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Chapter Text

Linebeck, owner and proprietor of the S.S. Linebeck, which was only coincidentally named after himself, put on his spectacles. He didn’t like to wear his spectacles, which were half moon pieces of glass connected by a highly uncomfortable piece of wire, because they made him look old and nerdy.

Linebeck was not old (well, not that old, anyway) and he certainly wasn’t nerdy. If enticed to use a word to describe himself, Linebeck might describe himself as swashbuckling. If allowed a second word, he might say crystalline , not because he was, in fact, crystalline, but because he thought the word was neat.

The man, who always gave the appearance of looking rather tired and hungover, actually would have been quite handsome if it wasn’t for the drinking and the nicotine. He was a man of habits, and habits included addictions. But one shouldn’t be too critical. After all, he was hardly the first man of the sea to be swayed by the allure of the amber bottle, and not nearly the last to think, Personally, I think cigarettes are very sexy.

And he was sexy. Or would have been. Or was, maybe, once upon a time. 

There was a piece of paper on his writing desk, with things written upon it in a teeny tiny font. Hence, the spectacles. 

Linebeck made his living as a sort of professional middle man. He bought goods from one island and sold them to other islands at an exuberant markup. These goods ranged from linens to specialty organic snack items and more. Once he even transported two thousand pounds of topsoil and nearly sank his ship doing it. 

But mostly, people just wanted alcohol. And Linebeck was happy to provide. He transported crates of rum and ale from the southern seas, gin and vodka from the cold reaches of the north, and a good variety of wine from the vineyards of Molida Island. He’d call booze his bread and butter, but it was more accurate to call booze his booze, because bread and butter would not have earned him half as much. 

Linebeck was partial to rum, like any good sailor. So it was with a glass of it in his right hand that he pondered over the list with his left.

The list was a sheet of paper prepared by the Mercay Island Port Authority, the agency tasked with keeping track of everything that came into the island and everything that left it. Linebeck wasn’t one of their employees; he was more of a freelancer, if you will. He reported to them, but wasn’t any more in their charge than he was to any of the other islands’ port authorities. 

In order to conduct his business with them, he did have to pay an import tax. He paid it, alright, but if some of the goods just so happened to be miraculously forgotten — and then discovered — when he took them to the market, that wasn’t his problem.

But he did have a problem at this very moment. Usually, Linebeck would tally up his goods, multiply them by the tax for the particular good, and then sum them at the bottom. It was that total that he was begrudgingly forked over to the port authority. 

And usually, the import tax on a crate of “Intoxicating Liquor”, as it was called on the books, was 90 rupees. But right now, the paper was doing the funny task of trying to convince him the tax was 250 rupees. Linebeck was no mathematician, but if he were, he would have known on the stop that it constituted a more than a 150 percent increase. 

For reference, this was really bad. A crate of middle shelf Anouki Gin usually only went for 310 rupees, and he’d be hard pressed to get any bartender or innkeeper to pay more than 230 for a crate of Isle of Ember Amber Ale. Never mind the shitty craft beer that one bastard on Bannan Island kept trying to sell him. He brewed it out of a kiddy pool (his “mermaid pond”) in the middle of his living room. 

Anyway, this was ridiculous. Or it was a mistake. Or maybe even a ridiculous mistake. As a circumstantially bisexual man, he knew it was possible to be two things at once. 

Either way, Linebeck knew he had to get to the bottom of this. Turning a profit under margins like these would be next to impossible. Plus, it would deny the good people of the Four Seas their due booze if he had to cut back on transports or otherwise go out of business, and that was something Linebeck could never stand for.

(But mostly, he just didn’t want to go broke.)

Twenty minutes later, Linebeck was at city hall. He’d left the imports on his ship under lock and key and the strict supervision of a buffoon of a port guard named Nyeve, a man whose unfortunate name rivaled only his neck beard. 

City hall was a stately building, constructed out of limestone and boasting more columns than were probably necessary for its structural integrity. It was big, clean, and old. Linebeck had visited it only twice: first, to pick up his mercantile license; and second, to file for divorce. 

But it was the primary source of authority on the island, and if anyone could answer his questions regarding the new tax, it was the mayor himself. 

Linebeck thought about the mayor while he sat in the marbled lobby, enjoying a lukewarm cup of coffee and admiring the motivational posters hung on the walls. 

Mayor Oshus, as he was known (because it was his name (the Oshus part, not the Mayor part)), had been elected to his office some years ago. Exactly how many years ago, no one was sure. There were entire family trees his tenure had outlived, and if anyone had to wager a guess as to his age, they might venture to say “prehistoric.” The space occupied between his wrinkles was thought to hold untold secrets. 

But he was also approachable, and even a little friendly. It wasn’t hard to secure an audience with him; he was a people’s mayor, and sought to please his constituents where he could. 

“Mr. Linebeck, the mayor will see you now.”

Linebeck looked up from his coffee. An unforgivingly blonde young woman had peeped out from behind a door. She was holding a clipboard. She was wearing a lemon yellow pants suit, and the color did very little for her complexion. It washed her out a bit. 

“Yes, he will,” Linebeck said to himself, a little ominously. He tossed the half-empty paper coffee cup in the trash, where, later, it would seep on to the shoes of the janitor and cause him immense displeasure at the thoughtlessness of another. 

Linebeck followed the young woman through the door and into the hallway. For someone so short and in a pair of white pumps, she walked quite fast. Linebeck kept up, but he wasn’t happy about it, and had broken into a sweat. 

“You’ve really picked a bad time for the Mayor,” said the young woman. For the sake of the narrative, let’s have Linebeck look at her name badge. It read, Ciela Mutig: Personal Assistant. Poor girl, thought Linebeck. What a rotten last name. 

Now that Linebeck knew her name, he didn’t have to refer to her as “the young woman” in his internal narrative, which made everyone very happy and saved a lot of time and, more importantly, words. 

“Oh?” prompted Linebeck. “A bad time?”

“A bad time,” she repeated, tersely.

Linebeck wasn’t sure what he’d done to upset her, but he usually made women mad wherever he went, so this was not very surprising. 

“Well,” he continued, “I’m actually in the middle of a very important shipment that can’t go through quite yet. And it’s interfering with my schedule and my finances, so I’m certain the Mayor can–”

“Then you haven’t heard,” said Ciela. Her hair was tied tightly into a bun, which really looked as if it wanted nothing more than its freedom from the confines of the hair tie restraining it. 

“Heard what?” asked Linebeck, but she didn’t answer him. She opened a large, mahogany door, and led him into Mayor Oshus’s office. 

The Mayor was seated at his desk. He looked very alarmed. He kept smacking his hand onto the surface of said desk, while a man in an enormous blue, puffer jacket interrupted him. 

“Sir,” said the puffer jacket man. “The optics are… well, I’ll be totally frank. They’re bad.”

“I don’t care, Aroo. Not even a little. I won’t let you deny him–”

“If it were this alone, I can’t say I’d object, Sir, but look at the big picture! This, against everything else? What will–”

“ AHEM ,” said Ciela. 

The mayor and the man, Aroo, threw their heads in her direction. 

“You have a concerned citizen,” she said, brightly. “Mr. Linebeck, one of the merchants.”

“Ah, a merchant!” Mayor Oshus said, as if he had not just been passionately arguing. His face, half shrouded by facial hair, returned from red to its normal pallor. “Thank you, Miss Mutig.”

Ciela left, and the room’s temperature became much less self-righteous by several degrees. Aroo, miffed, turned away and began fiddling with some book on a shelf in the corner. 

“Now then,” said Mayor Oshus. “What is it that I can help you with, Mr. Linebeck?”

“I’ll cut right to the chase, Mr. Mayor,” Linebeck began. He had rehearsed it on the way in: “As a highly profitable and terribly important merchant in the Four Seas, I come into possession of a good deal of money during my ventures. Part of what makes me so useful to Mercay Island and neighboring islands is I am able to strike lucrative deals with nearly any trader, farmer, or cucco lady I may meet. These deals keep the island well-stocked in any season. 

“But I cannot do this without the necessary funds. And I’m afraid, Mr. Mayor, that there must be some kind of mistake – or else an extortion racket on behalf of the port authority! – at the Mercay Island Harbor. You see, the tax on alcohol imports has increased to something absurd. Two hundred and –”

“Two hundred and fifty rupees,” Mayor Oshus finished for him. “Yes, yes. That’s the new cost of an import tax on alcohol.”

Linebeck blinked a few times.Then he said, “Mr. Mayor, surely you must realize how this impacts the merchants – merchants like myself – who rely on high volume imports to keep trade inexpensive between the islands.”

“I am well aware,” said Mayor Oshus.

“Oh. Well, then…”

“Yes?”

Linebeck cleared his throat. “Don’t you think you should, I don’t know… lower the import tax?”

“No.”

“Oh,” said Linebeck. “Why not?”

“If I may impart,” began Aroo, who had just now set down the book he was pretending to read. “Mayor Oshus has increased the cost of certain imports he deems… problematic to the islanders. It’s for the health of the island. Surely, you understand.”

“And surely you understand that without alcohol imports, I won’t be able to fund any other imports, either,” Linebeck countered. He was feeling quite economical. “So say ‘au revoir’ to luxury woven baskets from the Gorons and organic quinoa cakes. Among other things."

“Like Mr. Aroo said, it’s for the health of the island.”

“It’s a well-known fact that wine is actually very good for your health,” Linebeck offered. “It’s full of antioxidants.”

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Linebeck,” Oshus said cordially, as if he’d never heard of an antioxidant. “But these are the new rules. We simply have too many intoxicated residents to continue operations as they are now. I hope you will understand.”

Linebeck tried to think of something clever or rude to say, but nothing appeared in his mind. His brain was kind of pickled from all the rum. 

“I trust you’ll see yourself out,” said Aroo, who then turned his attention to the mayor. “Now, as for your next campaign appearance, I was thinking the–”

“Campaign appearance?” Linebeck echoed.

Aroo’s head again jerked in his direction. “You’re still here?”

“I am,” said Linebeck. He hadn’t left. “Are you campaigning, Mr. Mayor?”

The mayor nodded sagely. “Correct, though I am terribly afraid it’s a lonely, pointless task. You see, nobody ever opposes me. But it would seem… rather despotic of me to never bother campaigning.”

Linebeck was usually out of the loop of island politics, because they bored him terribly and he also didn’t care. He was a citizen of the high seas. His boating license said so. 

“You can leave now,” Aroo pressed. 

Linebeck was not a very brave man. But he was impulsive, and sometimes his impulses made him look brave, which is where the confusion came from. “When’s the election?”

“It’s a week from today,” Oshus confirmed. 

“Perfect,” said Linebeck. “That’s plenty of time.”

Aroo sighed again. It made him sound like he was perpetually low on oxygen. “Plenty of time for what, may I ask?”

“To run against you,” said Linebeck, before he could tame the impulsive thought. “I’m representing the Merchant’s party.”

And that was how Linebeck got his mojo back. Or at least how he got involved in politics. The jury’s still out on the mojo. Did he ever have it? Will he find it? Find out next time. 

Chapter Text

The first thing to do when launching a campaign is find a campaign manager. Linebeck could not be trusted to manage anything besides his own personal finances, and even that was a bit of a bust.  So, wanting to find someone else to do all the mundane work for him (Linebeck figured he brought personality to the equation), he placed an ad in the next day’s edition of The Island Times . It read as follows:

Looking for bright, eager campaign manager for Merchant’s party candidate in Mayoral election. Ideal candidate should know how to read, write, do simple sums, and should not expect to be paid. 10 to 15 years experience preferred. See handsome sea captain in Milk Bar at noon sharp to inquire. 

It was now noon. There were six days until the election, and Linebeck was sitting in a secluded booth in the Milk Bar, eagerly awaiting any interested parties.  Linebeck had wanted to order a small sampling of rum, but the entire supply still remained on his ship, where it would remain until he was elected and could lower the import tax – or otherwise could skip town. 

The bartender offered him a pint of craft beer instead, something called The Mermaid’s Tale. He refused it. He also turned down a glass of milk, which the establishment also sometimes offered, to keep up appearances. 

By twelve-thirty, Linebeck was convinced no one would show up. 

This was a stupid idea, thought Linebeck. Why did I think I could run for mayor? I don’t know the first thing about running a campaign! My father was right when he said I’d always be a –

The door opened. The Milk Bar filled with light. In walked that personal assistant from the day before  – Ciela – followed by a man with thick thighs and a goofy smile, and an extremely serious looking woman with dark hair and sunglasses. 

Linebeck tried to look away, but the three made a beeline for his booth, and squeezed into the bench across from him. They didn’t even ask if they could join him! 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Linebeck,” said Ciela, once the three were seated. “Allow us to introduce ourselves. As you may have guessed, since I saw you reading my name tag yesterday, my name is Ciela Mutig. This,” she pointed to the man beside her, “is my colleague Leaf Kraft.” 

Leaf nodded seriously, in spite of his bizarre name. 

Ciela gestured then to the stern woman beside her. “And this is Neri Wesen.”

“Um, hi,” said Linebeck. He wished he would have taken the glass of milk, at least to have something in his hands. 

Neri took over. “We’re aware you’ve filed with the Board of Elections to run in the mayoral campaign against Mayor Oshus. Let me start first by saying we value the democratic process immensely. That being said, the election is less than a week away, and the addition of another candidate will do little else besides cause chaos among the electorate. For that reason (and many others), we’re prepared to offer you an… incentive to drop out of the race.”

“Drop out?” gawked Linebeck. “I haven’t hardly told anyone I’m running! I don’t even…”

“We’re aware you don’t have a campaign manager,” said Ciela. She looked at Leaf. “Show him the offer.”

Leaf nodded again. He produced a large briefcase and set it on the table. 

“I don’t need a briefcase,” Linebeck said. He did need one, actually. It would have been useful. 

Ciela rolled her eyes. “Open it,” she said. 

Linebeck moved to open it, but Leaf smacked his hand. “She meant me,” he said. 

Embarrassed, Linebeck retracted his hand. 

Leaf opened the briefcase. Its contents glistened so brightly, great kaleidoscopes of color projected against the wall. When his eyes had adjusted, Linebeck examined the briefcase’s contents. Doing some quick mental math, he calculated it was filled with at least several thousand rupees. 

The rupees were shining and alluring. Anyone who knew Linebeck (and it seemed these three had done their research) knew large quantities of rupees made him weak in the knees. Rupees could be exchanged for goods and services, after all. How many cigarettes, bottles of rum, or lap dances could this briefcase buy?

But Linebeck wasn’t stupid. Not completely, anyway. “Are you trying to bribe me?” he asked. 

“Absolutely not,” Ciela said immediately.

“So… you’re gifting it to me?”

“Not that,” countered Neri. “Think of it as an incentive. You drop out of the race, the Island will pay for your import taxes this time around.”

Linebeck frowned. “But next time, I’d be on my own to pay for it.”

The three looked at each other. They were skilled telepathic communicators. 

“Yes,” said Neri, finally. “It’s a one-time… incentive.”

“Then I refuse on principle,” Linebeck said, surprising himself. He really wasn’t a man of strong principles, convictions, or commitments in general. “If it only covers the cost of my imports once, it’s not sustainable. I stop here at least three times a month. Mercay’s the biggest market out here. There’s no way I can manage without it.”

“So, you’re not accepting the incentive,” Ciela said. 

“Nope. I’m staying in the race.”

Neri snapped her fingers, once, and Leaf slammed the briefcase shut. Linebeck yelped a little in surprise. 

“That’s fine, Mr. Linebeck,” she said, soullessly. “But don’t expect to win this race. You’re a single-issue candidate, and most of the island’s voters never come into contact with merchants. Mayor Oshus has decades of experience on you and he represents everyone on the island and their values.”

Linebeck scoffed. “But trying to outlaw alcohol? I’m sure everyone on the island is over the moon about that policy choice.”

“Not outlaw,” Ciela corrected. “Just disincentivize.”

“Sure.” 

“You should probably get an attorney,” she continued. The three of them stood in sync and began to file out of the booth. 

“What for?” He shouted, but they had already left, the door to the Milk Bar swinging behind them. The room plunged again into darkness and silence. It was too early in the evening for any music to be playing. 

“Ahem… Mr. Linebeck, I presume?”

Linebeck snapped his head up from the table. He had been staring at the spot where the briefcase had most recently been. Maybe he should have taken it, after all. Quit his job. Lived off of a few thousand rupees and, when he ran out, let his ship sink and take him with it. 

But before he could spiral further into despair, he took a good look at the man standing beside his table. From Linebeck’s vantage point, this man looked both handsome and ugly, strangely foreign, and somewhat sickly, like an orphan child but with a blonde tuft of chest hair peeking out from his v-neck shirt, and a pencil mustache that matched his own. 

Linebeck realized then that the man had spoken to him. 

“Yes,” he affirmed. “I am Mr. Linebeck. Though you can call me Linebeck, if you want.”

“There are many things I want in this world, Linebeck,” drolled the man, sliding gracefully into the booth seat across from him. “And one of them is to be your campaign manager.”

“Finally,” Linebeck said with a sigh of relief. “I did say ‘noon sharp,’ didn’t I?”

“Traffic was dreadful,” Salvatore said. He produced a carton from his pocket. “Cigarette?”

“You read my mind,” said Linebeck, even though he hadn’t been thinking about cigarettes. He accepted the rolled paper and the light. Together, they smoked, and the tavern soon smelled like tobacco. 

“I’m Salvatore,” said Salvatore. “I recently dropped out of law school – too many ladder-climbing dirt bags, you see – and I’m looking to be gainfully employed.”

This seemed promising. Law experience, a smoker, much less handsome than Linebeck and yet still dashing. Then, he remembered something. “You realize I can’t pay you.”

“Yes.”

“You said, ‘gainfully employed.’ There will be no gains. At least not financial ones. For you.”

Salvatore smoked coolly. “I am well aware. I read your listing in the paper, after all. Fortunately for you, I have long yearned to work for a man for whom money means nothing. I rather think rupees dull the senses, mute the passions, dampen fervor. Wouldn’t you rather have a campaign manager who works for you because he wants to – not because you pay him?”

“I wouldn’t say money means nothing ,” Linebeck clarified. “After all, I’ll need you to raise funds for my campaign. Are you able to do that?”

“Most certainly. I have a long history of raising things, money included,” Salvatore smoked again, his exceptionally pointy chin raised high, his eyes gently closed. He leaned in close, over the table, and said, “Allow me to be clearer, Linebeck: You will never need to pay me for my services in rupees.”

Linebeck considered this. It seemed almost too good to be true. But he was nowhere near a retrospective person, and even if he was, his vision wasn’t perfect. Hence the glasses. 

“Salvatore,” he said, leaning over the table, too, cigarette dangling out of his mouth. “You’re hired.”

Linebeck’s first campaign stop was at the Mercay Island General Store. He wanted to be among the populace, spreading the word of his candidacy. After all, the election was only six days away, and nobody even really knew he was running for office. If he was going to win, information was key. Knowledge was power. Power was planning. And the proof was in the pudding. 

Linebeck was standing in the refrigerated section of the store, next to the pudding display. Salvatore stood stoically beside him, and they were both wearing shirts that said Linebeck for Mayor on them. Salvatore’s shirt was a v-neck, of course.  So far, nobody wanted to take their flyers. They said things like “Oh, I’m not interested” and “I don’t need any coupons, thanks!”

“Who doesn’t need coupons?” Linebeck said under his breath. 

Then, a little old lady approached them, her wrinkled arm outstretched. Salvatore stood by, ready with the campaign literature. 

“Excuse me, deary,” warbled the woman. “Do you happen to know where they keep the chips and salsa? Every time I come to this store, they seem to have moved it.”

Salvatore groaned. It would not be the last time Linebeck heard him groan, but it was the first. 

Linebeck was done being polite and tepid to the public. “Ma’am,” he began.

“Yes?” said the old woman, turning her head so as to better hear the location of chips and salsa when the information was bestowed upon her.

“I don’t work here,” said Linebeck. “But I do want to work for you… as your mayor!”

“But we already have a mayor,” observed the woman. 

“You do, but what sort of mayor is he if he doesn’t prevent the grocery stores from moving around their chips and salsa every week? What sort of mayor is he if he’s holding all the imports hostage in the ports because of his own personal hangups?”

“Hangups?” said a random young man. He was wearing a green and white striped shirt, and his hairdo was twice the height of his own head. “Oh, gods, is the mayor going to start hanging people?”

“No,” said Linebeck. “Not that I’m aware of anyway. But what he does want to do – and I heard this from him personally – is limit the amount of alcohol consumed on this island!”

About ten people in the pudding aisle stopped what they were doing and did an about face. 

“Did he truly say that?” asked the old woman. She grabbed on to Salvatore’s sleeve and began tugging on it incessantly. “Did he truly say he wished to prevent us from imbibing in intoxicating liquor?”

“No way,” slurred a man in bright red overalls. He staggered a few feet forward, dropping his grocery basket on the ground in the process. “No way. The mayor would never do something like that.”

“I only drink Molida Island cabernet sauvignons with my chips and salsa,” the old woman pouted. 

A crowd had begun to grow around Linebeck. They were all asking him to confirm what he’d already said: that Mayor Oshus wanted nothing more than to prevent them all from drinking alcohol. 

“It’s true,” Linebeck finally said. He knocked a crate of pudding cans on its side and stood upon it to give himself some leverage in the aisle. “The mayor has implemented an enormous import tax on alcohol, which will not only prevent this beautiful young woman,” he pointed to the old woman, who was still grappling at Salvatore’s arms, “from enjoying a delicious glass of wine with her dinner–”

“My chips and salsa!” she wailed. 

“--her chips and salsa, but there’s a good chance it will stop the import of everything else! Like food, for instance. Clothing. Medicine. Who knows what else! Mercay Island is on a fast track to desperation, under Mayor Oshus’ leadership.”

“Oh, what shall we do!” said several people, all at once. 

“I’ll tell you what to do,” said Linebeck. His blood was pumping in his ears. He hadn’t felt this thrilled in years. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead. The attention was exhilarating. 

“Oh, tell us!” demanded the crowd. 

“Yes, Linebeck, tell them,” Salvatore insisted sultrily, his voice low and desperate. “Tell them what they want to hear.”

“Six days from now, when you head to the polls, you’ll see another name next to Mayor Oshus’. And that name will be Linebeck. And if you like your chips, your salsa, your alcohol, your clothes – if you like living at all… you’ll vote for Linebeck. That’s me. I’m Linebeck,” he said, clarifying just in case it wasn’t obvious. 

The crowd erupted into cheers. Everyone whooped. They dropped their shopping baskets so they could properly clap. The man in the overalls knocked over a pudding crate.

Linebeck realized then he was standing in front of the chips and salsa. He turned around, grabbed the finest specimen of each, and handed them to the woman. She took them, and shook his hand furiously. 

“He has my vote!” she exclaimed. 

Salvatore leaned close to Linebeck. He whispered in his ear, his voice close and intimate over the din of the cheering masses. 

“Take me back to your ship, you disgusting animal,” Salvatore beseeched.