Chapter 80 — An Unexpected T-Bag Appears
"Country roads~ take me home~
to the place~ I belong~
West Virginia~ mountain mama~
take me home~ country roads~"
A battered, rattling pickup crawled down the highway.
Behind the wheel sat a Black man in a plaid shirt, winter coat, and a fleece-lined cowboy hat.
John Denver played on the radio, and he belted along—loud, off-key, but very proud of himself.
Then he noticed someone on the roadside.
A woman stood with her thumb up—
hitchhiking.
A young white girl, alone.
Dozens of ideas flashed through the driver's mind.
The pickup rolled to a stop.
"Need a lift, sweetheart?"
He grinned wide—teeth yellow and brown, like he hadn't seen a dentist since the Korean War.
Mandy's expression shifted instantly.
"Sure do, motherfucker."
Her other hand flashed to her waistband—
M9 in hand, magazine emptied straight into the man.
In the South Side, fancy shooting methods didn't matter.
Mozambique drills?
Pointless.
Emptied magazines got the job done.
Gunfire cracked through the air.
William stepped out from behind a nearby rise, calm as ever, and walked up to the pickup's driver's door.
"Next time don't shoot the head," he said, wrinkling his nose.
"Brain matter's a pain to clean. Go check the truck bed—see if there's any rags. I'll handle the body."
He swung the door open and dragged the corpse out like a dead mutt.
Mandy didn't argue.
She jogged to the back of the truck, rummaging for cloth.
Once her back was turned, William hauled the body behind the dirt mound—
and when he was sure Mandy couldn't see, slipped the corpse into his storage space, then kicked dirt over the bloodstains.
Cleanup done, he returned to the truck.
Mandy had already wiped down most of the driver's seat, removing the worst of the mess.
They climbed in and drove toward Chicago in the decrepit pickup.
Once back in the city, William dropped Mandy off, then headed into Little Mexico.
He sold the pickup to a chop shop for scrap—enough to cover a sliver of what he'd lost burning the BRZ.
The mechanics noticed the freshly-wiped blood on the seat, of course.
But they said nothing.
Who had died in the truck didn't matter.
Only profit per pound of steel mattered.
That's America for you.
After the sale, William drove to the shore of Lake Michigan.
The corpse was packed into a so-called "non-degradable" plastic bag—
ready for its final disposal.
William dropped a heavy stone into the plastic bag alongside the corpse.
Then, using a chainsaw, he cut a neat hole through the lake's frozen surface.
Plunk—
The dead driver slipped beneath the ice, vanishing into the dark bottom of Lake Michigan.
With Bob gone, William now had 1,000 energy points—
the equivalent of ten minutes of "procurement time."
Ten minutes wasn't enough for anything meaningful—
unless, by sheer cosmic luck, he spawned right next to some world-breaking artifact or heavy weapon.
William didn't believe in luck.
So he didn't rush to use the points.
That's when his phone rang—the real estate agent.
"Hello, Mr. Blake? Do you have time now?
The seller of 2119 has agreed to proceed with the sale."
Huh?
Frank really was desperate to sell.
Looked like no one else was stupid enough to buy property in South Side winter hell.
"Got it. I'll arrange someone to handle it."
William hung up and dialed Theresa.
He planned to put the deed under her name.
At the moment, there were only three people he could somewhat trust:
Svetlana, Mandy, and Theresa.
Mandy was the most loyal — but too South Side to appear at a transaction office without trouble.
Svetlana… reliable, but way too dangerous to be holding property.
Which left Theresa — a headache, but the safest choice for appearances.
And playing a scheming bitch?
That was simply her default setting.
---
Theresa answered, voice full of irritation:
"What do you want now?!"
William chuckled.
"Who pissed you off this time — Gregory or Lori?
Surprised you're still alive, to be honest."
The second those names left his mouth, Theresa exploded.
"You asshole! You had to bring that up?!
I almost died! That stupid Lori actually tried to kill me over that crusty old bastard Gregory!"
William raised an eyebrow.
So she knows what Lori was planning.
Looked like Theresa had already handled the problem herself.
"Enough whining. Get to South Side. I need you for something."
She cursed under her breath — but didn't dare refuse.
---
Half an hour later — South Side Real Estate Office
William leaned against his rented Honda Civic, watching from a distance as Frank and Theresa walked into the office together.
Six grand in cash… wonder what Frank thinks he's gonna do with that money.
William had two guesses:
booze and blue crystals — Frank's two true loves.
And there was no way William planned to let Frank enjoy even a whiff of that cash.
Letting him touch it was already more generosity than Frank deserved.
Over an hour later, Frank came limping out of the building, grinning like he'd won the lottery — a leather bag clutched to his chest.
A moment later, Theresa stepped outside, holding a large document envelope — the deed and paperwork for 2119.
She called William:
"Hello? Where are you? What do you need me to do next?"
She didn't realize he was still watching her from down the block.
"Take the paperwork back to campus and lock it up.
I'll come for it later. That's all."
He hung up before she could answer.
Theresa stared at the dead call screen and muttered:
"Asshole."
William, climbing into his Civic, didn't hear that.
But even if he had, he wouldn't care.
You don't expect roses from a cactus.
Right now, he had more pressing business —
tail Frank, knock him out, and reclaim the money.
---
But then—
A beat-up old Ford sedan suddenly screeched to a halt beside Frank.
A man stepped out.
A face twisted with malice and amusement.
A smile sharp as a knife.
T-Bag.
"Fraaank~ Frrrrank~
Took me forever to track you down, you son of a bitch."
Frank, hobbling on his bum leg, instinctively tried to run —
but barely got two steps before face-planting on the pavement.
T-Bag strolled up and kicked Frank's bad leg.
"AAAAH! FUUUCK!"
Frank shrieked, clutching his thigh —
and the leather bag burst from his grip, falling open just enough for stacks of green bills to peek through.
T-Bag's eyes lit up.
"Well, well, well…
what do we have here?"
He knelt down, unzipped the bag —
wads of crisp Benjamins.