Cardboard

Hank let out a deep, gravelly sigh, The kind that put you in mind of a ship’s anchor, dragging across gravel in the murky twilight of the ocean floor.

A small part of him hitched a ride on that sigh and didn’t come back. A spiritual currency, paid in advance, for an emotional debt he hadn’t yet spent.

His stomach knotted. Sick spirals churned through his barrel-sized gut, a mix of loss and guilt that refused to shift, no matter how many times he tried to burp it away.

He shut the cardboard box gently, folding the flaps with the same careful touch as a father tucking in a child for the last time. The creak of the cardboard was soft, final . . . like the first shovelful of dirt striking a coffin lid.

He couldn’t draw this out any longer. Not today. Not with Mary waiting, wondering. She’d already started asking questions. And God, he hated lying. It felt worse than pawning his things. Brass-plated reminders that he had once been someone. Someone who mattered.

Each fib he told her was a twist in his gut, a rotting little worm of deceit writhing deeper with every repetition. He didn’t just feel guilty . . . he felt physically sick.

He reached into the boot and heaved the box out.

It groaned under its own weight, heavier than the last . . . denser somehow, as though it had absorbed the weight of his regrets.

The sheer volume of forgotten applause, packed tight into belts and medals dulled by time and neglect.

He lifted it to one knee, steadying himself against the bumper. The boot slammed shut behind him with a hollow thud that echoed a little too long for comfort.

Then he felt it, a wet kiss on his cheek, then another.

His eyes lifted, slow and tired, like an old farmer reading the sky for answers.

Above, pale wisps of milk-foam cloud drifted peacefully, but the horizon was another story . . . an ominous brushstroke of darker hues creeping inward. Clouds moved like charcoal soaked in dying embers, swelling in silence as they swallowed the light.

“Ain’t s’posed to rain today,” Hank muttered, as more droplets speckled his face.

Somewhere distant, thunder purred.

He sniffed. Shook his head.

The storm had a scent. Faint but foul. A damp musk, like wet dog and mould. It clung to his sinuses and made his lungs feel heavier than they should’ve.

It was rolling in quicker than expected.

Maybe it was just his imagination, but he could’ve sworn it rained more these days. A lot more.

Didn’t matter. This wouldn’t take long.

He bear-hugged the box and sidled around the old Chevy Tahoe . . . its paint dulled by too many summers, front bumper stitched together with a little luck and a lot of zip ties. It wasn’t pretty, but it still had the fight in it. It growled when it started, sulked in reverse on cold mornings, and once ate a ham sandwich he’d dropped under the seat. But most important of all, it started. Every damn morning, it started.

Larger drops began thudding against the lid of the box. A slow, deliberate rhythm.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Hank grunted, adjusted his grip. The light was already fading behind dark clouds, as though the sun had decided to give up early.

He needed to get the box inside before the sky gave way completely.

Completing a slow half-circle around the car, he stepped up onto the curb.

This part of town rarely had familiar faces, and that was why he liked it. He was a proud man. He didn’t want to be seen walking into a pawnshop. Especially not here. Especially not now, because word had a way of travelling, and he couldn’t afford for it to reach Mary.

Not yet. 

Not until he had a job.

He’d hoped to park closer to the store, but a pair of motorbikes were already hogging the curb outside, forcing him further down the street.

That’s when he saw them. The same kids as yesterday. Loitering near the motorbikes like they owned the pavement. Oversized hoodies. One perched on a pushbike. One on a skateboard. All of them starved for entertainment, restless with the kind of bored energy that could turn cruel with zero notice.

He clocked the smirk on one of them, a sneer he remembered all too well. The same one who’d called him Yeti yesterday.

They hadn’t seen him yet. But they would. They had that pack-dog awareness. The kind that came from being young, wired on sugar and testosterone, hyper-alert to anything out of place and eager to tear it down for sport.

The rain picked up fast.

The cardboard box in his arms began to darken, soaked in patchy rot where the water found its way in. What had once been square now sagged under its own dampness. The surface pulped at the corners..

TAP-TAP-TAP…

He squared his shoulders and muttered under his breath, “Let’s get this over with.”

Then he walked. Straight through the gauntlet of hooded silhouettes like they weren’t even there.

“Yo! Bigfoot’s movin’ house!”

A shout from behind . . . sharp, juvenile. But it was too late to care. Hank was already at the pawnshop door. Just in time. The heavens cracked open above him.

Rain slammed onto the pavement like static turned to full volume . . . loud, distorted, endless. Water bounced from glistening surfaces in erratic sprays, each drop exploding like a mini detonation.

Hank leaned into the door, steadying the box against it, preparing to push inside.

But the door moved first.

It burst open from within . . . fast, abrupt . . . jerked by someone trying to exit in a rush. The man collided with the box. A sickening crunch.

The box’s bottom flaps gave out.

They tore like a cheap theatre trap door, surrendering under the box’s weight. The contents hit the ground in a chaotic clatter . . . brass, leather, polished echoes of a life gone stale.

They scattered in all directions, bouncing off the wet concrete. Some skittered into puddles. Others spun out like tossed coins in a cursed fountain.

Hank’s heart seised. That was private, sacred.

Now it was scattered across the pavement like trash after bin day.

“You wanna watch where you’re goin’, Pops,” the guy spat.

He didn’t slow. Didn’t care. He was dressed in a scatter of denim, and steel, tight trousers, a loose jacket with rolled-up sleeves, chain swinging from one pocket like an afterthought. His movement was fast and whip-like, sharp and unpredictable. Like the sting of a scorpion’s tail, but drunk. Dangerous. Unstable. A wasp in a wind tunnel.

His toe-capped boots slapped through puddles. He kicked something metal further down the road with a careless clang. One of Hank’s medals, was sent spinning into the dark.

Hank let out a low groan. Deep and ancient, like an ocean liner groaning under the weight of ice and storm. Something ugly stirred in his chest. Something chained up, old and furious, whispering it was time to stop taking this shit and remind the world what he used to be.

His eyes lifted under his heavy brow, and met the stare of the denim-clad man. They held the stare for an awkward eternity. Rain dripped from Hank’s eyebrows like a broken gutter, the streams merging with the sweat already creeping down his temples.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot, Pops,” the man said, slowly, deliberately, each word dropped like a brick. His tone made it clear, he didn’t plan on repeating himself. His voice was hoarse . . . like he gargled whisky for mouthwash, but powerful. Deep. Commanding. The kind of voice that could sell movie trailers.

The man patted the pocket of his jacket with slow, exaggerated motion. It was an idle gesture, but it carried weight . . . intent. A warning dressed up as a shrug.

Somewhere far off, thunder purred. The sound swam across the sky like a slow, rolling growl.

Hank may not have been considered the sharpest tool in the box. He was a man of few words. A man who had made his living with fists, not thoughts. But even so, he was still a tool in the box, a big, heavy tool. That’s what mattered. 

His eyes dropped to the man’s jacket pocket. 

A bulge.

A gun? A knife? He couldn’t be sure. But it was heavy. Deliberate. Meant to be seen.

He thought about Mary, sitting at home, alone, cold. Stubborn. Waiting for a husband who wouldn’t be coming home. That thought sank deeper than any blade or bullet ever could.

He lowered his gaze to the ground. Shoulders slumped. A quiet surrender of dominance. He gave up the fight before it started.

“That’s right, Pops. This ain’t a fight you’re gonna win,” said the man, flashing a crocodile smile, all teeth, no eyes.

Then he swung his arm. It hit the box, like a wet sponge against tile.

The box jerked from Hank’s grip and collapsed onto the pavement, soggy and shapeless.

“Now get outta my fucking way,” the man growled, shouldering past and heading toward one of the motorbikes.

Hank blinked against the rain. Somehow, the teenagers were still there.Hooded silhouettes in the downpour, watching, hoping . . . bored.

Sorry, Hank thought. You won’t be getting any entertainment today. Hank knelt, slowly, carefully. His colossal frame lowered. His knee sank into the icy rivulets of a puddle, submerging with a slosh that sent cold up his spine like a live wire. It stole the breath from his chest and left him wheezing through clenched teeth.

It was hard to see now. The rain came in waves. It streamed down his face, split by the dense line of his brow, each droplet breaking and reforming as it crashed through the thicket of his eyebrows. It was like trying to look through frosted glass. Looking down only made it worse. Everything blurred.

The box . . . if you could still call it that, looked like a child’s failed papier-mâché project. Soft, bloated, and caved in.

He swiped it aside with one broad motion. His shovel-sized hand sent it flopping against the shop wall with a wet slap. He began grabbing what he could. Brass. Ribbon. Leather.

He stuffed medals into his pockets. Ribbons trailed behind like streamers on a child’s tricycle. Everything was slick and awkward in his hands. He fumbled with the flat discs, swearing under his breath.

And he could feel the kids watching.

Between gusts of wind and stinging rain, he could make out the occasional burst of laughter, sharp and juvenile. He could feel the gears in their teenage skulls turning. Looking for a way to make this worse.

His pockets were full to bursting. What didn’t fit was stuffed inside his coat. It jabbed at his ribs and gut, sharp edges pressing in every time he bent over. Still, he kept grabbing, clawing.

Left, then right, he scanned the pavement. Just a couple of belts left. He was nearly done.

A pushbike rolled past. Then a skateboard the other way. The teens were circling.

Another board skimmed by, too close, nearly clipping his cold, wet fingers.

Water splashed from the filthy puddles, slapping his face. Black streaks of run-off trailed his cheeks like war paint.

He reached for a belt, but it was kicked away by the kid on the bike.

They howled. A pack of hyenas.

“Faster, old man!”

“C’mon, Big foot, you nearly had it that time!”

Hank spun on his knees, puffing steam with every breath, every grunt, every scramble. He looked like an old bull, losing a fight with a cocky matador. It was pitiful. Embarrassing. He couldn’t believe it. No job. No money. A sick wife at home. And here he was . . . rolling in a gutter, soaking wet, tormented by teenagers over scraps of brass no one even remembered.

They started throwing the belts over his head now. A playground game. Piggy in the middle.

“You can jump higher than that, Big foot!”

More steam billowed from Hank’s mouth with every pant, every ragged breath. He was exhausted. He bent, hands on knees, fighting for breath.Surrender flickered in his glistening eyes. The bull was ready for the spear. Water dribbled from his chin, his brow, his earlobes. Cold, steady trickles that blurred the line between rain and sweat. Steam wavered off his hunched form, rising like the heat off a broken-down car on the shoulder of the motorway, bonnet popped, engine gasping. His chest heaved beneath his damp coat, each breath harder than the last, and yet still not deep enough.

He stared up through the curtain of rain. The droplets clung to his brow before falling. 

The teen on the bike had both belts now, slung over his shoulder like stolen trophies. He rode lazy, jeering circles around Hank, one hand on the handlebar, the other tugging the brass behind him. His wheels kicked up sprays of gutter water as he heckled and whirled, a little storm of his own orbiting Hank’s collapse.

And then, the shop door opened.

The change in atmosphere was immediate, like the pressure drop before a thunderclap.

Another biker stepped into the downpour. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause.

He wore leather, studded in steel. The kind of outfit that didn’t come from a shop, but from years of deliberate selection. Armour shaped by identity, not fashion. His face was a canvas of brutality. Piercings marked every surface: nose, brow, cheekbones, lips, ears. Studs and rings and bars that glittered in the low light. But beneath the hardware was something worse.

Ink.

A full-face tattoo. A skull, perfectly shaped to contour his features. Black sockets around the eyes. Shadows drawn over the nose. Thick, black lines where his lips should’ve been . . . turned into skeletal teeth.

He stood still for a moment, letting the rain run down his body. Then he tilted his head back, breathing in deep. His chest expanded. He held it. Then let it out, slow and measured.

No words were spoken. and yet, the teenagers stopped. Every one of them. They turned toward him in unison, their eyes fixed to his direction but not to his face. None dared meet his stare.

There was no shouting. No commands. No nods or whistles. Only posture, and stillness.

It was an ancient kind of authority. Primal. The way wolves understood the rules of a pack without needing them spoken aloud. 

Hank felt it too. A pressure. An invisible weight on his shoulders. Not fear, exactly, but the instinctive knowledge that something more dangerous had entered the forest.