The Black Bullets Ch.1

It feels weird being on top of the world one day, in jail the next, then giving up hope and becoming a hobo. I guess I've seen it coming for a long time, but after years of narrow escapes with the police I thought I'd become invincible. I'd been tempted to just suck it up, go back home and get married, but upon arriving realized why I left in the first place. At least they left me with enough money to travel as far as I possibly could from them.

I tried to get a job, any job, but no one would trust a thief. So then I was left with two choices:

Return to a world of crime

Or

Beg on the streets.

Going to jail the first time around was stressful and painful. I got lucky the first time around, but it's something I never want to do again.

So now I'm living the life of the latter, living in a park where children play. My hair has grown past my shoulders, I've learned to deal with a beard, I haven't bathed since god knows when, and I carry around a jar with a piece of paper taped on it that says, "Please feed me...with beer."

I miss those days where I could fly freely...

It was an early morning on February 21, 2015. It was cold that morning with snow on the ground, but that didn't stop parents from bringing their children to the park. I sat at a bench a safe distance away from the playground. I had no nostalgia from watching the children play. I'd never played in a playground with other children. Sure, I had my own playground, but I never had time to use it.

So far, this has been the only place I've been able to stay at without fear of someone forcing me to leave since, "They don't like my kind." In fact, this park seems to be rather profitable for me. There have been a couple of days where I earn more than one hundred dollars. Like, right now for instance. A small girl with blonde hair and matching yellow eyes walked up to me with her father, money in hands.

"Thank you, kind young lady," I said when she put the money in my jar.
She smiled at me, grabbed her father's hand and said, "Daddy, let's go home now."

When she was some distance away, she suddenly asked, "Daddy, what's beer?"

The father scratched the back of his head, trying to come with an answer. I looked at my jar. Perhaps I should change it to something a little less awkward. But that would require buying paper, a pen, and tape. Do you know how expensive those things are?

"James," Someone called out to me.

What was his name again? David? Damien? I don't remember. Anyway, he was a jogger who came by every day. Now, for some reason, he seems to include going to a convenience store to buy me something to eat as a part of his routine. Today's meal was a sub with a bunch of ketchup packets, chips, and something warm tea to drink.  I reached into my jar to pay for the meal, like I have been since he's started doing this. And, as usual, he held up a hand while he was still jogging and said, "Don't worry about it. It's the least I can do to help ya through a bad time."

Just because I've been hoarding money like those people on Hoarders doesn't mean I'd be willing to give back money to people who've helped me once in a while. I watched him jog off. Maybe tomorrow he'll let me pay for my meal. But for now, I'll scarf down what I have in front of me. While I was busy eating my sub, someone else came down and sat next to me. I nearly choked once I realized who it was. It was International Chef Detective Policeman, Looker. AKA the guy who brought me to justice.

"I gotcha somethin' to eat, but it looks like you're already eatin' somethin, " he said holding up a sack.
"What the hell...are you doing...here," I said, in-between chokes.
"Criminals often don't get jobs cause y'know, they commit crimes and people don't think they're trustworthy. That makes me sad."
"And what?"
"Well, I came to offer you a job!"

I stared at Looker like he was crazy. Where does he get off thinking we're best friends? I didn't trust him. He could haul me off to some other region where there's an outstanding warrant on my head.

"James, I know you have a lot of potential."
"Ya-ha," I said, sarcastically.
"I'll have you know, there's a bento in here with octopus sausages in it. But I guess you don't want it."
I leaned over him, trying to grab the sack.
"Gimmie! Gimmie!"
"Calm down, James. Just hear out my offer, okay?"
I sat back down and nodded.
"Do you know how security companies know how to keep criminals from breaking into houses?"
"I suppose this is where I come in."
"They hire criminals to break into houses to see just how secure their product is."
"No way. That's a dumb idea! Telling thieves it's okay to break into houses and steal stuff that doesn't belong to them? You can't trust people like that! What if they take off with the merchandise?"
"Caught you once, didn't I?"

I growled. He had me there. But, I had no intent of going back to that kind of thing. It appalled me that he wants me to steal. I've sworn to myself I'll never do it again.

"C'mon, James," Looker said standing up, "You're not going to get a job otherwise."
"Nope, not doing it."
"The pay will be good."
"Nope."
"You could afford food and a roof over your head."
"Nope."

Looker stood up, clasping his hands together.

"I get it, you're trying to be an honest man now," he pleaded, "Those are the type of people that do this job. One honest thief can do a lot of damage to dishonest thieves."
"There's no such thing as a honest thief," I said, "If this job does exist and is perfectly legal to do, then why did I go to jail in the first place? It's wrong, and that's that."
"You do bring up a good point," Looker said, walking away.

But before he left, he looked over his shoulder at me and said, "But if you stole to save another being, would that be a terrible thing to do?"