“End of the line, Kid.”

  The boy stopped dead in his tracks, shaking at the click of the gun to his back. He knew he was in over his head as the woman’s calm, yet dead voice echoed through his bloodied ears. He took one last moment in the destroyed office to take everything in; his best friend was dead, his father watched from the left, stoned faced, and the woman who shot his friend now had her weapon pointed at him.

  “Don’t make this worse, Xole,” The father spoke, rising to his feet. “No need to cause any more needless casualties.”

  “Needless casualties?” Xole said, gritting his teeth. “You killed your own son!”

  “No,” the gray suited man replied slowly making his way to him. “You did.”

  Xole staggered back, the office was a wreck. The long meeting table was split in half with a bloodied streak in the middle and on the walls as well. The large windows looking off into the city were mostly shattered, including the one he nearly stumbled out of. Despite this, the weirdly dressed gun-woman was nearly unharmed. The sides of her head were shaved, the top showed off black silky hair that fell to the back of her crisp white buttoned dress shirt and red tie. Her sleeves were rolled to her forearms while fish-netting lined the rest of her arms to her palms. She wore a belt that kept up black bottomless pants that tucked into her shin-high silver heeled black boots. This contrasted his messy matted brown hair, open torn hoodie with cuts and bruises down to his gray sweatpants bunched above his sneakers. The woman touched three piercings on her left ear and listened, turning her attention to the father.

  “I’m wrapping this up. You have one minute,” She spoke in an ice cold tone.

  ‘Only one more. Never expected it to be from someone so young.’ she thought to herself.

  “Now wait just a second,” The father said, placing his hand up. “I want to give the our friend Xole an offer—”

  “Cram it!!” Xole cried, hearing the strain in his voice, “You…you sickos—you corporate demons! Your gonna have to KILL me if you ever want—”

  “Li…ve…” A weak voice suddenly drove the room into silence.

  Everyone looked down to see the seemingly dead boy now reaching for Xole, gripping his ankle, panting. Blood spewed from his mouth.

  “Xole...don’t…” He coughed once more, rolling to his back. His last words were lost to the wind.

  As his friend's voice trailed off Xole felt tears begin to fill his eyes. He looked back to the edge of the building leading into what looked like an endless fall.

  The father stopped moving, in awe of what just happened. His eyes went to his son, feeling his stomach swell with pain. He almost wanted to reach for him—however—the feeling went as soon as it came.

  “What a waste of Talent,” He spoke flatly. He turned his attention back to Xole “Xole, please, it’s not too late to make things right.”

  Xole’s head slowly turned back to the two, his face red and still tear streaked, but now he felt different. He no longer shook; he no longer felt sad even.

  “…Never,”

  ‘BLAM!’

  Xole didn’t feel anything at first, rather a brief numbness which made his breath come short. Then he felt blood trickle from the corners of his lips as his eyes began to roll back, followed by his head and the rest of his body off the building, disappearing into the dark below.

  The father could only watch wide eyed. A shiver went down his spine at what he saw.

  ‘Did I just see…no, it couldn’t’ve been…’

  He turned his attention to the hit-woman leaving in a helicopter on the other side of the office building. “You didn’t have to kill him!” He shouted as she stopped right before boarding. She turned revealing the same expression except showing a slight smirk now.

  “You’re too conflicted. Plus your time was up.” She boarded the helicopter. “I’ll be on the lookout for a deposit from Amesworth International or I’ll be back for free. Your choice, Brandon.”

  Brandon grimaced, watching the helicopter disappear into the night sky, leaving him alone in the office with the body of his son. A brown haired corporate dressed woman ran up to him with some armed guards.

  “Sir?” She asked, looking at the collateral.

  “Someone…” he turned from the body. “Clean this up.”

  ________________________________________________________________________

  Beneath the smog covered city that afternoon lay a small abandoned building near the corner of the street. Its left side was squished into the much larger city bank, making it look lopsided, almost seeming to grimace at nearby passerby. The building’s appearance was mirrored by its new owner, an olive-brown faced man, who looked on at it from across the street. His messy black hair and aftershave face contrasted his white dress shirt, black tie and slacks. Crossing the traffic filled street, he went over to the front of the building and began scribbling on the boarded up windows and above the door with a sharpie. Once done, he took a step back to admire his work:

  ‘Help wanted’

  “Much better,” he said, nodding, and went inside the parlor. “Building secured, bastards who took my house, next.”

  The inside was still cluttered with old cobwebs and boxes piled in the back with a few chairs pressed against the wall next to the door. A desk and computer sat adjacent across the medium sized room where the man took a seat. He whipped out a newspaper and made himself comfortable.

  “Or better yet, I should probably start looking for some recruits…recruits. Ugh, guess I gotta do everything from scratch.”

  Suddenly, the sound of the overhead bell rang as someone came in through the front door.

  “Eh?” the man turned to see who it was. “Well that was quick.”

  Three suited men in sunglasses strode in quickly, filling up the space before him. The one in the middle looked at him then around the room.

  “Mr.…” he glanced at his file, “Holdover?”

  “Never heard of him,” the man replied, going back to his paper.

  “Apologies, we must have the wrong address.” The suited man replied, leaving the building with his associates. However, as fast as they left, the door was quickly kicked open right before it could close fully.

  “HEY! DON’T PLAY DUMB WITH ME!” He bellowed, his face quickly turning pinkish. “DOES MR. HOLDOVER LIVE HERE OR NOT?!”

  “It really depends on who’s asking.” The man at the desk answered calmly, looking through a catalog of new and used mobile homes.

  The man in the middle began to breathe hard and almost reached behind him before the man on the left gestured.

  “Sir, this IS Mr. Holdover. He’s the only resident living here as of last weekend.”

  The middle man slammed his hands on the man’s desk peering into his face, sunglasses almost hanging over his nose. “So you ARE Mr. Holdo—”

  “Yes I AM and you don’t need to say my FULL name!” Mr. Holdover exclaimed, standing up. He scratched the back of his head. “Damn and I thought I had a temper.”

  The man on the right now spoke up, presenting a stack of papers. “We’re here to inform you that any new businesses are subject to a property tax by law, a law in which you have not followed since unlawfully claiming this place as your own.”

  “This place was abandoned last time I checked,” Holdover said, eyeing the three men. “Besides, you just said I claimed it ‘a weekend ago’ doesn’t that mean I get three weeks to pay monthly?”

  “It was actually me who said—” the man on the left began.

  “That’s only for established owners, Mr. Holdover, which clearly you are not.”

  “Well FUCK ME! Who the hell made that convenient shit up?!” Holdover threw his arms up.

  “You watch YOUR TONE!” the man in the middle erupted again.

  “How about you WATCH YOUR PITCH” He finally yelled back at the pink man, “Is all you do yell or are you just bored!?”

  “We’re wasting our—” the man on the left tried.

  “We’re wasting our time,” The man the right interrupted again. “Mr. Holdover, as a courtesy on the behalf of our firm we will give you an additional week but by then you must have double. I expect to hear back from you by then.” he turned to leave with the other men.

  “Refer to us at Amesworth International, online, on the phone or—”

  “Spare me the ad and get lost.” Holdover spat.

  As the men filed out, the one in the middle turned back slowly one more time, taking off his sunglasses and looking him dead in the eye.

  “Names Bob, remember that.” he said with an angry glare and slammed the door.

  Mr. Holdover now realized what made his face look so pink; Bob had no eyebrows.

  …

  Over the course of the next couple days Mr. Holdover went over a series of rapid-fire interviews in a rush to gain as many people as possible to face the tax collectors with a show of force.

  “Are you tired of the elites? Tired of those rich cucks telling us what to do? Are you looking to make a difference? To stand up in the face of tyranny and oppression? Finally ready to show the world what kind of animal you’ve become? The beast this country molded you into only to turn against your owners? Are you finally ready to unleash all that pent up anger, hate, rage, and sadness and FIGHT BACK?” He spoke proudly.

  The results:

  “Um, where’s my Mom?” a young freckled faced boy asked.

  “NEXT!”

  “You said you can’t pay,” A girl with a headband said, “Then what’s the point?”

  “NEXT!”

  “I’m actually late for work,” said a middle aged man, “But I can give you my card if you’re looking for a job.”

  “NEXT!”

  “I actually like the way things are.” Said a man in a clean blue suit and tie with neatly parted hair, “The leaders are like us, but they worked hard to amass enough wealth to share with this great nation and give everyone the same opportunities they got, so I really think you should change—”

  “GET THE HELL OUT!”

  “Have you seen my son?” An older freckled faced woman asked.

  “Next…” He said weakly.

  Failure.

  Mr. Holdover stumbled outside, cursing his luck as he began to tear down the businesses advertisements.

  “Maybe I could try flipping this building to some property manager before those IRS goons come back,” he muttered.

  While reaching for another poster he noticed someone standing perfectly adjacent to the wall. He was no more than twenty, and wore a black garment that hung just above the knee with orange camo pants stuffed into a pair of black timberland boots. A striking orange patterned kufi sat atop his head, matching the pattern slung over his left shoulder. He tipped his head up towards him and smiled, adjusting his glasses.

  “Good afternoon, my name’s Shakar,” he said thrusting his hand forward, rattling the beads hanging from his hat and shoes. “And I look forward to taking your property!”

  “Actually I’m pretty sure it’s the evening,” Mr. Holdover replied, taking his hand to shake. A few moments passed between the men before he realized what he was doing. Veins filled his neck as he yanked the smiling man forward.

  “Hey HEY! WAIT A DAMN MINUTE! WHO THE HELL YOU THINK YOU ARE BOY!?” he yelled.

  “Please excuse me, but I could’ve sworn you were scheming to flip your building to some ‘property managing idiot’, so I decided to help you out.”

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “I don’t recall saying the word idiot…”

  “It’s fine if you can’t remember.”

  He cursed this guy under his breath—he hated dealing with people who liked to get so cozy so quick and something about this guy’s personality seemed especially infuriating. He noticed the sun start to fall.

  “Look, I’m good. Besides I’m not interested in papers or garments. All I’m trying to do is gather enough funds to stop weird men in suits from taking my business.”

  Shakar nodded, “Ah, I see. Well you can always request more time considering you’re a new business. Did these men give you a phone number or card?”

  The older man stayed silent for a moment, recalling the dispute he had with them. He went back inside and started typing on his computer.

  “Amesworth…International…phone number.” he said, and reached for the telephone. Shakar followed him inside.

  “Excuse me,” he asked, “sir?”

  He muttered under his breath as he furiously mashed the number key. “Damn bots. What?”

  “My garment is a Dashiki, and no I’m not selling papers but thank you for your interest!”

  “Shut up,” he said as someone finally picked up.

  “Amesworth International, this is Janet speaking, how may I direct your call?” A female voice spoke in a rushed tone.

  “I need an extension on the bullshit,” He replied.

  “…Uh sir, I’m sorry. What?”

  “I need an extension on my rent! How do I sign up or—”

  “You’re going to have to schedule an appointment sweetie. The best we can do is in two weeks from now.”

  “Two weeks my ass I gotta pay you jerks back in ONE!” Mr. Holdover craned his neck, trying to calm himself down. However, her voice…that high-pitched yammering…

  “Well, honey, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you. Thank you for calling and have a nice—”

  “It’s fine I got your address. I’ll be there in an hour.”

  There was a long pause over the phone. Then, the line went dead.

  “You sure have a way with people,” Shakar said with a smile following him out of the former massage parlor. His hands clasped together. “Where are we going now?”

  “I’M going to see those idiots in person!” Mr. Holdover retorted, adjusting his tie and rolling his sleeves to his forearms. He reached for his non-existent blazer but caught himself. He jabbed a finger to the young man. “YOU are going to go back to wherever you came from and leave me alone.”

  “But then I won’t be able to achieve my dream,” Shakar replied, now showing a hint of genuineness in his voice.

  He turned around to the young man. He sighed and gestured to him. “All right kid, what’s this dream you have?”

  “I want to open a school.”

  “Well…I didn’t expect that. I actually respect—”

  “After you lose that building of course!” His old tone returned along with a carefree smile on his face.

  Mr. Holdover grew quiet.

  “But I would be happy to buy it off you for a fair price, let’s say—”

  CRACK!!!

  “You know, you didn’t have to hit me that hard.” Shakar complained, still holding the side of his head as he and Mr. Holdover crossed the street to Amesworth.

  “Shut up and be happy I didn’t leave your ass in the middle of the street,” He replied.

  The younger man jogged to Holdover’s side. “Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot,” he offered his hand. “I didn’t get your name—”

  “Nice try, kufi,” Mr. Holdover said ignoring the hand, “but no one ever gets me twice with the same trick.”

  “I never tried to trick you,” Shakar said, “If anything, I was offering you an ‘out’ of your failing business.”

  “I was getting warmed up.”

  “Why even go out of the way to spout such nonsense anyways?” Shakar asked, “If you had even a shred of notoriety or influence you would’ve been arrested on spot for all that bellowing on the street earlier.”

  The two stopped at an intersection, surrounded by traffic on all sides while people crowded the sidewalk. To his surprise, the man only exhaled. “Look around you,” he said.

  “What I’m seeing,” Shakar said looking over both his shoulders, “Is a typical afternoon in Empire City. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “You see that’s the problem.” Mr. Holdover spoke as the light changed. They crossed the street with the crowd. “Right now we’re surrounded by a little over one and a half million people.” Reaching the other side, he looked ahead to the plaza where the Amesworth International was. “Yet only about ten thousand of them are White Collar.”

  “Meaning the rest are Blue Collared and below.” Shakar said, eyeing a man with a blue suit and tie sitting against a building, arm resting over his briefcase. “So you’re upset about the wage gap?”

  “Wage gap!” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Most of these people need at least three jobs to keep their heads above water, but there’s always a few thousand who can’t keep up.”

  Now Shakar saw the sitting Blue Collared man had moved from his spot and was trudging away—to the Amesworth building.

  “But their boses’ll have them replaced by tomorrow. It’s not that they do this every damn week!” the older man spat. The scowl on his face grew the closer they got to the entrance of Amesworth, “All the while these, ‘one-percenters’, are sitting all high, mighty, and comfortable in their skyscrapers, mansions and airships, laughing down on us while tossing their breadcrumbs!” He turned to the younger man, “Doesn’t it piss you the hell off?”

  “Hmm…so you are upset at the wage gap!”

  Mr. Holdover smacked him over the head, startling the nearby people. “Don’t you get it? There is no ‘wage gap’! The amount of pennies we make isn’t even comparable!”

  “Can you please stop hitting m—?”

  He grabbed his shoulders, “Think of all that wealth. How do you think these motherfuckers got so rich? How many people they had to stab? How much blood and tears they had to drink? How many kids they had to kill?!” He leaned in. His eye twitched. “Even if these fucks ever get the balls to arrest me someday, I’ll never stop calling out their shit!”

  Shakar eyed the quivering man. He looked from his tangled hair and wrinkled shirt and tie, down to his similarly kept pants and surprisingly shined shoes. He carefully pushed him off and brushed his own shoulders.

  “You get awfully sweaty when you’re worked up, did you know that?”

  As Mr. Holdover readied to hit him again, he noticed the top of the building was taped off and majority of the premise below. Even the plaza and its shops were vacant.

  ‘Last I checked, construction never stopped these types.’ He thought to himself as the two entered through the front. ‘Also, what the hell happened up there? It looks like a damn hurricane hit.’

  “Good evening and welcome to Amesworth!” a long nosed woman with big eyes behind glasses and brown hair said at the front desk. She was looking down at some papers. “Please take a ticket from the center and wait until we have someone who can assist—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m in a rush.” Mr. Holdover said, strolling up to the desk and dropping his hand on it much to the woman’s surprise. Her head snapped up. Her big eyes grew even bigger at the sight of him.

  “Oh no. No, no, no, not you!”

  Shakar took a look at himself, then him. “Is she referring to you?” he asked.

  He sighed, scratching his head, “Eh...”

  “I take it you have a history with this place then?”

  “Ok, you need to mind your damn business—”

  “SECURITY!!!” she screamed.

  “And YOU need to SHUT THE HELL UP!!!” Mr. Holdover yelled back to the woman, jabbing his finger at her.

  She responded by screaming and falling out of her chair, quickly rolling under the desk. Shakar looked on, puzzled by the bizarre maneuver. Suddenly, as if all of the civilians had been replaced by armed officers, the lobby was filled with men at every corner and door. They wore standard guard gear; black armored vest; hip, shin, and forearm wear which contrasted with their silver shields and open-faced helmets. The shielded men stayed in the front, making way for a somewhat smaller figure to move to the center and confront the two men. He wore a gray suit that matched his hair and thick rimmed glasses.

  “Gentlemen!” He exclaimed, flashing a smile, “How may I aid—” he cut off when he saw Mr. Holdover.

  “W-wait…” he sputtered, “Y-you…y-you’re—” He sputtered.

  “Mr. Holdover,” he interjected quickly, “Remember?”

  “How—how are you still ALIVE—?”

  “Stop, STOP! Are all you people gonna have the SAME damn reaction?!” He said, feeling his neck start craning again. He nearly forgot why he came here in the first place.

  “Say, why did we come here in the first place?” Shakar asked calmly, smiling at the armed guards surrounding them.

  “Don’t do that,” he replied, realizing he was still stuck with this kufi wearing wise-ass.

  “Mr.…Holdover,” Brandon said calming himself down and forcing a smile. “I’m so terribly sorry about this little debacle and I do so apologize for the rudeness on the behalf of this company”.

  “No you’re not,” He answered bluntly.

  Brandon continued to smile while motioning for the majority of the armed men to leave. A few stayed but hung to the corners and a couple near the main door. Janet now got up from behind her desk, still staring bug eyed at Mr. Holdover and Shakar, both of them ignored her.

  “Now then!” Brandon said, clapping his hands together. “What may I assist you with today, gentlemen?”

  “Say,” Shakar said quietly, “I don’t think we should—”

  “I need more time on my rent, so give it,” Mr. Holdover said.

  The younger man pressed his lips together and shook his head, letting out a long sigh. Brandon simply laughed while Janet joined in too despite her sounding more like croaking.

  “Ah yes, we’ve been keeping an eye on a ‘recently refurbished massage parlor’ near an alleyway—”

  “Where you blew up my trailer,” Holdover interrupted.

  “—that’s been trying and failing to find employers,” Brandon continued pretending he didn’t hear anything.

  “Excuse me,” Janet said, straightening herself up. “We don’t allow extensions for business that aren’t making revenue. Our policy states that it wouldn’t be fair for our actual paying partners that—”

  “WHO THE HELL ASKED YOU?!” Holdover exploded at the woman.

  She stammered, “Sec-sec-SECURI—!”

  Brandon raised his hand before she could finish. He was still trying to wrap his head around the situation. ‘So he isn’t dead and he knows too much…not to mention he’s starting to cause a scene, and the only people who could kill him aren’t available right now. His finger went to his chin. Suddenly, he had an idea.

  “How about I give you a better building? Rent-free.”

  Mr. Holdover looked his way, his face less tense. Brandon’s grin grew.

  ‘That piqued his interest,’ he thought, ‘I had a feeling you were still a lazy creature by nature so no need to push. Just a little more incentive will be enough.’

  “You will have to move to the west coast,” Brandon continued. He started to pace left to right. “We will cover all expenses including travel, food, shelter, and anything else you may need. I’ll even let our partners across the country know that you are our off-limits guest who will be free to run his business however he likes.”

  Mr. Holdover bowed his head, running his fingers through his tangled hair thinking. He groaned, ‘Why do I feel so tired all of a sudden?’ With a sigh, he put his hands up. “Look, all I wanted—”

  “And,” Brandon interrupted excitedly, “We’ll even replace your trailer!”

  “Really?” Holdover looked up, eyebrow raised.

  “Really?” Shakar said in disbelief.

  “Really,” Brandon said with a smile. “Now if you can just take a trip to my office, we can hurry through the paperwo—”

  “Hold up,” Holdover said, “I wanna see some hard evidence. Why the hell should I believe you White Collared snobs would give some random ass like me all that cash?”

  “Because, Mr. Holdover, customer satisfaction is our number one guarantee. Now Janet, cut the check.”

  Janet looked back at them. Shakar could see the hesitancy, the scorn in her eyes.

  ‘This wench is getting on my last nerve.’ he thought before quickly shaking his head.

  “Cut. The. CHECK.” Brandon repeated, his voice cracking with emphasis.

  With a disgruntled sigh the desk woman tapped on her microphone. “CEO requesting access to ‘Black Check’ code 3033.”

  Footsteps out of nowhere carried a Blue Collared man with neatly parted brown hair from the stair doors, carrying a shiny white suitcase.

  “Here you go sir—” he paused when he saw Mr. Holdover. “Hey! Have we met bef—?”

  “No,” He spoke, quickly turning his attention back to Brandon. “What’s with this extra shit?”

  “This, my friend,” Brandon said, opening the suitcase and carefully taking out a black rectangular sheet of paper, “Is a Black Dollar.”

  “Looks cheap if anything,” Shakar spoke up, eyeing the currency.

  “It’s anything but!” The brown haired man interjected excitedly. “Think of this as a super-duper credit card except it doesn’t need to be paid in full. I even hear there are only six active ones in the whole world! Cool huh? There’s WAY more features besides that including VIP access to—”

  “CHARLES!” Brandon boomed. “I think you said more than enough. You are excused for the day”

  “Appreciated sir!” Charles nodded and skipped off.

  “Now, Mr. Holdover, if we can get your fingerprint on the Black Dollar we can begin the activation process which can take up to three days, in which you will—”

  “Let me see it,” Shakar said, stepping towards Brandon. “I still don’t believe you.”

  Mr. Holdover was puzzled. “Wait what?”

  The armed guards began to tense but Brandon put his hand up again.

  “Its fine,” the gray suited man smiled, handing it to Shakar. “We aren’t below showing the less fortunate what they can achieve.”

  Shakar held the Black Dollar. He looked it front, looked it back, and held it up to the light even. Then, he popped it in his mouth.

  Everyone was in shock. An eerie silence filled the room, broken only by the sound of Shakar chewing while Mr. Holdover, Brandon, Janet, and even the guards could only watch in horror. Shaker spat the Dollar out at Brandon, hitting his chest and fell to the ground before his feet.

  “As I thought,” Shakar said, reverting to a normal smile. “Tastes cheap too!”

  Brandon’s nose began to bleed.

  “TAKE THEM! KILL THEM! RESTRAIN—OH JUST DO SOMETHING!!” he screamed.

  ‘Shit,’ Mr. Holdover thought glancing at the armed men who, despite being confused by the conflicting orders, began to move in.

  “Your name’s Shakar, right?” He asked.

  “Why yes,” Shakar replied, “Why do care about my name all of a sudden—”

  “Duck.”

  Shakar’s stomach hit the ground as Mr. Holdover whipped off his belt. In one swift motion he spun it around the two of them and sent the guards flying back into the walls and out the large windows, tearing chunks of the floor in its wake. As Brandon tried to stay behind one of the guards he could see Janet’s desk being pummeled with rubble, the woman shrieking before quickly falling silent. In the confusion, Holdover grabbed Shakar by the back of this Dashiki and released his knees before exploding off the ground and out the window. Bullets whizzed past the two as they escaped out of sight.

  Brandon finally got up only to see the lobby was a mess; tables, chairs, walls, and all his men, scattered as if tossed by a mini tornado.

  “So…” the gray haired man grimaced, fist shaking. “He does have a useful Talent.”

  “Sir?” one of the security guards asked nervously.

  “The street, they’re probably looking to escape the city.” Brandon said with a quiver in his voice. He checked on Janet. “Find them, NOW!”

  The men cleared out and Janet touched her throat as Brandon and some other guards helped her up.

  “Sir,” she said, “If they get away—”

  “They won’t,” Brandon reassured her, adjusting his tie. “Get me a line. We’re going to need her.”

  “Uh, why are we here?” a confused Shakar asked from under the dumpster in the alley outside of Amesworth. Panting, Mr. Holdover rolled out from under, followed by Shakar on the other side, who was desperately wiping off his Dashiki.

  “They think we ran out to the intersection to hide in the city,” the older man said, sitting back against the wall. “Majority will look for us out there leaving the building with less than optimal protection. Brandon’s an easy guy to read.”

  Shakar sat on the other side, hands on his bent knees. “How do you know this guy anyways? And why were they trying to kill you? Actually who are you?”

  “Like I said earlier it’s…complicated.” Mr. Holdover said, listening for sirens. Once the sound was nearly gone he pulled himself up and rolled his sleeves back up to his forearms and straightened his tie. “I’ll get into all that shit later if you’re still around. Speaking of which, what was that stunt back there with the Black Dollar?”

  Shakar chuckled and simply shrugged.

  “I hate money.”

  Holdover’s eye twitched. “Wait, then what was all that ‘lemme buy your business’ shit you were on about earlier?!”

  “That’s because I thought you were like other businessmen. But after seeing you hesitate over an offer no one else would’ve refused, I decided to be honest.” Shakar looked down and placed his hand to the back of his head. “But I truly abhor the very sight of that poison.”

  “Guess that makes sense,” he said, “But the money thing, am I missing something?”

  “It’s just that…” Shakar began. He looked up into the sky as rain began to pour down the alleyway. “Whenever money’s involved it’s usually a result of something that could’ve been free. So unless you own it you’ll always be bound to the will of someone else. You’ll never truly be free.”

  There was a pause for a moment. Then Mr. Holdover began to chuckle himself.

  ‘This guy…wonder if there are others like him…’

  He offered his hand, “Name’s Mr. Hold—”

  “Oh, I know that now. Quite an odd name.”

  “…” He pulled his hand back and got up from the wall. “We should get going. If we’re lucky we’ll only have a warrant, but that probably means we can’t go back to the parlor unless we wanna take our chances with the law, which we both know isn’t the best—” From the corner of his eye he caught an odd shape inside the dumpster. His throat went completely dry.

  “Hmm?” Puzzled, Shakar went over to see what caught his attention. Inside, lying face down was what looked like an older boy with skin similar to Holdover’s and gray hair wearing a blood soaked hoodie with a bullet-hole in the back. The older man seemed frozen as Shakar flipped him over carefully. It was too dark to make out facial features. Still he placed two fingers over his neck. His eyes widened.

  “Sir…he’s—”

  “We’re taking him with us.” He said with a slight tremble in his voice. “He still has a chance.”

  Without a second thought he put the kid on his back and started running with Shakar now struggling to keep up behind him.

  ‘Not again!’ He thought running even faster. ‘I won’t fail again!’