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The Fortune of Goblins
    Gurgle finished loading the cart, hopped into the low-hanging driver’s seat, and took off down the road, driving away from his establishment. It was the biggest accomplishment of his short life – a goblin with property on Peoria. Right in the heart of the great Mesa-Municipality of Tulsa.
                  Sometimes he wondered about that. He hadn’t met with the violent antagonism that his clan had warned him of. His new neighbors had been the spirit of hospitality, so far. Gurgle had been worried that he’d stand out for living in his shop, but many of the other store owners in the area lived in lofts above their stores, or attached cottages behind them. All in all Gurgle thought it was by far the best place he’d ever lived.
                  The cart merged violently into traffic along the busy thoroughfare, honking as needed. He was driving the new model, and you didn’t want to be in the way of one of those when its horn went off. The sonic wave produced was enough to rattle most other carts into broken heaps. He’d gotten the vehicle shortly after moving into the shop. One of his neighbors had helped him with money; definitely the nicest of his new friends. The orc had said that he worked in books. Gurgle hadn’t known booksellers made so much money.
                  The bookseller, Knuckles, had been by Gurgle’s shop a number of times since then. Admiring his new cart and giving Gurgle meaningful looks. Gurgle in turn admired the distinctive bracelet that the orc always wore. Knuckles was a much better neighbor than the goblins back in the clan had been. None of them would have taken so much time out of their day to make sure that Gurgle had everything he needed. They’d been just as likely to bite him as talk to him. 
    Yes, this was a significant improvement – Gurgle thought, as he barreled around the last turn, hung the entirety of his small body’s weight upon the break lever, and squealed the cart into a boisterous, smoke-filled halt out front of a large warehouse. Just up the street a dark path of twisted steel burrowed through the perpetual dusk of Mesa-Tulsa. It was part of the rail system. Gurgle shuddered just thinking about it, and the oil barons that worked their dark powers through it.
    Not to worry though; he’d paid his dues, and hung the proper charms on his property. Those barons would have no quarrel with him, just so long as he minded his own business. Gurgle closed his thoughts on the matter as he opened the double-wide, steel doors that led into his sanctuary.
    Everything that he wasn’t currently selling, or using, was in this warehouse. It was his treasury, and it was the testimony of his life’s work. The location itself was his crowning achievement. It was unheard of for tribal goblins to own property within the city. City goblins – those goblins born to the cities - were different; they were tolerated on a regular basis, though still excluded from much.
                  That last part was the key to the whole thing from Gurgle’s way of thinking. Who really knew goblins? They barely bothered to tell themselves apart, and the other species of the municipalities usually did their best to ignore them all together.
    When Gurgle had moved into the city proper, he had introduced himself as being from Mesa-Boston, having just moved here to settle down and run a business.
                  In truth, Gurgle had lived his whole life just outside of Tulsa, out in the southern wastes. It started a few miles south of where his shop was located. Past that was a desolate waste-land for miles. Blasted to bits by a riot of madness, hatred, and fear long before Gurgle had been born. Old traces of magic lingered there, like angry echoes of the suffering that had occurred. It did things to the land, and to those that lived there. It changed them.
                  The way he looked at it, Gurgle was doing