"Police caution not to approach this individual if you see him as he is believed to be extremely dangerous."
Half-way out of your seat, you hesitated. Could your son really be dangerous? He had been so moody lately - if he were to fly into a temper inside the apartment, he could tear the whole place apart, even crush you beneath his feet like a bug...
You sat back down, gnawing at your lip. You couldn't go to the authorities, you knew that for sure. They'd lock him up, perhaps even experiment on him. Deep down you knew he was a good boy, just going through a difficult time. Yet he couldn't be allowed to continue down this path of crime. First and foremost, he had to be stopped.
"Police are also asking for information regarding the whereabouts of a man known only as the Power Broker in connection with these events..." the TV said.
"117 Graymalkin Road," you mutter to yourself.
------------
Chris was sullen over breakfast. You were just happy to see him alive.
"You cut yourself shaving there, son?" you asked casually.
Chris lifted a hand to the little squares of tissue paper stuck to his face with blood. There were more on his neck leading down below his shirt. "Something like that," he muttered.
Something more like bullet holes, you thought, stomach knotting with paternal concern. Damnit, he could have been killed. Whatever it takes, I have to stop him.
You stood suddenly from the kitchen table. "I'm going out for a while," you said awkwardly. "I... I love you, son."
Chris just freezes in horror, cornflakes dripping from the spoon halfway to his mouth.
--------------
117 Graymalkin Road led you to a red-brick warehouse on a rundown industrial estate on the outskirts of town. It looked derelict but, as you stepped through the door, a man with a red-brown skin and a face that looks half-melted steps into your path.
"What beezness you haf here."
"C-Chris," you gulp. "Chris Thompson."
"You wait." Keeping a wary eye on you, he stepped away and spoke quietly in a earpiece. "He see you," he growled eventually, gesturing further into the building, which seemed far less rundown inside than out, almost like a well furnished office complex.
You're lead into a room, the man with the strong accent following closely behind. There is a desk, behind which sits a young man in a grey suit. His head is turned, watching a flatscreen mounted on the wall on which footage from last night's robbery plays.
"Your boy made quite a mess," he stated, gesturing to the seat across for him.
"Did you put him up to it?" you asked. "My son is a good man. He wouldn't do these things unless somebody made him."
The Broker rolled his eyes. "All I did was make him special, Mr Thompson, and give him an ultimatum. It was a generous one at that; he still had plenty of time to find the money. There was no need to resort to this," he said with distaste, nodding at the screen, where your son was in the process of stomping half a dozen police vehicles.
"How much does he owe you?" you asked, digging out your wallet. "Whatever it is I'll pay it."
"$430,000," he says, smirking as your hands pause tugging a few crumpled notes from the wallet's dusty depths. "However I am willing to cut you a deal. "I can give you the ability to reign your son in, stop him trampling about all over my back yard, and in return I only ask for ohhh, let's say... $200,000 paid back over 12 months."
"How... how do you expect me to control that?" you gasp, gesturing at the footage.
"Simple. Your son is lacking in two things. Number one, an outlet to vent his pent up anger and teenage frustration. And strong boundaries."
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author