PROLOGUE
THE TRIP INTO THE CITY took him almost
three
hours. Rage dominated his already ugly
frame of mind.
“Asshole!” he yelled, honking his horn
at the unexpected
car that suddenly pulled out right in
front of him. “Who
taught you to drive, slowpoke? Hit that
throttle!”
He looked at his fuel gauge. Empty. A
stream of curses
spewed from his mouth. He wanted so much
and had so
little. Life was unfair. Everything he’d
ever cared about had
been taken away from him and all that
remained were responsibilities.
The upcoming holiday season only added
to
his misery. He hatedThanksgiving. It
brought out too many
people, the spirit of Christmas already
in their eyes as they
clogged up the streets, sidewalks, and
parking lots. Beyond
pathetic, they were blind to other
people’s misery, pretending
the world was one big happy place. It
was not. Not for
the likes of him.
He drove first to the post office.With
any luck, his welfare
check was waiting for him. After finding
a parking spot,
he got out of his pickup truck. The
frigidNovember blizzard
immediately hit him in the face, and he
pulled up his collar
against the snowflakes whirling around.
The sidewalk was
just starting to turn white, his boots leaving
footprints in the
slick layer. As he rounded the corner to
Edison Street, the
force of the cold westerly wind slammed
into him. He took
a quick hold of his baseball cap,
drawing it further down
to keep it from flying away, and
shuddered. His threadbare
camouflage jacket was no match for the
almost below freezing
temperatures.
Other pedestrians hustled by, all
bundled up and eager
to escape the cold. He envied them their
warm coats. He
needed one of those rugged waterproof
parkas. Preferably
one with a hood and lots of pockets.That
would make life a
little better.
At the post office, he opened his box
and pulled out
the small stack of mail. The first item
that caught his attention
was a red note, informing him his rent
for the box was
overdue. He mumbled a harsh word,
crushed the note in
his hand and tossed it onto the floor.
“That check better be
there,” he mumbled, searching through
the stack of letters
and advertisements until he found it. On
his way out, he
dumped the rest of the unopened mail in
the garbage bin.
Whatever it contained, he didn’t care.
Continuing his drive on fumes, he headed
downtown to
cash what had become his only source of
income. Without
a phone or a watch, he had no idea of
the exact time. The
darkening sky suggested it had to be
close to five. When he
reached the bank, it was already closed.
“Damn you people,” he shouted.He banged
his right fist
several times against the glass door,
leaving dirty smudges all
over. “Lazy sons of bitches! Can’t you
work a few minutes
longer?”
He looked around with wild eyes filled
with wrath, his
hands still balled into fists. Several
pedestrians hurried to get
out his way. He didn’t even notice their
shocked reactions as
he continued to rant and rave. “Get out
of my way!”
He lumbered back to his truck. His
stomach growled,
and he hadn’t had a cigarette in more
than two weeks. He
craved the nicotine more than anything.
What now?
Frustrated, he stepped in and slammed
his palm against
the steering wheel. He’d spent his last
few bucks on gas and
didn’t even have a penny left in his
pocket, the mental image
of the double burger and large fries
beyond his reach.
Dammit, he needed cash. He needed it
now.
All over the city, lights sparkled.
Store windows glowed,
filled with decorations and signs, trying
to lure in customers
with discounts. The holiday season would
kick off with
Thanksgiving only a few days away,
followed by Black Friday,
Small Business Saturday, and Cyber
Monday. All the cheerfulness
and brightness fueled his resentment.
What a way
to spend your time, buying useless gifts
nobody wanted or
needed. Didn’t they have anything better
to do with their
money? Why not give it to the poor and
needy, to someone
like him?
Traffic crawled. The snow stopped,
turning into a light
drizzle. With luck, he might just make
it to the Westside
Soup Kitchen.He’d been there several
times in the past. Run
by several priests, or some other
religious dudes, the food
was decent. They even served a second
helping if someone
asked. With the holiday season, people were
more generous
to the hungry and donations to shelters
increased. Who
knew? They might even offer dessert.
He left his truck and walked the last
few blocks. On the
way, he passed an All-American diner, an
Italian restaurant,
and two burger joints. The delicious
smell of roasted meat
and french fries tickled his senses
andmade himsalivate.His
anger against the bank flared up again.
He would have given
anything for a juicy burger smothered in
cheese and several
thick strips of bacon, or for a bucket
of fried chicken with
mashed potatoes and gravy. Instead, he
would probably wind
up eating spaghetti and cheap white
dinner rolls, or Spanish
rice with sticks of celery and iceberg
salad.
One of the city buses came to a halt
next to him, the
screeching brakes drawing his attention.
The doors opened
and people streamed out on the sidewalk
in front of him.
Others waited to climb on board,
blocking his path. He
stopped and waited, his hands deep in
his pockets, until he
noticed the colorful advertisement on
the side of the bus.
It read – ‘Protection for all you hold
dear. CallOverland
Insurance’ - in bold lettering, with two
men and two women
on either side, all four dressed to
perfection, smiling brightly
with their too white,
orthodontia-enhanced teeth.
He felt sucker punched in the belly and
his blood started
to boil. He knew that insurance agency
too damn well. The
Overland family! Definitely the last
name he needed to see
today. Acid-filled resentment flooded
his throat, and disgusted,
he spat on the sidewalk. He detested
those people,
hated them. They’d caused his troubles.
They were to blame
for his misery. Somebody should destroy
them, make them
burn in hell. That’s what they deserved.
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