War.
It was a thing despised by most, and rightfully so. Very little good generally came of war; death, destruction, and various other negative words in the same vein. But, to Edgar Smith, war was a thing to be embraced, welcomed into the home like a friend not seen in a long time.
Because war meant business.
Even from a young age, Edgar had always show an interest in black smithing. Perhaps it was destiny, his last being Smith after all. He'd apprenticed under Old Man Jenkins through his adolescence and opened his own shop at seventeen, a thing that even the most experienced men in the field could not brag. From his shop came the most incredible items the town had seen, everything from chairs to wall lamps. Life was good and business thrived.
And then the South decided that owning slaves was something to fight over and war broke out.
If business was good before, it was great now. Orders were coming in by the horse load. Muskets needed to be made, and bullets to go with them. Horses needed shoes and wagons needed wheels. Overnight, Edgar went from modest silverware maker to rich arms dealer. He didn't care what side came to him, either; their money was good anywhere. Yes, the hours grew longer, but so did the piles of cash and even when a ship date slipped, he didn't worry. He crafted the most reliable guns in America and that was something that customers would wait an extra day or two for.
Life was good and it was only getting better.
Late one evening, there was a loud knock at Edgar's shop door. Startled, he whirled around but never even had the chance to open it.
He was dead.
Run through by a gunstick he'd been pleasuring himself in the ass with.
