7 Brewing A Storm

Jean lowered the newest newspaper issue. The heading read, "Homophobic Cultists Suicide!" Most likely, Jean's brother bailed out his friend Nathan and the mafia helped cover up the incident. There were two favors left for him, and even more hysteria spread in the news.

Jean stretched his arms on the bench. It wasn't often that Jean sat around in public, especially at the bus stop. He waited for his brother to call him. The insurance reimbursement should come in the next day and that money could be further invested.

Jean already applied for studying abroad and several apprenticeships. He astonished his fellow clergymen by his comprehensive and numerous theses reinforcing the need for religious models and assistance in poverty-stricken neighborhoods. Public scandals put Americans all on edge and angry for religious reform. Jean's whole excuse was to help the impoverished Americans.

Jean also didn't have to worry about FIBS because all the evidence was taken and disposed of discretely. Jean ensured any glaringly obvious traces disappeared himself. That's why Jean could travel freely to promote his Priest persona and advertise for the companies he invested in. It tied in sponsorship, charity, and public appearances all into one.

Jean looked at his watch and saw it was 7:30.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He tapped his black suitcase beside him. Jean uncrossed his legs and smoothly stood up. He tucked the newspaper under his armpit and picked his suitcase up. The bus was late.

Jean heard footsteps and turned to see a young teenager. He was scraggly, in torn and old clothing. If Jean had to guess, he was in high school and Swedish, with blond hair and blue eyes. There was a slight limp in his step and the teenager definitely was malnourished.

The teenager slumped on the bus stop sign. Jean watched with interest as more teenagers rounded the street corner, running and yelling.

"There he is!"

"C'mon, Jimmie! Don't run from us!"

"Yeah, we still want to have some fun!"

'...Huff… Huff… wait up, guys. I'm getting tired from all this running."

Four black teenagers crowded around the Swedish teenager named Jimmie. All of them wore loose clothing and ripped but baggy jeans. The tallest and thinnest teenager wore a wifebeater and a backwards Red Mox hat. His face looked slightly deformed, like it recently recovered from a few punches. There was a small piercing under his lip. The three others stood behind him as he started slapping Jimmie on the head.

"Who told you to run away, Jimmie? We were just getting to know each other!" he said, delivering another hard slap.

A shorter and more heavyset teenager wore a black Tike Myson t-shirt. He went over and held Jimmie's arms so it was easier to hit the tired and emaciated Jimmie. He stood rigidly against the nearby street light.

"Yeah, you should listen to Marcus! He's a real Three-Eyed Snake. A gangster, Jimmie!" he gruffly agreed.

"Word. A gangster is all you need, dude. Don't f*cking walk on our turf!" responded the more normal looking teenager.

He still had his blue dress shirt, blue tie, and school bag. The scholarly attire contrasted from his unhinged words and punches to Jimmie's chest.

"Hey... my dudes? ...Huff... There's a guy in a suit over there."

The three other black teenagers looked when the fat teenager pointed a greasy finger. His plain white shirt was stained from sweat, red sauce, and spilled soda.

"Step off, fool! Whatchu lookin' at? Ain't you seen a gangster?" the tall Marcus shouted. He took exaggerated steps over to Jean, who wore a white mask.

"This fool be trippin'! What kinda dude goes clownin' around in a mask? Is he crazy? Oh, no, did I make you mad, big boy?" teased the teenager in his school uniform.

Jean silently stared at them and then looked at his watch again. It was 7:33 and the bus didn't arrive yet. He calculated the risks of the situation.

"Hey! Don't you hear Marcus? Fool, you messin' with a gangster now!" yelled the teenager holding down Jimmie.

Jean adjusted his black tie and tightened his hands into fists. His grip intensified on his suitcase. He glared at the teenagers and curled a finger to provoke them. Then, he walked over to a dark alley populated by green dumpsters.

"Dudes! Open up a can of whoop-ass on this fool! He ain't makin' fun of the Three-Eyed Snakes in front of me!" Marcus rallied the others.

"F*ck Jimmie! Let's teach him respect!" said the one holding him. He threw Jimmie's head against the street and spat on him.

"I'm in!" chimed the third teen.

"I'm outtie! I'm… too tired…" gasped the fat teenager. Honestly, he didn't have any intentions fighting because he was too scared… but it also wasn't a lie about being too tired. They chased Jimmie for too long.

"F*cking Timon! This is the last time I hear this sh*t! Next time, you're going to pay us more money or I show your hot mama what a real gangster can do!" Marcus smacked his lips and rubbed his hands when he turned around. Then, he continued to run after Jean.

"F*ck!" Timon complained. "Mama's gonna kill me…"

He already spent a lot of his allowance on his new "friends." They protected him in the hood when his single mother worked as a public defender. After all, they started together as friends. It all changed when they separated in middle school and reunited in high school. There, they came together from their separate paths and stayed under the radar.

Jimmie gasped, limply laying against the street light. His face was bloodied and bruised with purple welts and red cuts. His mouth and nose filled with blood so he continued a cycle of weakly sputtering and swallowing.

"D*mn, are you okay, Jimmie?" Timon asked him.

Jimmie, unfortunately, didn't have any friends or group that accepted him. He was poor, quiet, and dressed like he was homeless. Although Timon and his friends picked on him, it initially started as a way to deter other gangsters or crazy people from attacking them. By appearing to be part of a big gang, they were left alone. Sadly, Timon's friends started to like using Jimmie as a punching bag and became more and more greedy for Timon's money.

That's why an endless cycle continued where Timon gave away more and more of his money and Jimmie got more and more hurt. Timon secretly helped out Jimmie because if Timon didn't have money, he would be like Jimmie right now. Timon also was afraid that if Jimmie died, Timon would be next.

"Here, lemme…"

Timon pulled up Jimmie's shirt and used it to wipe off the blood. It wasn't much, but Jimmie breathed easier and he could see a bit better.

"...Thanks Timon…" Jimmie gasped hoarsely.

"No sweat, dude," Timon sat down next to Jimmie and saw Marcus disappear behind the dumpsters.

"F*cking hate it all, Jimmie. Being poor. Being scared. Being fat. Being guilty. I never wanted to be like this. If I had a dad, my mama wouldn't have to work so hard and I'd fit in with all the dudes with dads," Timon pulled a pack out of his pocket and popped one of the sticks into his mouth. It was a candy cigarette because he needed to look tough but he also hated the taste and smell of real cigarettes.

"Then again, you have a dad, Jimmie, and he hasn't helped you squat. Must be like a special type of dad or mom that makes better people, right, Jimmie?"

Jimmie couldn't talk, but he could slightly nod.

"Wish there was something that fixed everything. Fixed hate, fixed sadness, fixed our bodies and our minds. I'm too stupid to be anything big but I know I might die if I slip up one of these days. Too many crazies, like on the news."

They both heard distant shouting. Jimmie coughed and Timon sucked on his sugary cigarette stick.

"I always feel guilty for letting other people get hurt. Like when I saw a squirrel get run over or saw a baby bird fall out of its nest and die. Like when I saw a dog eat that bird and choke on its bones. Like when I saw a person getting beat up. Like when I saw you getting beat up. Like when I let that man in the suit get beat up."

Timon wiped off the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and crunched on the candy cigarette. He pulled out another, but held it in place.

Jean strolled over from the dumpsters and looked at his watch. It was 7:36 and he finally saw the bus coming. Jean gave a little nod to Timon and Jimmie while adjusting his fedora.

"Look to faith to find meaning or purpose," he told them. "Faith in a better future. Take it with your own strength."

His dated suit looked conspicuous with his white mask, but nevertheless, Jean stepped onto the partially filled bus. He paid the fare and the bus drove off.

Timon kept remembering each step the strange man took. His black shoes trailed reddish streaks on the ground. He looked fearfully over to the dumpsters.

"F*ck. Jimmie, we just met a new crazy in town." Timon whispered. He was scared, more than even before.

Jimmie barely nodded in agreement.