Turn off the lights!

Tonight, the regulars were sitting by the cash register. They were drinking beer and talking idly, their voices a low murmur against the backdrop of the news playing on the TV.

The flickering light from the screen cast shadows across the worn wooden bar, illuminating the pints of beer and the tired faces of the patrons.

"Ah fuck man!These bugs are gonna suck my blood."a customer spoke while slapping bug hard on his arm.

It was Jack Thompson's pub, and Jack himself was at the bar, attending to the customers with a forced smile.

JACK was a pure fool, always coming up with grand schemes that rarely made sense. In the '90s, the industries hadn't been working properly. There were hard times finding a proper business to run because of numerous downturns.

Ivan Norman and William Bills, who had both worked in those industries, were on relief now, having run out of unemployment benefits some years ago. They nursed their beers, talking in low tones about the past.

"Yeah, Can't forget about the loaf of bread I shared with you that night. That was the only food I had." Ivan shook his head.

"I know Man, we had hard times but i still can't afford much stuff." William shrugged.

Haris Dawson and Daniel Rhett worked in a small plastic factory. They rarely got more than 30 hours a week, scraping by on meager wages.

Hendrick Pelfrey, a retired mechanic, smoked his stinking home-rolled cigarettes, the pungent smell blending with the stale scent of spilled beer and sweat. These cigarettes were all he could afford.

Jack leaned over the bar and spoke to them. "Now, what I say is, fuck all this! Look, we've got the printers and we've got paper too! It's not like the factories will go down now."

Ivan looked up, curiosity piqued. "What are you up to, Jack?"

Jack grinned, eyes gleaming with a wild idea. "I mean, we can print out more and more money and use it!"

Ivan made a weird face, like he had just heard something profoundly stupid.

"The fuck's wrong with you?! You are high or something?!" Ivan said with a hint of irritation.

"He would go to any measures man. He is Jack after all." William winked at Ivan, Clearly making fun of Jack.

"I am not drinking here but you guys!" Jack said with a straight tone.

Hendrick, always the voice of reason, took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly. "That won't work, Jack. There'll be much more inflation. It'll be like the old times when you wanted a piece of bread. You'll get a piece of bread the size of the money you gave. Money ain't nothing but paper."

Jack dismissed him with a wave. "Eh, not everyone thinks like you, Hendrick."

Daniel Rhett, a very calm and reserved person, held a can of Alpine in hand and looked out of the window.

The memory of his father, a wasted man always drunk and violent, played in his mind.

His father had left the house in a drunken rage when he got fired from the workshop, leaving Daniel's mother to find a job in a warehouse, earning just enough for the three of them to eat.

As the oldest, Daniel had stayed home to look after his sibling. At the age of 10, he got work in a workshop not far from his home.

The pub was dimly lit, the air thick with smoke and the smell of fried food. The walls were lined with old photographs and memorabilia, relics of a better time.

Flashback to past days

"Ay! Be careful! That package is expensive!" the boss yelled at Daniel, his voice echoing through the bustling warehouse.

Daniel's hands bled from handling the heavy cartons and machinery, the cuts stinging with every move. He always hid those wounds from his mother, not wanting to add to her worries.

"My poor child, sometimes things aren't like we want them. Sweetie. " she wept as she hugged him one evening, having noticed the blood seeping through his bandages despite his efforts to conceal it.

"We can't quit our jobs, honey. We need money," she said, her voice breaking. She wasn't a woman who cried easily, but the weight of their situation was undeniable.

"I know, Mother. I won't," Daniel replied, his voice steady but filled with a quiet resolve. He barely made any friends, his life consumed by the demands of work and school.

He would wake up early, go to school, then rush to his job at the warehouse, and return home late, exhausted. Weekends were spent catching up on sleep and helping his mother with household chores.

When he finally graduated, life dealt another blow. His mother passed away from cancer, leaving Daniel and his younger brother Malthus alone. The loss was devastating, but Daniel knew he had to stay strong for his brother.

"I'm leaving brother, take care of yourself."

After the funeral, Malthus made the tough decision to leave the city. He moved to Kersbrook, where he found work as a manager at IBM Corporation.

The last time Daniel saw Malthus was at their mother's funeral. The memory haunted him.

Daniel's wedding was the best part of his life, a bright spot in a sea of struggles but it only lasted for a year.

Hermione often spoke about moving to the city.

"Why don't we move to the city side, Daniel? Honey, it will be better for us," she would say, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

"We'll see it through, honey," Daniel would reply, holding her close. But the small-town inertia held him. He knew everyone in town, and the familiarity was comforting.

Even Hendrick, the old mechanic, would compliment him, calling him the "Old tough guy."

However, fate had other plans. Hermione began to feel unwell, the same way his mother had.

Daniel noticed the symptoms first—the fatigue, the unexplained pains, the way she grew weaker with each passing day and passed away.

Present

As Jack and Hendrick continued to argue, the last traces of dusk lingered in the sky, casting long shadows over the land. The street was quiet, cars rarely passing by at this hour—one of the reasons Jack had so many unpaid bills.

But there was a car coming now, and Daniel noticed it first. It was still a quarter of a mile away.

'Is it a Chevrolet…?' Daniel thought.

The Chevy had no lights on, moving at no more than 50 miles an hour, weaving erratically across the road.

"Yeah it is." Daniel spoke to himself.

No one had seen it yet but Daniel.

"Now, let's say you got a mortgage, a payment on this station," Hendrick was saying, his voice gruff and deliberate. "And let's say it's $100 a month."

"It's a hell of a lot more than that," Jack argued, his face flushed with frustration.

"For the sake of argument, let's say it's $100," Hendrick continued, ignoring Jack's interruption. "And let's say the Federals went ahead and printed you a whole carload of money. Well, then those bank people would turn around and want $200. You'd be just as poorly off."

"That is right. He knows much," Harris added, nodding sagely.

Jack shot Harris an irritated look. "I know how money works, Harris."

"I know how money works, Harris," Jack added with the confidence of a man whose education had stopped at eighth grade.

He continued to explain his reasoning, but Daniel, knowing they were in a tight spot, turned Jack's voice down to a meaningless drone in his mind.

" Hey! Hey! Calm down y'all." Daniel added without taking his eyes from the Car.

His attention was drawn to the Chevy pitching and yawing its way up the road.

"Hey! Silence!" Daniel called out, watching the Chevy's erratic movements. The way it was going, he didn't think it would make it much further.

"woah there…" he whispered to himself without blinking.

It crossed the white line, its left-hand tires kicking up dust from the shoulder. It lurched back into its lane briefly before nearly veering off into the ditch.

Now the car seemed to straighten out, as if the driver had picked out the big lighted Portside Tavern Pub sign as a beacon. It arrowed toward the tarmac like a projectile whose velocity was nearly spent.

'I don't think that, this Chevy is coming this way…'

Daniel could hear the worn-out thump of its engine now—the steady gurgle and wheeze of a dying carburetor and loose set of valves. The car missed the lower entrance and bumped up over the curb.

The fluorescent bars over the pumps reflected off the Chevy's dirt-streaked windshield, making it hard to see inside. But Daniel could make out the vague shape of the driver rolling loosely with the bumps.

The car showed no sign of slowing from its relentless 15 miles per hour.

"So I say, with more money in circulation, I would be—" Jack's argument was cut off by Daniel.

"Jack, turn off your pumps!"

"The pumps? What?"

"Turn off the pump's lights now!" Daniel shouted, urgency in his voice.

Jack, confused, turned to look out the window.

"Christ! The son of a biscuit eater! Holy cow!"

Daniel leaped out of his chair, leaning over William, and flicked off all eight switches at once with his both hands.

"The fuck's wrong with that car!" Jack said, his face pale with worry.

Jack was the only one who didn't see the Chevy as it hit the gas pump on the upper island, shearing it off.