The Life of a Five Dollar Bill

NOTE: Back in the early days at Blue Mountain Community College, circa 2003 or so, I hadn’t yet been jaded by a million writing assignments – the muse still flowed freely through me. Now, it seems, after 6 years of education, I actually have to work at writing. 

Oh, and I guess this might not be appropriate reading for everyone – mild language, a soiling, one cold blooded murder, and a good tazering – all the elements of prime fiction. 

Jack breathed deeply of the chilled night air. His breath was visible as he exhaled, and he felt the piercing cold penetrating his heavy black parka. He paused to look up at the stars one last time, and muttered something inaudible under his breath. The blood pounded in his ears and he felt the familiar rush of adrenaline as he kicked open the 7-Eleven doors brandishing an AK-47 assault rifle in his hands.

“Everybody down!” he yelled, pointing the weapon ominously at the clerk and a man who was buying a pack of cigarettes. They both fell to the floor, covering their heads with their hands and pleading for mercy. The man reached across the counter, expertly ejected the drawer from the register, and dumped the contents into a sack. “Throw your wallet over the counter,” he said briskly to the clerk.

The black leather tri-fold flopped onto the counter, its change spilling back onto the floor. Jack picked it up, emptied it of its cash, and threw it back to the clerk. He did the same for the customer on the floor, but was disappointed when he only found a five dollar bill. He quickly stuck the bill in his pocket, and was turning to leave when he looked down and saw the cigarettes on the counter. “You mind if I have one of your smokes?” Jack asked the customer on the floor. “Hell, take them all,” squeaked the man softly. Jack, noticing that the man had soiled himself, remembered his manners, and thanked him for the smokes.

Then, he lit one, turned, and disappeared out the door, as quickly as he had come.

Scanning the block for anything out of the ordinary, Jack nonchalantly crossed the street, dumped the plastic AK-47 in the dumpster, and made his way down a dark alley. He did not walk with the gait of someone who had just robbed a store, but the pounding of his heart was almost deafening in his ears. Nonetheless he breathed a deep sigh of relief knowing he was almost home free.

He approached an unlit doorway and heard the rats scatter at his feet. His skin crawled at the thought of them, so close, yet invisible. He knocked on the door loudly in a pre-arranged series of knocks. After a few moments, a small metal door slid open, and was replaced with the gruff face of a large man who glared as if he was angered by the disturbance. Jack knew the man well.

“Hinsu,” he whispered moving his face closer to the opening, “it’s Jack. Let me in!” The big man squinted trying to make out Jack’s face in the darkness. “You should not have come here Jack. You should have left town as you were told. Jackson gave you one chance; I don’t think you’ll be so lucky this time.” Jack did not miss a breath. “I have Jackson’s money, and want to put this all behind us. I’m tired of the cat and mouse.”

There was a pause from the larger man, as if he was considering what to do, though in reality Jack knew he was probably watching for a signal from the Weasel of a manager, Frankie. Frankie took his orders directly from the boss, and by now, Jackson wasn’t too far away either. The large metal bolt grated as it was pulled open by the enormous Hinsu, and Jack felt a moment of apprehension at what he would see behind the door.

“Hold there a moment, won’t you Jack?” Jackson’s voice came from somewhere in the shadows of the room, and barely contained his contempt for the visitor. In the darkness, Jack couldn’t even make out his shadow. He was completely at their mercy now, and he knew what that could mean. “Hinsu, check him for toys, won’t you?” The giant man lumbered toward Jack and pushed his arms into the air.

“I told you this was a foolish thing to do,” he whispered to Jack, shaking his head softly. The grim giant frisked Jack carefully, then took his bag and opened it. “Nothing on him but some money boss,” said Hinsu.
“Good,” sneered Jackson, “Money is all I want to see from this slime. Bring him in, but watch him closely! We all remember how some people repay the kind hospitality of their hosts.” The sneer in his voice was hateful, full of spite, and made Jack extremely nervous.

Hinsu grabbed Jack by the shoulder and followed Freddie, who Jack was now able to see as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and Freddie in-turn followed Jackson. The procession entered a small room off of the main hallway, one wall of which consisted of two-way mirrors. Through the mirror Jack could see a bustling night club, its many patrons enjoying themselves and oblivious to the goings-on in the next room over. Hinsu pushed him into a chair at a small wooden table, and threw the bag he had been carrying into the center of the table. Freddie and Jackson closed the door behind them, and Jack noticed Freddie’s hand on a large caliber pistol under his sport jacket.

“It took a lot of balls to come back here,” Jackson started, “I like that.” He pulled a Marlboro from behind his ear and lit it. “What makes you think you’ll leave alive?” He circled around the table as he spoke, but Jack’s gaze remained fixed straight ahead at a spot on the wall. He refused to show fear. “I want to pay you the money I owe you, Jackson. I was wrong, and realize now what a mistake I made when I left.”

Jack inhaled slowly, expecting each breath to be his last. He took solace from knowing that a man shot in the head didn’t live long enough to hear the gunshot. Jackson merely chuckled to himself, as if he had just been told a funny joke.

“And you have the four grand on you?” he asked. Jack nodded toward the bag on the table. “It’s all in there. Count it,” Jack said defiantly, confident in the amount of loot in the bag. “I believe you,” cooed Jackson, “and I want to thank you for coming back to right your mistake.” He started to turn and leave the room. Jack had just begun to breathe a sigh of relief when Jackson whipped around, armed with a snub-nose .38, “Now I must correct my mistake!” Jack’s body hit the floor with a dull thud – he never even heard the gunshot. “Clean up this mess,” he nodded toward Hinsu, “and keep whatever he had on him.”

Jackson and Freddie opened the door and returned to the dark hallway. Hinsu stood and looked at the now lifeless body of Jack and sighed to himself. Jack was a good guy, he thought to himself, even if he wasn’t very bright. He checked all of Jack’s pockets, knowing he wouldn’t need whatever remained, but only found a five dollar bill. He almost felt guilty for slipping it into his pocket, but quickly pushed the feeling away. Five dollars, after all, was five dollars.

After disposing of the corpse, Hinsu headed to the bar to clock out from his shift. It was eleven at night, and it had been a long day. He walked to his car, his pockets bulging with ill-gained cash but feeling good none-the-less, and unlocked the little red Honda. Under different circumstances, the sight of the monstrous man climbing into the tiny car would have been the substance of world-class comedy. Now, however, there was no audience, and the humor of the moment was lost on Hinsu. He threw his belongings, the loot bag included, into the passenger seat and started the little car.

He sped from the parking lot, and onto the boulevard. Between his fingers he grasped the five dollar bill he had pulled from Jack’s pocket, and pondered what to do with it. I’ll keep it, he thought to himself, as a reminder of why I don’t make friends, and he placed it in the ash tray. He didn’t smoke, so there was no danger of it getting covered in ash there. After considering for a few more minutes, Hinsu decided on Mexican food for dinner, and headed for La Quarto Cabano, his favorite Mexican dive. They didn’t seem to notice that he was Japanese, and as long as he kept the money rolling, they kept the shots coming. He parked the car in an empty spot across the street from the restaurant, and went in to eat. Soon he would be drunk, and the grizzly events of the evening would be washed from his mind.

Snake walked quickly down the sidewalk, avoiding the lights whenever possible. He was a lean man, whose arms were completely covered in tattoos. He had a look that caused old ladies to cross the street as soon as they saw him, just to avoid having to cross his path. He wasn’t a particularly bitter fellow, but as a professional repo-man he prided himself in looking the part, so what if he was no longer a professional repo-man. His previous employer had objected to his lucrative side business, stealing pimped cars, and chopping them into something that could be resold onto the black market. His annoyance was minimal, though, as now he had more time to devote to his side trade.

Tonight, it just so happened, he was looking for a little red Honda. It didn’t have to be red, of course, it could be repainted to whatever color the buyer wanted, but if it was red the cost of paint didn’t come out of Snake’s pocket. As he rounded a corner onto the main Boulevard, he was pleasantly surprised to see his target parked across the street from the Mexican restaurant. Good, he thought to himself, if their inside, they’ll be too drunk to care. He checked the street for anyone who might be watching, and rapidly crossed toward his mark. As he approached, he noted the flashing red light on the dash and chuckled to himself. He removed a small device from his pocket, similar to a garage door opener, and pressed the button. There was a muted chirp from the car, and the light stopped flashing. From a special pocket sewn into his pants, he pulled a long Slim-Jim, slid it between the door and the window, and expertly popped the lock to the driver-side door. He checked again to make sure no one was looking, and jumped in.

Using only his lucky screwdriver, he popped the ignition from the dash with the skill of someone who had done it hundreds of times before. Pushing the tool deep into the hole where the ignition had once been, he turned it like a key and smiled as the engine roared to life. As he stole one more glance around the street to make sure no one was looking, he mused to himself that Honda’s produced something more like an incessant whine than a roar. Confident no one had noticed his activity, Snake pushed the eight ball shifter into drive and squawked the puny tires as he sped away from the parking spot, and the now far too drunk to care Hinsu.

It was a good night for a drive, Snake thought to himself as he sped onto the highway on-ramp. He reached into his pocket, feeling for his smokes, and pulled one out. Looking for the car’s cigarette lighter, he flipped the lid on the ashtray and was pleased to see a five dollar bill. A tip, he thought to himself smugly as he pulled it from the ashtray and stuck it in his pocket. Then he depressed the lighter, and flipped on the radio. When the lighter popped back out, he lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply, and replaced the lighter. Sliding the seat back to give him as much leg room as possible, he settled into his seat and pressed the accelerator pedal toward the floor. He loved these damn rice-burners the best. Sure, they weren’t like driving a classic – he had to have muscle – but their quick acceleration and sharp handling made them fun to race across the metro.

He looked into his rear-view mirror and saw no headlights, so pressed the pedal further down. He loved the speed and freedom of driving, the feeling of acceleration, cornering, and most of all, driving over small hills that made his stomach feel funny at high speeds. He was so intent on his exhilaration, in fact, that he failed to notice the State Trooper parked behind the “Eat at Joe’s” sign as he raced past.

He wasn’t entirely displeased when he saw the lights of the squad car come on as it took up pursuit. He hadn’t made his name by shrinking from the face of danger – he loved a challenge. He dropped a gear, pressed the pedal to the floor, and drove straight into the back of a UPS truck that had merged into his lane while he was preoccupied with the lights behind him.

The tiny Honda bounced violently off of the middle divider toward the outside guard rail, and it quickly became apparent to Snake that his front tires were both flat. His get-away was going to have to be on foot. He slammed on the brakes, anxiously skidded to a halt, and before the wreck had even come to a rest, his door was open and he was running for all he was worth. He jumped the guard rail and headed up the hill, hoping to outrun the cop. He broke through the trees, onto the road above, and found himself sprawled across the hood of another squad car, which had only seen him with enough time to slow greatly, not stop, before colliding with him.

He forced his aching body to move, but by now he was having a hard time breathing, and thinking neither quickly, nor clearly. The Trooper jumped from the car, gun drawn, and ordered Snake to freeze. Snake, knowing he was busted, yet still unwilling to give up, bolted. There was only a brief moment for his brain to register that it had lost control before he fell unconscious to the ground, never having seen the Tazor fired from the Troopers hand.

Trooper Hank, as the kids in the class he ate lunch with at the middle school called him, loved the smell of electricity in the air immediately after Tazoring someone; almost as much as the thrill he still felt at catching the bad guy, even after twenty years on the force. He checked Snake’s pulse and felt a strong, steady rhythm. The jolt had knocked Snake out, but he was going to be alright. The trooper rolled him over, and cuffed his unconscious arms behind his back. He looked around, but none of the other units were in sight yet. He pulled his radio from its holder on his belt, and radioed dispatch.

“28-11 to dispatch,” he said, “the suspect is unconscious and in custody. No medical attention will be necessary,” The radio was silent for a moment, before 28-12, the car which had initially given chase, cut in.
“28-11, 28-12, we’re about a mile from you. See you in a moment.”

Rolling Snake back over onto his back, the trooper reached into the unconscious man’s pockets to make sure he had no weapons or drugs. He had neither; only a five dollar bill which the trooper had no qualms about pushing deep into his own pocket for his trouble. Snake wouldn’t need it where he was headed anyway. 28-12 finally made the loop, and pulled in behind Hank’s squad car. The lights were flashing, but the siren was silent. It was alright with Hank, as he had a headache anyway.

“It’s a damn good thing I didn’t need backup,” he growled at the lieutenant. The younger trooper from car 28-12 just shrugged.

“You were just in the right place, I guess. What could I do?” Hank eyed him, annoyed, wondering if the lieutenant’s tone could be mistaken as insubordination. Being able to use his Tazor twice in one night was rare. Instead, he barked some orders, and the lieutenant loaded the still unconscious Snake into 28-12. It was late; he was tired, and ready to go home.

“Think you can get him back to lockup without getting lost?” he asked, almost seriously. The lieutenant, not wanting to be written up for kicking the older trooper’s ass, glared, climbed back into his car, turned on his siren, and peeled off toward town. Hank stood a moment longer before climbing back into his car and, without the show of siren, lights, or squealing tires, headed back to town himself. He was looking forward to a doughnut and a hot cup of coffee, and that punk had the tab. It was a good night.

But first, he thought, I’ll run by 7-11 for a pack of cigarettes.

Tags: english comp, essay, fiction, school