mlawrencekey
He filled up his flask perfectly, without spilling a single drop of single malt scotch. Taking out his pipe, he sniffed it, inhaling the heady odors of excellent tobacco, then put it away. He was ready for whatever he might face today. He was a man.
"I am certain of this," he said. "That nothing is truly certain. Not out here, anyway." He exhaled slowly, letting his breath fog up the thick transplex of the viewing dome. Outside, the deadly beauty of space spread as far as his eyes could see, defeating the imagination utterly.
Helping others is the foundation of my life. I don't live for myself, but I live to help others, to lend a helping hand. That is the teaching of my Master, and I know that it's the only real way to live. The only way to save my life is to give it away. It's paradoxical, I know, but once you try it out, you'll see that it works and it's real.
It was an average day. Coffee in the morning, with a doughnut on a white paper napkin to one side. Newspaper on the table in front of him, headlines barely glanced at. He didn't really care about the news, but it was part of his routine.
He was an average man. Average height, average weight, average looks. You might pass him on the street and never notice. That was what kept him from being caught for so long. He kept all of his treasures in his basement, hanging there on meat hooks and was never suspected--precisely because he was average.
The man sighed and put one gnarled finger to save his place. The afternoon sun slanted in through the window, illuminating dust motes in their eternal dance and setting the mahogany paneling ablaze. The tea in his nearby cup had long ago gone cold. He glanced down at the printed page before him. A world beckoned. He smiled, and bent once more to read.