John Wise

I’m living in an old western town that hasn’t modernized although it is the present. The tallest building in town is an old five-story hotel that now operates as a gang’s operations center. This gang comprises the local government, law enforcement, and criminals. Typically, I walk the main street without incident. On one occasion, I witnessed Eminem talking with one of the gang members about how, when he first met them he was weak and intimidated and that it was that meeting that made him decide to toughen up.

The gang members are supposed to know who not to rob, but even amongst their ranks, there is corruption, and the town is becoming ever more dangerous. A friend of mine walking with two other people is picked up for questioning and taken to the old hotel. I enter the building, not knowing there is supposed to be a guard here. People I run into figure I must be someone because no one who is not a member just walks through here unescorted.

As I stroll the hallways, I become increasingly uneasy as it is obvious I shouldn’t be seeing what I am seeing and I wonder how it is I can walk along without interference. I step out on a fourth-floor balcony to find out whether the people I am looking for can be seen on the street. This vantage point offers a bird’s eye view of what is happening in town. I see two young men running up the street, popping through two different false walls in the façade of houses along the street.

This is a brave move; normally, they should not have to run and hide, but this is another example of the corruption within the gang. As I walk back into the hallway, I happen upon a man who is lifting a few thousand dollars in cash off of someone else’s desk. He looks at me, and I at him; I sense he is stealing the money; he tries to play it that he was not sneaking into or away from the desk, but I know, and I think he knows I do.

I leave the old hotel and go back onto the street, but as I walk away, it occurs to me that this guy who nicked the money got a good look at me, and I didn’t bother to take in much detail about him as I was already nervous about being there. I am afraid he is going to blame me for taking the money, and I will have a severe problem to deal with soon. I figured I had better return and explain what I saw.

This time, as I walk in, a member of the gang slaps a guard and tells him he is not doing his job and to stop me from entering like that. I am told to wait on the veranda. After some time, I began to think that this was going to be considered snitching, which is not cool either. I decided to change my plans and leave.

But the can of worms has been opened now, and as I am a half-mile back up the road, a looming figure steps up with a heavily pock-marked and shiny dark face, not saying a word. He looks at me with the words on his face, ‘Where do you think you are going?’ Without a word, I follow him back to the old hotel.

Through panic about what I’m going to tell whoever it is I am about to have to talk to, I have to make this believable as I am certain I shouldn’t talk about the money, but then it also crosses my mind that at some point they may learn about the money, come to question me about it and then wonder about the story I told them and why on this opportunity I didn’t explain the missing money. Argh, what to do? Wake up; your bladder is calling.