Chapter 127 – Frank the Cockroach
"The rich control the narrative," Frank continued, completely in his element.
"They define excellence as the things they can obtain easily—things that are much harder for the poor to reach.
That's how they draw a line.
A nice, thick trench between rich and poor, keeping people like us on the other side.
So don't play their game.
Don't fall into the trap they set.
Everyone gets to redefine what excellence means for themselves.
So don't be fooled, Kevin.
Having a job doesn't automatically make you successful."
Frank's twisted logic left both Kevin and William speechless.
Right then, a big Black guy behind Frank was bragging loudly to his friends.
"Yeah! I got tased twice and didn't feel a damn thing, bro.
Then those dumbass cops still tried to chase me!
I dropped three of them—one punch each—
and I still got away. Hahaha!"
Frank's ears twitched.
He'd been tased before.
He knew damn well what that felt like.
Without even thinking, he shot back:
"Bullshit."
Absolute, instinctive disbelief.
To be fair, Frank having the guts to call that out actually impressed both William and Kevin.
Kevin, however, immediately started worrying Frank might get beaten to death.
William, on the other hand, was entertained.
He casually ordered a plate of fried chicken from Kevin, clearly planning to eat while enjoying the show.
The big guy turned, face darkening, and stared straight at Frank—who was in the middle of lighting a cigarette.
"What did you just say?"
Frank exhaled smoke slowly.
And he was already in a bad mood.
Now that the weather had warmed up, Frank could at least sleep in parks or under bridges.
But once winter came around again, if he didn't find somewhere indoors, he'd probably freeze to death for real.
Of course, nobody actually believed that would happen.
After all—Frank was a cockroach.
Everyone agreed on that.
Maybe it was that creeping anxiety that gave Frank the nerve to mouth off to a built, intimidating guy like this.
"I'm saying—bullshit!
I've been tased before!
One second! One damn second—and I shit myself on the spot!
There's no way you got tased twice and still knocked down two or three cops and ran away!"
Frank's words clearly bruised the guy's ego.
The old white drunk was basically calling him a liar to his face.
"You calling me a liar?"
The guy stepped closer, eyes hard, looming over Frank.
Frank could feel the pressure—but backing down had never been his style.
"At the very least, you're exaggerating."
That did it.
"I'll bet a thousand dollars I can do it," the guy snapped.
Frank's eyes lit up.
He'd personally experienced a taser.
What he conveniently forgot was that he was a scrawny, half-dead alcoholic whose body barely qualified as functional.
Being tased once had folded him instantly—no surprise there.
"Kevin," Frank shouted, suddenly energized.
"You still got that taser?"
Kevin watched the situation unfold without trying to stop it.
After all—respect people's life choices.
"Yeah," he replied flatly, already picturing Frank getting beaten for unpaid debts.
Frank's voice shot up.
"I'm in!
One thousand dollars—plus nine more! Ten grand total!
Ten thousand bucks says you can't take two full American taser hits without shitting yourself—let alone staying on your feet!"
The guy almost laughed.
"Fine, you idiot."
He started stripping off his shirt, getting ready.
Frank, realizing the bet had actually been accepted, burst into laughter like a kid who thought he'd already won the lottery.
Anyone with half a brain knew Frank was screwed.
But Frank was too busy daydreaming about ten thousand dollars to notice.
Kevin sighed, dug under the bar, and pulled out the taser, stepping around to the front.
The guy was already shirtless.
He took a deep breath, stared at the weapon, and said,
"Do it."
Frank was still laughing like a man who thought destiny was on his side.
Kevin looked at him with pure disbelief.
He disengaged the safety and aimed.
"Do it!" the guy shouted again, adrenaline pumping.
Kevin had no choice.
He pulled the trigger.
Two wires shot out and buried themselves into the man's chest.
Electricity surged through him.
His muscles seized, his body shaking violently.
His face twisted in pain—
—but he didn't fall.
He didn't even move.
Frank's smug grin slowly collapsed.
In Frank's world, the guy should've locked up and face-planted immediately.
Instead, he was still standing.
The current cut out.
The guy stayed upright, breathing heavily.
Frank started to panic.
"Again!" the guy roared.
Kevin nodded and triggered the taser a second time.
Another jolt.
Same result.
Shaking. Screaming. Still standing.
Frank's face drained of color.
"Fuck! Well?!"
The shock ended.
The guy stepped forward aggressively, grabbed a shot of straight tequila from the bar, and downed it in one gulp.
Then he turned to Frank.
Calm now. Cold.
"Where's my ten grand, you son of a bitch?"
This outcome was so far beyond Frank's expectations that his brain completely short-circuited.
---
Meanwhile, on the streets of the South Side, beside an outdoor basketball court—
Lip leaned against a wall, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
A chubby Black kid walked up to him.
"You Lip?"
"Yep."
Lip glanced around cautiously.
"What do you want?"
The past few months had been brutal.
Fiona worked nonstop just to cover rent, barely coming home long enough to sleep.
On Lip's end, the gun business had been doing okay—just enough to keep them afloat and even stash a little cash for winter.
"I want a Smith & Wesson 745," the kid said.
"Heard you sell 'em cheapest."