Steampunk Era: Mad Abield

"Good evening, sir, you look like a Sydneyan." Jack handed his notebook to his assistant and then took the ID handed over by another gentleman: "Mr. Hill Clinton, good evening, what brings you here?"

"Collecting rent. You know, I have over a dozen properties, and I have to take a few days each month to collect the rent. Otherwise, I’d die of boredom." Mr. Hill was well-dressed, a respectable gentleman. The record stated he owned sixteen properties for rent, he had two farms in hand, and he had just put a large sum of money into Prince Malin’s Rongma southern new farm development project; one could say he was a very wealthy gentleman.

His mention of dying of boredom made Jack’s heart weep silently—everyone was about the same young age, so why was there such an enormous disparity? He was working every day, 007 style, while this gentleman came to collect rent to avoid dying of boredom.

"Mr. Casaman, do you have any new works recently?" While internally weeping, Jack continued to work, asking the standard question.

"Of course, take a look." The gentleman named Casaman stepped aside from the doorway, and there, Jack saw an oil painting that was half completed.

Jack couldn’t help but admit, even as an art ignoramus, that he could see a semi-nude lady in the painting, lying on a lounge chair, her back facing the painter.

"I’ve named her Lucy; she’s a nearby widow who loves art." Mr. Casaman seemed to reminisce as he said this: "She really loves art a lot."

It must be great to be a painter, able to do something under the banner of art that if one attempted in any other profession, would probably get one beaten to death.

Once again, Jack internally questioned whether there was something wrong with his career choice, while simultaneously smiling: "Confirmed, thank you for your honesty."

Jack shook hands with Mr. Casaman and then with Mr. Hill, and then looked back at Casaman: "By the way, you don’t have any other issues, do you?"

"What?" The tenant and landlord asked in unison.