoothly.
"Twenty thousand dollars!" The oil baron screamed, throwing his hands into the air, completely shattering the ceiling of the auction.
"Sold," Caleb said, pointing a finger at the sweating, victorious baron.
The remaining nine Sweepers went for similarly absurd, astronomical figures. The tycoons scrambled, panicked, and practically begged to secure the final pieces.
Friendships were fractured, business alliances were tested, and immense fortunes were transferred with the simple wave of a hand. The men who won the bids looked like they had just conquered the world, while the men who lost out stared at the empty crates with profound, devastating regret.
As the final Sweeper was sold to a desperate cotton baron for eighteen thousand dollars, Caleb raised his hands, officially closing the auction.
The forty five Collector's Edition firearms were completely gone. In less than forty five minutes, Caleb McLaughlin had generated hundreds of thousands of dollars in pure, untraceable, completely legitimate liquid capital. He had drained the pockets of the city's elite, and in return, he had armed them with weapons that would forever tie their safety and their status directly back to his factory.
Antonio was frantically organizing the ledger, the sheer amount of money recorded on the pages completely staggering. The capos moved through the crowd, carefully handing the heavy, velvet llined display boxes containing the purchased weapons to their new, incredibly proud owners.
The tycoons clutched the wooden boxes to their chests like newborn children, absolutely thrilled with their futuristic antique guns and incredibly eager to show them off to their rivals.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Caleb announced, pulling a gold pocket watch from his tuxedo vest and clicking it open. "It appears our business has concluded just in time."
He looked up, a brilliant, charismatic smile lighting up his face. He gestured toward the massive grandfather clock standing in the corner of the grand ballroom. The hands were perfectly aligned at the top.
"The year is 1899 no longer," Caleb declared, his voice carrying a profound, unstoppable weight as the orchestra suddenly struck up a massive, triumphant chord. "Welcome to the year 1900. Welcome to the future."
The grand ballroom erupted into a massive, deafening cheer. The wealthy guests raised their crystal flutes of champagne into the air, toasting the Don, toasting the new century, and toasting their newfound firepower.
Mary-Beth walked up beside Caleb, her emerald gown sweeping across the marble floor. She slipped her arm through his, looking up at him with eyes full of absolute adoration and profound respect.
She had watched him manipulate the entire power structure of the South with nothing more than a hammer, an anvil, and a brilliant mind.
"Happy New Year, Mr. Thorne," Mary-Beth whispered softly, leaning up to press a warm, lingering kiss against his jaw.
"Happy New Year, Miss Gaskill," Caleb murmured, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her close against his side.
He looked out over the sprawling ballroom. The Mayor of Saint Denis was happily clutching a gold inlaid handgun. The Chief of Police was admiring a silver vined shotgun. The wealthiest industrialists in the country were effectively acting as his loyal, paying customers. Arthur, Hosea, and the boys were standing near the doors, safe, wealthy, and completely untouchable.
The Pinkertons were neutralized. The bounties were being erased as they talk. The criminal underworld was completely under his heel, and the legitimate corporate world was currently writing him massive checks.
As the sweeping waltz of the orchestra filled the air and the city of Saint Denis outside the mansion walls celebrated the dawn of the 20th century with fireworks and cheers, Caleb took a slow sip of his vintage champagne.
But a man like Caleb McLaughlin never rested on a single victory, no matter how spectacular. The grand New Year's Eve party continued well past midnight, the immense ballroom buzzing with the euphoric, drunken energy of the city's absolute elite. The tycoons and politicians were flush with the thrill of the new century and the heavy, oiled steel of the Collector's Edition firearms currently being guarded by their valets.
Caleb handed his empty crystal flute to a passing waiter. He adjusted his tailored midnight blue tuxedo jacket and waded smoothly back into the sea of silk dresses and bespoke suits. He had successfully cornered the military and industrial markets tonight. Now, it was time to lay the psychological groundwork for his hospitality empire.
He didn't make another grand, room-halting announcement. That would have been entirely too aggressive. Instead, Caleb utilized the most devastatingly effective marketing tool of the era, the exclusive, conspiratorial whisper.
He moved gracefully from group to group, joining the casual circles of wealthy shipping magnates, bank managers, and their diamond draped wives. Amidst the cheerful banter and the clinking of glasses, Caleb effortlessly steered the conversations toward the suffocating, claustrophobic nature of living in a rapidly industrializing city.
"It is a beautiful city, to be sure," Caleb murmured to the wife of a prominent cotton baron, his voice a low, charming hum as a small crowd of high society figures naturally gravitated toward him. "But the coal smoke from the factories and the sheer noise of the railyards... it takes a toll on a gentleman's health, doesn't it? One often finds themselves yearning for a true, unblemished escape."
"Oh, absolutely, Don McLaughlin," the woman sighed, fanning herself with a beautifully painted silk fan. "But where is one to go? The eastern cities are even worse, and the frontier is simply too barbaric."
Caleb smiled, a warm, highly secretive expression that instantly drew the absolute, undivided attention of everyone in the immediate circle.
"That is precisely why I have ventured into a new project," Caleb revealed softly, letting the words hang in the air like a forbidden secret. He told them of a new, unimaginably luxurious hotel complex that had just completely finished its heavy construction and was going to open very soon in the western mountain town of Strawberry.
The elites leaned in closer, practically holding their breath as Caleb painted a vivid, irresistible picture of the West Elizabeth mountains.
He described a towering, multi story resort built from massive, polished timber and river stone. He spoke of how the hotel featured state of the art, imported furniture, running hot water, and brilliant electric lighting powered entirely by a private, modern hydroelectric dam.
He promised a large amount of curated entertainment for those who came to the hotel in the future as his guests, five star dining prepared by European chefs, private classical concerts, and guided, heavily outfitted hunting expeditions into the pristine wilderness using the very Thorne-Marlin rifles they had just purchased.
"It is a sanctuary, entirely isolated from the grime of the modern world," Caleb explained smoothly. "You can sit on a wrap around veranda and enjoy the crisp, biting fresh air of true nature that hasn't been polluted with factories or coal smoke yet. A place to truly breathe."
A wealthy railroad investor adjusted his spectacles, looking intrigued but inherently cautious. "It sounds magnificent, Mr. McLaughlin. Truly. But Strawberry is out in the deep frontier. The wilderness... well, it is notoriously uncivilized. One hears terrible stories of savage beasts and lawless gangs."
Caleb let out a rich, dismissive chuckle, placing a reassuring hand on the investor's shoulder.
"Do not worry yourself with such things for a single second," Caleb assured him, his voice radiating absolute, unshakeable authority. "The entire valley is currently under the direct, uncompromising protection of my private security forces. The perimeter of the hotel will be guarded as tightly as this very mansion. I guarantee that it will be very safe. No wild animals, no common street thugs, and certainly no frontier outlaws will ever come within ten miles of the property to injure or harass my guests. It is the raw beauty of the American West, completely tamed and sterilized for your absolute comfort."
When these carefully crafted, highly descriptive words were spread, the people who were present for the party were, of course, very intrigued. In a matter of minutes, Caleb excused himself from the circle and moved to another, planting the exact same seed of curiosity in the minds of the Mayor's inner circle, the police commissioners, and the textile magnates.
Soon, Caleb didn't even have to speak. The rumors took on a terrifying, rapid life of their own.
The wealthy guests began to ask around, turning to their peers and their business rivals, whispering frantically behind their champagne flutes.
"Did you hear what McLaughlin is building out West?"
"A mountain palace, I'm told! Electric lights and imported Persian rugs right in the middle of the pine forests!"
"He says he's driven the outlaws completely out of the valley!"
Where, when they found out that everyone at the exact same time had just heard about it from the Don's own lips, they became even more intrigued. The synchronized nature of the rumor made it feel like an impending, massive societal shift.
If all of their wealthy friends were talking about it, then it was instantly deemed the most important, exclusive destination in the country. They couldn't stand the thought of being left behind while their rivals vacationed in a mountain paradise.
The sheer desperation for such a retreat was rooted in the geographic reality of their lives. Because, if the rumors were true, then they finally had another place they could go to truly enjoy themselves with nature and fresh air.
Living in Saint Denis was a gilded cage. The city was wealthy and culturally vibrant, but immediately outside of the cobblestone limits of Saint Denis was the sprawling, suffocating expanse of the Lemoyne swamps.
The bayou was a terrifying, unforgiving nightmare, filled with absolute, lethal dangers from wildlife, massive, man eating alligators resting invisibly in the mud, venomous water snakes, and clouds of disease carrying mosquitoes that brought devastating waves of yellow fever.
But the wildlife was nothing compared to the human element. The swamps were infested with outlaws. There were the Lemoyne Raiders, bitter, heavily armed ex Confederates who routinely hijacked stagecoaches and kidnapped wealthy travelers for ransom.
And even worse than the Raiders were the Night Folk.
Just the whispered mention of the Night Folk was enough to make grown, wealthy men in Saint Denis lock their doors at night. The Night Folk were practically urban legends made violently real, silent, terrifying killers who painted their faces like skulls, communicating only in eerie clicks and hisses, dragging their victims deep into the muddy darkness of the bayou to be butchered in bizarre, voodoo like rituals.
They were much, much more dangerous than all the other dangers of the swamp combined because they didn't want money or gold; they simply wanted blood.
Because of these horrors, the elite of Saint Denis rarely ever left the city limits unless heavily guarded on an armored train. The prospect of a pristine, heavily fortified mountain resort where they could walk freely in the woods, hunt elk, and breathe clean air without the fear of being ambushed by swamp bandits or silent killers was the ultimate, priceless luxury.
Caleb stood near the roaring fireplace in the drawing room, a deeply satisfied smirk touching his lips as he watched the socialites practically buzzing with anticipation. He knew with absolute certainty that word of mouth marketing was very, very effective in this time period. There were no televisions or internet algorithms. The most powerful advertisement in 1899 was the desperate, jealous whisper of anoyher rich people wanting to be on an exclusive guest list.
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Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl MAX)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Bow (Lvl MAX)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl MAX)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl MAX)
- Leadership (Lvl MAX)
Money: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 284,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, 3 Diamonds, & Important Documents & Deeds Of Cornwall
Bank: -