Abandoned as an infant high in the mountains of Colorado, James was taken in and raised by a family of marmots. They trained him in the art of satire, but warned him: ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’ He didn’t understand the truth of their words until his adopted rodent brother, Donald Trump’s hair, turned to the dark side.
James could only sit by and watch, helpless and appalled, as his evil brother meme’d his way to the White House. Forever changed by what he had seen, James fled to The Netherlands and vowed to always use his powers for good.
Immediately following his resignation, Sibrand Poppema disappeared. He hadn’t returned to the basement of the Academy Building since that night twenty years ago, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Checking to make sure he was alone, Sibrand pulled out the loose brick in the west corner. Behind it sat a black case containing the last physical manifestation of a life he’d been all too happy to leave behind.
He sighed, popping the latch on the case. ‘It’s been a long time, old friend.’ The revolver didn’t respond, but his initials engraved on the handle spoke of an almost comforting familiarity. He tucked it into the holster under his arm. He’d find use for it soon enough.
When the boy, Jasper, broke the news that more than three million euros of public funds had been ‘misappropriated,’ Poppema hadn’t been surprised. He’d known for a while that something was going on, but it went far deeper than that middling accountant could ever imagine. The timecards Jasper examined belonged to people who didn’t exist. The three million had disappeared into thin air.
Poppema was furious. If someone thought they could snatch the money directly from under his nose they clearly didn’t know who they were dealing with. There would be hell to pay.
He called in some favors, and tracked the money to Canada. Of course. Yantai was in China. China and Canada both started with ‘C’. It all made sense.
‘Don’t leave, Sibrand’, begged his wife. She stood in the doorway of their house in Bunne.
‘I’m sorry, Joke’, he said. ‘You know I have to.’ Their eyes met, communicating a thousand words in an instant. A thousand words, but not three million euro. Joke sighed and stepped aside.
It was pouring outside, mirroring the storm in his heart. He would recover the three million, or die trying.