Freedy Filkins, Inter. Jewel Thief, 6.

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6.)

"Here, what's this about now?" Stu exclaimed.  Freedy's neighbor always seemed available, living as he did at the bottom of Filk End as if waiting for the wealth to roll down to him.

"Simple," Freedy said.  "I need you to hock another of my little baubles for me."

He'd scrounged the smallest and dullest of the gemstones out of his stash.  All morning long he'd walked around his home with the red stone in his hand, occasionally holding it up to the light of the windows and sighing loudly.  He shook his head in regret at the necessity of selling it off.

"Well, are you going to hand it over or aren't you?" Stu said, his hands still held out.  He'd come to the side window as usual.  Freedy had a reputation to protect.  An unfriendly reputation, perhaps, but his reputation nevertheless. It kept the riffraff away.

Freedy's head barely topped the window sill, but Stu's huge torso blocked the light.

Speaking of riffraff.  "The usual 10%?" Stu asked.  He was gruff, insulting.

Freedy shuddered.  "Yeah, yeah.  On your way back pick up a bag of yeast for me."

"Out of your share not mine."

"Of course!"  Well!  He'd been about to offer the ruffian a few pints of finished brew, but there was no way he'd share it now!

No one had believed Aunt Tessie's outrageous tales -- but there was no denying she'd returned filthy rich.  Of all the Filkins, only Freedy was willing to sit at her feet (big and hairy and groody) long enough to hear all the stories -- though in truth, it hadn't been out of the goodness of his nugget of a heart.  The old biddy had served the best muffins, and her tea had a strange kick.

Still, he'd been amazed when Aunt Tessie left him a small bag of shiny minerals on her death.

He'd been living off the little nest of rocks ever since.