Johnny gnawed the last shred of meat off the bone, patted his belly with satisfaction, and smirked—he’d made another ten dollars today.
Life was good. He had paid two quarters’ worth of protection fees recently, meaning he didn’t have to worry about those expenses for the next six months. At first, handing over the money had stung, but as John had assured him, it wasn’t money disappearing—it was just being paid in advance.
Glancing at the apprentice wiping down tables in the corner, Johnny scoffed before heading to his room. He was in a great mood tonight; consistent sales always did that for him.
He lay down on his bed, placing the cash box under the nightstand, and turned on the radio to listen to a serialized drama.
Radio dramas were a staple entertainment for the Federation’s working class. Televisions, while available, were costly, and lower-income families didn’t have the luxury of time to sit in front of them. Most worked from early morning until exhaustion claimed them at night. For those who did enjoy television, peeking through store windows on the way home sufficed.
Some stores strategically placed TVs in their windows to attract passersby. Why buy a TV when you could watch for free?
The drama, co-hosted by a male and female narrator playing the story’s characters, used rich dialogue and voice acting to immerse listeners completely. It was one of the most popular programs, airing from 8:30 to 9:25 p.m.—a solid fifty-five minutes, enough to entertain without disrupting sleep schedules.
Johnny, his belly full of greasy, sugary food, began to drift off as the narrators spun their tale. Half-asleep, he heard footsteps outside and growled, "Damn brat, what the hell are you doing wandering around at this hour?"
The footsteps ceased immediately, and Johnny turned over, slipping into that half-dreamy state he relished.
Outside, under the dim glow of the nightlight, the apprentice stood with five young men around his age in the bakery.
The group tore into leftover bread from the day, particularly the high-end varieties. Topping their slices with ham, they devoured the food ravenously. It was as if their purpose tonight wasn’t theft but indulgence.
The apprentice joined in. Despite working in the bakery for months, he’d never tasted the nut bread or the mouthwatering ham slices. He ate with reckless fervor, as though consuming not just bread and ham but also his hatred, disgust, and despair.
When the group had their fill, the clock struck ten, and faint snores began to emanate from Johnny’s room.
The apprentice wiped his mouth. "There’s only one bed inside, and his daughter hasn’t been staying here lately. The money’s with him. I know Johnny—he can’t sleep unless he can see his stash."
"I don’t want a share," he added, "but I have one condition..."
The leader of the group licked his fingers. "I know, you’ve said it a million times—break both his arms." He motioned toward the cabinets. "Now help me pack up this bread. And those ham slices, too."
"Damn it, this bastard makes them so damn good!"
The others chimed in, agreeing that the bread was incredible. They’d heard rumors about the bakery’s quality but had never been able to afford it. Even the slightest markup—a penny more per pound—was enough to deter their families.
The apprentice quickly packed the goods, then retreated to his room, locking the door and burying himself under the covers. His heart pounded in his ears, but for the first time, the darkness brought him peace rather than dread. He felt secure, even excited.
Meanwhile, the leader twisted the doorknob to Johnny’s room and found it unlocked.
He exchanged a surprised look with his crew.
What they didn’t know was that Johnny saw the apprentice as a broken dog, incapable of defiance. Johnny never worried about him and assumed he would slink away at the first shout of "Get out!" With the windows locked, he felt secure in his fortress.
The room was pitch black and eerily quiet.
Someone bumped into something, sending it clattering to the floor. Johnny jerked awake and snarled, "Who’s there?"
He switched on the light.
The scene froze for a moment. His hand hovered over the nightstand, while five young men stood before him, each holding a club.
A chilling realization crawled up Johnny’s spine. Just as he tried to react, the leader swung his club directly at Johnny’s head.
Johnny raised an arm to block the blow, but the impact snapped the bone with a sickening crack. He howled in pain, clutching his broken forearm as he scrambled into the corner where the bed met the wall, screaming for help. 𝙍ã₦ő𐌱Ɛ𝘚
One of the men quickly shut the door, trapping the sounds of chaos inside.
"Where’s the money?" the leader barked, jumping onto the bed and pressing Johnny’s head against the wall with his foot.
Fear consumed Johnny. The pain from his broken arm was nothing compared to the terror these young faces—still carrying traces of innocence—instilled in him.
His mind blank, Johnny stammered the first thing that might save him. "In my pocket—my coat pocket. I’m injured; take whatever you want. Just don’t hurt me!"
The leader’s foot pressed harder, eliciting another agonized scream. "If you’re lying, you’ll regret it."
Two others rifled through Johnny’s coat, pulling out a handful of crumpled bills. "Just fifteen bucks."
The leader’s expression darkened. He turned back to Johnny. "I meant the cash from your shop—hundreds of dollars. Don’t play dumb!"
Johnny’s heart sank. "I... I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no such money," he lied, hoping to protect the rest of the stash in the cash box.
The leader stepped back, giving Johnny false hope—only to raise his club high and swing it down with all his might.
Instinctively, Johnny raised both arms to shield himself, despite one already being broken.
Another sickening crack filled the room, followed by his bloodcurdling screams. His obese body jerked violently on the bed, flailing as if trying to escape the unrelenting blows.
The gang pummeled him mercilessly, their inexperienced hands swinging with reckless abandon. Clubs blurred as they rained down on Johnny, reducing him to a sobbing, pleading mess.
"I’ll talk! Stop! It’s under the pillow—stop hitting me!" he wailed, his voice cracking with desperation.
The leader kicked aside the pillow and yanked off the blanket, revealing a battered tin cookie box.
He opened it and inhaled sharply.
Johnny, who hadn’t cried during the beating, suddenly burst into tears. The money meant everything to him—its loss was a wound far deeper than any broken bone.
The others crowded around, their faces lighting up with astonished glee at the sight.
The leader didn’t bother counting. He snapped the lid shut and stuffed the box into his coat.
With a nod, one of the others began thrashing Johnny’s arms again, battering them until they were grotesquely misshapen.
Satisfied, the leader gave the signal to leave.
As the sound of retreating footsteps faded, Johnny, sobbing uncontrollably, began screaming into the night. "You miserable bastards—get back here!"