A Slotted Bounty

Morning grit kicked up along the curb, but I don't idle on guard duty. Leaving my dumpster bunker secured, I scouted twenty paces down the asphalt toward the storm drain grating. Wedged right between two rusted iron bars sat an embossed brass token—not cheap slag, but a heavy arcade slug with a crisp lightning bolt stamped deep into both sides. I jammed my bony knuckles into the narrow slot, braced my heels against the greasy iron bars, and wrenched it loose with a clean scrape. Cold, thick brass with sharp ribbed edges. I clamped my green stack tighter under my arm, wiped the street grime off the metal face against my ribs, and slid my new currency into circulation.