The sound of Gifford’s voice adrenalized Swithin.  He righted himself and ran into the rain.  Five steps into his run, he felt a boot hammer into his chest like a pneumatic piston.  The strike jolted him back so hard he heard the crackle of cartilage separating from his ribcage as he fell to the ground.  Initially sprawled out on his back, he quickly raised his hands toward his face, palms out, in a feeble attempt to defend his head. 

Gifford walked up, bent over and smacked Swithin’s hands away from his face.  “You think you can fuck me and then stick around to gloat about it?”

Swithin turned onto his side and curled into a ball. “I didn’t know…” He groaned.

Gifford pushed one of Swithin’s shoulders down, flipping him onto his back.  “You didn’t know what?”

Swithin winced.  “I didn’t know the tabs were bunk.”

Gifford lifted up his boot and held it over Swithin.

“Not the chest!” Swithin begged. “Please, not the chest!”

Gifford brought his boot back down to the ground.  “For now,” he said as he sniffled and wiped his nose.  “Why’d you run straight at me?”

“I didn’t know you were there...”

“Apparently,” Gifford commented, as he leaned over, grabbed Swithin’s collar and started dragging him off the street.

“Where are you taking me?” Swithin asked through a labored breath.

“We need to talk, and I don’t feel like doing it in the rain.”

Underneath the illuminated office awning, Gifford propped Swithin up so that his back rested against a door and his legs stretched out in front of him.

“Could I lie on my side?” Swithin asked in a raspy voice.  “It hurts to sit like this.”

Gifford reached out and smacked an open hand across Swithin’s face.  “Sit still and shut the fuck up!”

The flesh beneath Swithin’s left eye started to swell.

“So tell me,” Gifford said as he squatted down next to Swithin.  “How long did you think it was going to take me to figure out I’d been fucked?”

“I thought the tabs were good.”

Gifford slowly pressed a finger into Swithin’s chest. “But they weren’t!”

Swithin winced in pain.  “I still have your money…  I can give it back.”

“Can you give me back me reputation?”  Gifford questioned as he stood up.  “Huh?  Can you do that?”  He swung back his right leg and kicked Swithin in his face—clipping the top of his jaw, bloodying his mouth.  “Money can’t fix what you did!” 

“I’ll set things right,” Swithin said through a mouth full of blood.  “Just give me the chance.”

Gifford took in a breath.  “How long have you been dealing?”

Swithin turned and spit out a teaspoon of blood.  “A little under a month.”

Gifford huffed.

“I’m serious…  About a month ago, a guy named Jason gave me five sheets.  I thought all were good to go, so I sold ‘em—two sheets to Paul and three sheets to you.  Paul’s sheets were treated.  Your sheets weren’t.  I got dicked!  That’s the truth!  That’s what happened!”

Gifford shook his head.  “You’re so full of shit!”

“I’m telling you the truth!”  Swithin insisted, as blood seeped out his gums and onto his lap.

“I don’t believe you.”

Swithin dropped his head, reached up and wiped the blood off his mouth.

“You and Johnson have been playing me all along.  Just like your trying to playing me now.”

“Johnson?” Swithin looked up at Gifford.  “You think I’m working with Johnson?”

Gifford stepped in toward Swithin, lifted up his boot and stomped down on his chest. 

Swithin curled over onto his side and moaned.

“I’m not stupid!”  Gifford exclaimed.  “I know what’s up!  You two were working together from the start!  So after I’m done with you, I’m dealing with him.  Then, I’m gonna have a word or two with that party-cunt I used to call a girlfriend!”

“Amy has nothing to do with this,” Swithin spoke up as he flinched out of the fetal position.

“She told you my secrets!”

“Your secrets?”  Swithin questioned rhetorically.  He pushed himself off the ground, sat up and leaned back against the door.  “If you’re talking about the fact you’re a paranoid, delusional, meth-head … That’s hardly a secret.” 

Gifford unzipped his right side pocket, pulled out a handgun and pointed it at Swithin.

“No Gifford!” Swithin pleaded. “Don’t do it!  I’m sorry.  I was just…” Swithin heard the firecracker pop of a bullet.  He waited, and felt nothing.  Then, a moment later, he started to feel a burn in his left bicep.  He turned and saw a dime-sized hole on his jacket, an inch below his shoulder.

Gifford turned his back to Swithin, walked out into the rain and pumped his gun into the sky like it was a battle sword.  Then he turned around, faced Swithin and smiled, his ponytail wrapping around his neck like a wet snake. He pointed his gun at Swithin again.

“Think…” Swithin said in a tearful voice.  “It’s not worth it!”

“Welcome to the learning curve!” Gifford exclaimed as he took aim.

Swithin noticed the lights of a fast approaching car on Gifford’s right. “There’s a car coming!”

Gifford snickered.  “Yeah, right…”

The car swerved, but didn’t brake.  Its outside bumper clipped Gifford’s right leg and flipped him into the air.  His body rotated 180 degrees and his head collided against the ground with a sound reminiscent of an egg cracking open on the edge of a pan.  His body settled in a contorted and unnatural position—the sole of his right boot resting near his chin. Except for his right leg, his body was twitching.  His eyes were open, locked onto Swithin and seemingly pleading, “Help me.” 

Moments later, Gifford’s eyes closed, he exhaled and his body stopped twitching.

Beaten and sapped of all his strength, Swithin watched in silence as the driver got out of his car, walked over to Gifford’s body and stood beside it.

“I’m sorry,” the driver said in a tearful voice as he looked down at Gifford. “Blessed be...”

As the driver turned away, Swithin caught a glimpse of his face.  It was Mark, the guy he’d gifted into the Grove Nation Party weeks before—the guy who promised to one day repay Swithin’s favor, with a greater gift of his own.

Chapter 33 - A Few Questions >>