"Look, man. No need to rough me up like this," he interjected as they pulled him out of his apartment door. He braced himself with his arm as he fell onto the concrete. He repeated, louder, "Hey man! I can get you back my money!"
The bigger, blacker one picked him up by his hair. "Your money, Rick? It was our money."
"Your money! Okay. It's your money, and I can give you most of it now, but I gotta have a few weeks for the rest. I got my paycheck--"
"Yestaday. Ya got ya paycheck yestaday and ya didn't come ta us," the smaller one interrupted. "Now ya gat more prablems."
"That's right," the bigger one said as he pushed him into their town car. "You should of paid us back. You didn't pay up, so now you go see the Preacher."
"The, the Preacher?"
"Ya. An don't expect no holiness. He likes to preach."
They forced a mesh bag over his head and tied it around his neck. He found it hard to breathe, especially at the shocked rate he was going at now, but he could get some air through the bag. The poor exchange forced his breathing to slow until he found it hard to sit up straight. He leaned his head against the car window as it started to move. It drove for a while, until it all faded into a dark mesh view.
"--awake? Mr. Knight, are you with us?"
He regained consciousness and found himself on a black leather couch in the center of an office. He started to sit up until one of muscles from earlier pushed him back onto the couch. Looking around, the room was full of art. Classy, probably expensive art, the kind that didn't look right. Distorted people with too many colors. In front of him was big wooden desk, and behind the desk was an old black man in a maroon turtleneck.
"Good morning. I'm sure they informed you of your situation, Mr. Knight."
"The Preacher?"
"That's right. They call me the Preacher. You borrowed some money from my workforce, and you didn't pay them back. When you didn't pay them back, they couldn't pay me back. I don't know you, but these men know you. You don't know me, but you know these men, and these men know me. You had an understanding with these men, and you didn't pay up. But that's okay; these men have an understanding with me. They have collateral. Do you know what collateral is, Mr. Knight?"
"Uh--"
"That's a hypothetical. You," he pointed. "You are collateral, Mr. Knight. That money they gave you was their money. It was supposed to stay their money, but you thought it was your money. Now, its my money."
"Right, I understand, but--"
"'No butts,' Mr. Knight. Do you have my money?"
"Well, n--"
"That's almost another hypothetical." He motioned with his pointed finger to his muscle, who picked up a heavy, brown duffle-bag and dropped it on Rick's lap. "You don't have my money. And I don't want to hear about how you planned to give me back my money. I don't want my money anymore."
Rick started to open the duffle. "Not drugs, man. I can't be around these," he pleaded.
"Don't open the bag, Mr. Knight," the Preacher instructed. "It's not drugs; I know about you. I know all about you. Your drugs, your dishonorable discharge." With another motion to his muscle, an envelope dropped on top of the bag.
"Your instructions, and a map, and train tickets. You follow orders now, Mr. Knight."
"But I can't leave--"
"'No butts,'" the Preacher inflected. "If you follow the orders, you keep my money; that money stops being my money, it becomes your money. If you don't follow orders, you won't need any more money. Ever."
And with that final 'ever,' the muscle picked him up, pushed the envelope and bag into his chest, and led Rick out the door. The drop out the door was farther than he expected, and he stumbled into a mound of gray dirt. Looking around, he was in the middle of a construction site. He wondered how all this noise didn't carry into the Preacher's office before the sense of urgency returned. He opened the manila envelope and found a bulleted list of information. Where he was going, why he should say he is going, and what time to open the bag. The map was of downtown Memphis, and there was black X penned on a building. There was also a watch, the underside of which read "PUT ME ON."
From the moment he stepped on the train at Union Station, he knew he couldn't talk to anyone. He couldn't let anyone recognize him, he couldn't miss his stop, and for God's sake he couldn't take his eyes of the bag. Remember what the Preacher said. Don't sweat. Don't make eye contact.
The train left Chicago fairly empty, and Rick was able to take a seat in the back corner of a car where nobody would bother him. The first two hours to Champaign, though outwardly uneventful, were terrorizing. Every time the clerk would pass by to check for tickets, Rick prepared his series of memorized answers for questions that were never asked. "Just going to Memphis," repeated under his breath, over and over. "I like their bars. They have culture. A big, a big fan of the blues," he stuttered. Nervously solidifying his story to himself, he didn't even notice the clerk when they stopped at Urbana.
"I'm sorry, Sir?" he interrogated. Rick darted his eyes up in surprise.
"What? Nothing. No. They have museums." He panicked and shot answers at the uniformed ticket-checker. "STAX Museum of American Soul music. Sun Records. Graceland! I'm a big culture! A fan of the bars - no, the blues!"
The clerk gave a quizzical look before stepping away and reminding, "We'll serve lunch in a few hours."
"Okay, okay," Rick managed before turning back to the bag. He took a few deep breaths before he finally gained some sort of composure. He pulled his cap lower over his head when the train stopped to pick up passengers at Carbondale. He put the bag in the seat next to him in hopes of avoiding possible neighbors before realizing there were too many oncoming passengers; he quickly re-grabbed the bag and hoped for the best. The suit that sat next to him was on his PDA organizer cellphone when he sat down and paid no attention to Rick. He took out a laptop and began working on a spreadsheet, droningly arguing over the phone.
Though he couldn't remember exactly when the view of concrete buildings became that of open fields and back again, Rick didn't catch much rest on the ten hour ride. He remembered eating the lunch, as it upset his stomach. He held in a tormenting buildup in his abdomen as tightly as he could, avoiding going to the bathroom and leaving the bag at all costs. After a while it faded, as did the train ride.
He grabbed the bag and got off the train at Poplar Avenue, downtown Memphis. He checked his watch before reopening the manila envelope and fumbling for the instructions. He had to be at North Parking in thirty minutes. Looking around for the signs for Beale Street, he straightened his bearings and moved as quickly as he could.
As he got closer to the black X on the map, he met a dense crowd. The roads were all closed off to cars with orange and white-striped construction cones. He mumbled 'excuse me, pardon me's as he made his way through the sea of hard hats and dirty overalls. When he made it to the multi-leveled parking garage, he was stopped by a handful of elated workers.
"You here for Johnson's speech?" they questioned as one of them produced a plastic cup of beer.
"N-, well, yeah. I am," he mumbled as he pushed the cup away.
"Good! The more the better. He's a real man, you know. Stickin' in to 'em. Times are hard, yeah?"
"I gotta bring my back to my car," Rick lied, pushing his way through.
"More rights! Insurance! We'll see you there, man!" they shouted as they let him by beerless.
He followed the map up to the fifth floor, East side. There was a platform in between two parked cars with a chalked black X marking its purpose. Rick looked around nervously for a few minutes for someone, anyone - one of the Preacher's muscles, maybe a cop - but he was alone. He set the bag down on the X and zipped it open. A pair of latex gloves protruded out first, reading "PUT US ON."
He crouched down, again looking around as he wiped the sweat off his face and put them on. Out the window he could clearly see the sea of workers crowding around an elevated stage. On the podium, a black man was giving a speech. He recognized the man as Johnson; he'd seen him on the news a lot.
Moving back to the bag, he first found lighter and a piece of paper with three printed pictures on it. The first was of himself, and read "RICK KNIGHT." The second was of the Preacher, which read "YOUR BOSS." The third was of Mr. Johnson, which read "YOUR MONEY."
He shook his head and dropped the paper, which fell faces-down to the ground. The back read "BURN ME." He quickly picked it back off the ground and crumbled it up before succumbing to the shakes and dropping it in the bag. He looked back inside the duffle and located the source of its weight -- a see through plastic bag full of parts - a handle, a neck, a scope, a bullet - that read "PUT IT TOGETHER, PULL THE TRIGGER, GO HOME."
For the first time all day, Rick gained composure. He took out the lighter and burned the note. He burned the envelope, and he burned the instructions. He ripped open the plastic bag. He followed his orders: put it together, pull the trigger, go home.
The bigger, blacker one picked him up by his hair. "Your money, Rick? It was our money."
"Your money! Okay. It's your money, and I can give you most of it now, but I gotta have a few weeks for the rest. I got my paycheck--"
"Yestaday. Ya got ya paycheck yestaday and ya didn't come ta us," the smaller one interrupted. "Now ya gat more prablems."
"That's right," the bigger one said as he pushed him into their town car. "You should of paid us back. You didn't pay up, so now you go see the Preacher."
"The, the Preacher?"
"Ya. An don't expect no holiness. He likes to preach."
They forced a mesh bag over his head and tied it around his neck. He found it hard to breathe, especially at the shocked rate he was going at now, but he could get some air through the bag. The poor exchange forced his breathing to slow until he found it hard to sit up straight. He leaned his head against the car window as it started to move. It drove for a while, until it all faded into a dark mesh view.
"--awake? Mr. Knight, are you with us?"
He regained consciousness and found himself on a black leather couch in the center of an office. He started to sit up until one of muscles from earlier pushed him back onto the couch. Looking around, the room was full of art. Classy, probably expensive art, the kind that didn't look right. Distorted people with too many colors. In front of him was big wooden desk, and behind the desk was an old black man in a maroon turtleneck.
"Good morning. I'm sure they informed you of your situation, Mr. Knight."
"The Preacher?"
"That's right. They call me the Preacher. You borrowed some money from my workforce, and you didn't pay them back. When you didn't pay them back, they couldn't pay me back. I don't know you, but these men know you. You don't know me, but you know these men, and these men know me. You had an understanding with these men, and you didn't pay up. But that's okay; these men have an understanding with me. They have collateral. Do you know what collateral is, Mr. Knight?"
"Uh--"
"That's a hypothetical. You," he pointed. "You are collateral, Mr. Knight. That money they gave you was their money. It was supposed to stay their money, but you thought it was your money. Now, its my money."
"Right, I understand, but--"
"'No butts,' Mr. Knight. Do you have my money?"
"Well, n--"
"That's almost another hypothetical." He motioned with his pointed finger to his muscle, who picked up a heavy, brown duffle-bag and dropped it on Rick's lap. "You don't have my money. And I don't want to hear about how you planned to give me back my money. I don't want my money anymore."
Rick started to open the duffle. "Not drugs, man. I can't be around these," he pleaded.
"Don't open the bag, Mr. Knight," the Preacher instructed. "It's not drugs; I know about you. I know all about you. Your drugs, your dishonorable discharge." With another motion to his muscle, an envelope dropped on top of the bag.
"Your instructions, and a map, and train tickets. You follow orders now, Mr. Knight."
"But I can't leave--"
"'No butts,'" the Preacher inflected. "If you follow the orders, you keep my money; that money stops being my money, it becomes your money. If you don't follow orders, you won't need any more money. Ever."
And with that final 'ever,' the muscle picked him up, pushed the envelope and bag into his chest, and led Rick out the door. The drop out the door was farther than he expected, and he stumbled into a mound of gray dirt. Looking around, he was in the middle of a construction site. He wondered how all this noise didn't carry into the Preacher's office before the sense of urgency returned. He opened the manila envelope and found a bulleted list of information. Where he was going, why he should say he is going, and what time to open the bag. The map was of downtown Memphis, and there was black X penned on a building. There was also a watch, the underside of which read "PUT ME ON."
From the moment he stepped on the train at Union Station, he knew he couldn't talk to anyone. He couldn't let anyone recognize him, he couldn't miss his stop, and for God's sake he couldn't take his eyes of the bag. Remember what the Preacher said. Don't sweat. Don't make eye contact.
The train left Chicago fairly empty, and Rick was able to take a seat in the back corner of a car where nobody would bother him. The first two hours to Champaign, though outwardly uneventful, were terrorizing. Every time the clerk would pass by to check for tickets, Rick prepared his series of memorized answers for questions that were never asked. "Just going to Memphis," repeated under his breath, over and over. "I like their bars. They have culture. A big, a big fan of the blues," he stuttered. Nervously solidifying his story to himself, he didn't even notice the clerk when they stopped at Urbana.
"I'm sorry, Sir?" he interrogated. Rick darted his eyes up in surprise.
"What? Nothing. No. They have museums." He panicked and shot answers at the uniformed ticket-checker. "STAX Museum of American Soul music. Sun Records. Graceland! I'm a big culture! A fan of the bars - no, the blues!"
The clerk gave a quizzical look before stepping away and reminding, "We'll serve lunch in a few hours."
"Okay, okay," Rick managed before turning back to the bag. He took a few deep breaths before he finally gained some sort of composure. He pulled his cap lower over his head when the train stopped to pick up passengers at Carbondale. He put the bag in the seat next to him in hopes of avoiding possible neighbors before realizing there were too many oncoming passengers; he quickly re-grabbed the bag and hoped for the best. The suit that sat next to him was on his PDA organizer cellphone when he sat down and paid no attention to Rick. He took out a laptop and began working on a spreadsheet, droningly arguing over the phone.
Though he couldn't remember exactly when the view of concrete buildings became that of open fields and back again, Rick didn't catch much rest on the ten hour ride. He remembered eating the lunch, as it upset his stomach. He held in a tormenting buildup in his abdomen as tightly as he could, avoiding going to the bathroom and leaving the bag at all costs. After a while it faded, as did the train ride.
He grabbed the bag and got off the train at Poplar Avenue, downtown Memphis. He checked his watch before reopening the manila envelope and fumbling for the instructions. He had to be at North Parking in thirty minutes. Looking around for the signs for Beale Street, he straightened his bearings and moved as quickly as he could.
As he got closer to the black X on the map, he met a dense crowd. The roads were all closed off to cars with orange and white-striped construction cones. He mumbled 'excuse me, pardon me's as he made his way through the sea of hard hats and dirty overalls. When he made it to the multi-leveled parking garage, he was stopped by a handful of elated workers.
"You here for Johnson's speech?" they questioned as one of them produced a plastic cup of beer.
"N-, well, yeah. I am," he mumbled as he pushed the cup away.
"Good! The more the better. He's a real man, you know. Stickin' in to 'em. Times are hard, yeah?"
"I gotta bring my back to my car," Rick lied, pushing his way through.
"More rights! Insurance! We'll see you there, man!" they shouted as they let him by beerless.
He followed the map up to the fifth floor, East side. There was a platform in between two parked cars with a chalked black X marking its purpose. Rick looked around nervously for a few minutes for someone, anyone - one of the Preacher's muscles, maybe a cop - but he was alone. He set the bag down on the X and zipped it open. A pair of latex gloves protruded out first, reading "PUT US ON."
He crouched down, again looking around as he wiped the sweat off his face and put them on. Out the window he could clearly see the sea of workers crowding around an elevated stage. On the podium, a black man was giving a speech. He recognized the man as Johnson; he'd seen him on the news a lot.
Moving back to the bag, he first found lighter and a piece of paper with three printed pictures on it. The first was of himself, and read "RICK KNIGHT." The second was of the Preacher, which read "YOUR BOSS." The third was of Mr. Johnson, which read "YOUR MONEY."
He shook his head and dropped the paper, which fell faces-down to the ground. The back read "BURN ME." He quickly picked it back off the ground and crumbled it up before succumbing to the shakes and dropping it in the bag. He looked back inside the duffle and located the source of its weight -- a see through plastic bag full of parts - a handle, a neck, a scope, a bullet - that read "PUT IT TOGETHER, PULL THE TRIGGER, GO HOME."
For the first time all day, Rick gained composure. He took out the lighter and burned the note. He burned the envelope, and he burned the instructions. He ripped open the plastic bag. He followed his orders: put it together, pull the trigger, go home.