Preston stared at the so-called “prizefighter”. Sure, his father had taken him to boxing matches, but there was no way to make money like that, not like the market… He remembered lazy mornings when his maid brought in more coffee, going over the Arkham Advertiser, dawdingly over the business section. Much better than this "Mexico" business.
He was shaken from his reverie by a nearby cultist’s shouting. His adventuring companion was holding the oddball’s wallet with his left hand...and smashing him in the face with the right.