Chapter 2. “Junkyard Hawk: You Don't Even Deserve to Be Bait”

Rancid pizza boxes stuck to the soles of his shoes as Lucas stumbled and lunged for the trash can. In the back alley of a convenience store at four in the morning, a silhouette stood in the haze-blue light of day - a worn leather jacket wrapped around a steel body, a black blindfold over his right eye, and in his left hand, he was pawing at his torn sneaker like it was a corpse.

"Give it back!" Lucas hissed like an asthmatic.

The man suddenly pressed the sneaker into a bucket of rancid water, and rotting milkshake spewed from the top." What's the proper attitude for begging?" A voice like sandpaper rubbing came from under the blindfold.

The back kitchen spotlight snapped on. Lucas finally got a good look at the hand-the missing scar on his ring finger twisted like a maggot, the tiger's mouth tattooed with a faded eagle's head-now clutching the lace-soaked yogurt of his shoe.

"Fuck you old man!" he said as his wrist was twisted back the instant he swung, hearing the muffled thud of his own knees as the sharp pain exploded.

"Holt's little brat." The man snorted suddenly, "Your father cried more decently the night he lost the house than you are now."

Lucas stiffened. The sound of debt collectors smashing glass and his father's disappearing back suddenly pierced his eardrums on the stormy night when he was twelve.

The man in the eye patch picked his chin with the tip of his shoe, "Want revenge? Tomorrow night, eight o'clock, junkyard behind the cemetery." He flung in a crumpled flyer - the edges stained with a suspicious brown stain - with the headline "Basketball Camp from Hell: Incinerator for the Weak."

Patrol sirens came from far away.

By the time Lucas looked up, all that was left of the alley was the wind swirling the flyer and slapping him in the face. Scrawled on the back in red pen was, "Bring three rolls of bandages and your suicide note."

There was a sudden crash in the direction of the lockers.

Marcus wandered out clutching two cans of beer, the new James boots running over the flyer." Picking up trash again?" He kicked away the rancid bucket, foam splattering Lucas's scabbed knees, "Tryouts if you're late..."

The convenience store neon lights suddenly went out.

In the darkness, Lucas gripped the edge of the flyer. Blood from the paper cuts on his palm seeped quietly into the word 'Hell'.