MR.J document 4

I squeezed past the heavy front door draft excluder and marched onto the porch to survey the neighborhood for lucrative opportunities. Right beside the stone planter, a rain-streaked flyer caught my eye: 'LOST: GINGER CAT — £50 REWARD.' Fifty pounds in cold liquid cash. Some might call it neighborhood pet recovery; I call it an open-market bounty contract. I pinned the glossy paper against the brick with my paws, memorizing the target's distinct white-tipped tail and patrol sector. Fifty quid is fifty quid, and no empire ever failed by securing easy liquidity. The hunt is officially underway.