Chapter 25: The Cemetery
Although 'Frank' was a drunkard and an addict, his body wasn't wasted like other addicts. On the contrary, he was quite robust.
This was because 'Frank' often relied on swindling and stealing for quick gains. Whether he was running long distances to escape someone, sneaking out of a woman's house, jumping out of windows, or carrying off valuables, his body was constantly being exercised.
'Frank' would even pass out drunk or high, sleeping in yards, on curbs, or buried in snow during winter nights. Other people might freeze to death in such conditions, but 'Frank' would wake up without even a cold.
Moreover, 'Frank' preferred drinking to drugs, partly because he couldn't afford much of the latter, so his body remained quite strong.
Gaspar, on the other hand, spent his days sitting, eating junk food, and not exercising, making him overweight and less physically strong. He couldn't break free from Frank's grip on the car.
"Don't follow me again, or else..." Frank said, his breath reeking of alcohol, as he reached behind his waist and drew a gun.
Frank had found this gun in a trash bin. You never know what you'll find in dumpsters, especially in a country where guns aren't restricted.
Perhaps this gun belonged to a gang member or an arms dealer who ditched it while fleeing the police, or maybe it was a murder weapon discarded by a criminal. It could even have been bought secretly by some kids and tossed to avoid parental discovery.
Though Frank was a law-abiding citizen, he wasn't naive. He didn't hand the gun over to the police because they wouldn't treat him kindly. They would likely suspect him first, given that he couldn't prove he just found the gun.
Until the gun's history was clear, Frank would be a suspect. Even if the investigation cleared him, there'd be no reward or thanks from the police.
With no benefit and potential trouble, Frank opted to keep the weapon. Plus, he needed protection in Chicago's South Side, where gang wars and robberies were common. Frank kept the gun with him for safety.
"What... what are you going to do?" Gaspar stammered, his legs going weak as he saw the gun in Frank's hand.
"I remember something..." Frank said, fiddling with the gun.
'Bang!' Suddenly, the gun went off, firing a bullet into the car door, leaving a bullet hole.
The gun had accidentally discharged. Frank, having never handled a real gun in his previous life, had only tested this one a couple of times.
Unfamiliar with guns and intoxicated, his fingers slipped, causing the mishap.
"I'm sorry! Please, I won't follow you anymore. Don't kill me!" Gaspar cried, collapsing on the ground, the air thick with the smell of fear.
The accidental shot startled Gaspar into incontinence and snapped Frank out of his drunkenness.
"Don't follow me again! Wait, empty your pockets," Frank demanded.
Gaspar hurriedly handed over all his money.
"Don't let me see you again. Get lost." Frank took the money and tossed the wallet back to Gaspar.
"I'll leave, I'm leaving now," Gaspar said, scrambling back to his car and speeding off.
Watching Gaspar leave, Frank engaged the gun's safety and resolved to practice shooting when he had the chance. He needed to avoid accidentally shooting himself; this was a real gun, not a toy.
"Wait, does this count as robbery? No, I didn't want his money, just wanted him to stop following me," Frank pondered, staring at the money in his hand.
"Damn it, Frank!" Frank cursed, realizing the influence of 'Frank's' instincts on his actions.
Worried about getting caught by the police, Frank quickly left the scene.
In reality, the gunshot caused little stir; not even patrol officers came to check it out.
In Chicago's South Side, gunshots were common. Various gangs often engaged in turf wars or dealt with intruders selling drugs on their territory. Rival gang members frequently drove by and shot trespassers.
It wasn't unusual for children standing on street corners to end up dead every few months; after all, this was the slums.
Sobered up, Frank returned home to check on the kids.
"Dad!" Debbie, taking care of Liam, excitedly ran to Frank as he entered.
Debbie wasn't bothered by Frank's alcohol smell; 'Frank' had always been like this before. Recently, his lack of alcohol scent had been unusual.
"My little darling, did you miss Daddy?" Frank said, picking up Debbie.
"Where have you been the last few days? You didn't come home. Lip said you might never come back," Debbie inquired.
"Don't listen to him. This is my home, and you're all here. How could I not come back?" Frank reassured her.
"Carl, don't melt your toys in the toaster," Frank admonished, stopping Carl's destructive antics.
With the children's company, Frank felt more spirited.
He hadn't told them about his cancer, fearing it would worry them. Given their attitude towards 'Frank,' they probably wouldn't care much anyway.
That night, Frank returned to Sheila's house. He didn't plan to tell anyone about his cancer, but Sheila found the cancer diagnosis slip while doing his laundry.
"Do you want me to go with you for the biopsy?" Sheila asked, holding Frank's hand as tears welled up.
"Mom, what's wrong?" Karen asked, seeing Sheila in tears as she hurried over, forgetting to take off her shoes.
"Frank, Frank is dying!" Sheila cried, hugging Karen.
"?" Karen looked confused until she saw Frank's cancer diagnosis slip.
"Maybe it's those damn cancer-causing toys of hers. Next week, I'm holding a Bible study here," Officer Eddie said, carrying a cross into the basement.
"Shut up, Eddie," Karen glared at him before comforting Sheila.
"Frank, I have two plots at Oakwood Cemetery. One was originally for Eddie, but I don't want to give it to him. I'd be happy to have you buried there. Wait for me," Sheila said through tear-streaked eyes.