"Of course, as you can see, the upper floor, particularly in the attic, is entirely unsuitable for anything but firewood ?"
Aimee blinked hurriedly, trying to at least look as though she was paying attention. The realtor was, unfortunately, a man possessed of the most boring voice she had ever come across. He could have been awarding her an Oscar, and she still would have been half asleep. He'd taken them around three so-called properties that morning; all run-down, all in rough areas, and all well within their budget. On paper, that was. In reality, yes, they were all within budget, but the amount of work that they'd need to do on the places meant that it was no investment at all. She sighed softly, hiding a yawn behind the sleeve of her jacket. Perhaps she should have lied about her age, like Randy suggested.
This place was no better than the other three. Plaster was peeling off the walls, she was pretty certain she'd smelt decaying flesh in the kitchen, and as for the upper floors he was talking about " well. She was standing underneath a hole that went right up to the sky above the little bungalow. Grimacing, she looked over at Randy, wondering what he was making of this magical mystery tour of Rhy"Din's worst investments they were getting.
Randy was looking up at that same hole that Aimee was standing beneath. It was kind of ironic that the sun beaming through the roof had made a spot light on her. His hands within his pockets and he rocked back and forth on his feet. There was a smile on his face, not for the realtor, but because Aimee looked like she had a halo. Quite angelic looking, actually. And then he caught her looking at him and he snapped out of the little day dream.
"No, no. It's dreadful. I know we have a limited budget and said that we wanted a place to fix up. But this is too much. By the time we got done reinforcing the roof and repairing it, we'll be into the home for three times it's worth." He turned to the realtor and shook his head. "You've one more shot. Take us to another dump like this and we'll find somebody who can find us a suitable place. How about that?" He walked over to Aimee then and put his arm around her shoulder.
The realtor, a middle-aged man named Harry Faulks with a paunch and a truly dreadful comb-over, scowled at the pair of them. Obviously he had thought they would be easy to fool into laying down a deposit for any one of these places, since Aimee looked about twelve still and Randy could have doubled for James Dean in his teens. He sighed irritably.
"There is one other property which might suit you," he suggested, clearly reluctant to even mention it but backed into a corner by the attitude of the young man in front of him. Handing over a sheet of paper, he turned to move toward the front door, opening it in such a way as to hide the fact that one good sneeze would gain entry to this little house. "I will meet you there. I assume you have transport?" Whether they did or not didn't seem to matter to him, since he was already out of the house and unlocking his own car without a second glance at them.
Aimee took the paper with a roll of her eyes and pulled Randy with her out of the mini-death-trap they'd been conned into taking a look at. The address on this sheet was promising, at least - it was in New Haven, for a start, and didn't seem to have the word Derelict attached to it. She looked up at Randy as the realtor drove off, leaving them in an area which could almost be rougher than the Shambles. "You know, I think he wants us to get brutally murdered, " she commented mildly.
Aimee blinked hurriedly, trying to at least look as though she was paying attention. The realtor was, unfortunately, a man possessed of the most boring voice she had ever come across. He could have been awarding her an Oscar, and she still would have been half asleep. He'd taken them around three so-called properties that morning; all run-down, all in rough areas, and all well within their budget. On paper, that was. In reality, yes, they were all within budget, but the amount of work that they'd need to do on the places meant that it was no investment at all. She sighed softly, hiding a yawn behind the sleeve of her jacket. Perhaps she should have lied about her age, like Randy suggested.
This place was no better than the other three. Plaster was peeling off the walls, she was pretty certain she'd smelt decaying flesh in the kitchen, and as for the upper floors he was talking about " well. She was standing underneath a hole that went right up to the sky above the little bungalow. Grimacing, she looked over at Randy, wondering what he was making of this magical mystery tour of Rhy"Din's worst investments they were getting.
Randy was looking up at that same hole that Aimee was standing beneath. It was kind of ironic that the sun beaming through the roof had made a spot light on her. His hands within his pockets and he rocked back and forth on his feet. There was a smile on his face, not for the realtor, but because Aimee looked like she had a halo. Quite angelic looking, actually. And then he caught her looking at him and he snapped out of the little day dream.
"No, no. It's dreadful. I know we have a limited budget and said that we wanted a place to fix up. But this is too much. By the time we got done reinforcing the roof and repairing it, we'll be into the home for three times it's worth." He turned to the realtor and shook his head. "You've one more shot. Take us to another dump like this and we'll find somebody who can find us a suitable place. How about that?" He walked over to Aimee then and put his arm around her shoulder.
The realtor, a middle-aged man named Harry Faulks with a paunch and a truly dreadful comb-over, scowled at the pair of them. Obviously he had thought they would be easy to fool into laying down a deposit for any one of these places, since Aimee looked about twelve still and Randy could have doubled for James Dean in his teens. He sighed irritably.
"There is one other property which might suit you," he suggested, clearly reluctant to even mention it but backed into a corner by the attitude of the young man in front of him. Handing over a sheet of paper, he turned to move toward the front door, opening it in such a way as to hide the fact that one good sneeze would gain entry to this little house. "I will meet you there. I assume you have transport?" Whether they did or not didn't seem to matter to him, since he was already out of the house and unlocking his own car without a second glance at them.
Aimee took the paper with a roll of her eyes and pulled Randy with her out of the mini-death-trap they'd been conned into taking a look at. The address on this sheet was promising, at least - it was in New Haven, for a start, and didn't seem to have the word Derelict attached to it. She looked up at Randy as the realtor drove off, leaving them in an area which could almost be rougher than the Shambles. "You know, I think he wants us to get brutally murdered, " she commented mildly.