The late afternoon sun in Upstate New York shone weakly through the grey clouds. A cold wind blew, carrying the scent of wet earth and rotting tomato leaves, sweeping across the Miller family farm which looked incredibly desolate.David Vexley, who was still feeling the bruises from the impact in the principal's office yesterday afternoon, stood in the middle of his vast tomato field. He wore the same faded flannel shirt, ignoring the stinging pain that radiated up his back every time he bent over to move a full harvest basket. Tomorrow was the day to pay the land rent. These three hundred kilograms of tomatoes were the only line of defense between his family and a life of homelessness.The roar of heavy car engines broke the silence of the afternoon.Two black-and-white police patrol SUVs sped across the muddy dirt road toward David's wooden house. The cars did not slow down as they entered the yard, their large tires splashing mud toward the rickety wooden por

SPIT!Sheriff Tate spat a wad of tobacco-laced saliva onto the muddy ground, landing just centimeters from David's face as he remained bowed, clinging to the man's boots. An arrogant, disgusted smile was clearly stamped on the corrupt cop's face. For a man who made a living intimidating small-town residents, the sight of a father begging and crying at his feet was a drug more intoxicating than alcohol."You are truly pathetic, Miller," Sheriff Tate scoffed, lightly kicking David's shoulder so the man swayed slightly to the side, though his hands remained glued to the dirty boots. "Watching you crawl like a dog like this... honestly, it almost makes me pity you."Tate grabbed the collar of David's torn and blood-stained flannel shirt, forcing David to kneel upright and look him directly in the eye. David's bruised brown eyes stared back, concealing the cosmic storm held back behind his mortal human shell."I am a reasonable man," Tate said in an exaggerate

"Scrub the rims harder, Miller. I still see coyote blood stains there."A mocking laugh sounded from the porch of the Sheriff's office. Deputy Higgins threw a half-full paper coffee cup, landing it right in a puddle near David's knee. A splash of dirty coffee hit the frayed jeans worn by the former ruler of the world."Yes, Sir," David answered with a flat and hoarse voice.The midday sun beat down on the asphalt of the Upstate New York police station yard without mercy. David swallowed saliva that felt dry in his throat. He pressed a foam sponge soaked in industrial-grade chemical cleaning soap against the hull of the black-and-white SUV patrol car. The soap was extremely harsh, not designed to be touched without protective gloves, causing the skin on David's palms to blister, redden, and peel.A stinging pain bit every time the chemical foam entered the unhealed bruises on his knuckles. However, David did not stop scrubbing. With every scrub, he imagined Arthur's face sleeping sound

"Sit, Dog."Those two words slipped from the lips of an acne-ridden teenager, hitting David Vexley's ears harder than a cannon blast. The air inside the dusty server room felt incredibly hot and suffocating. The humming sound of the computer fans seemed to mock the last shreds of pride still clinging to the chest of the former King of the World.David stood stiffly. His jaw hardened so much that the muscles in his neck bulged, forming lines of anger forced to be swallowed back down. His brown eyes stared at the dirty concrete floor. He remembered the tablet screen earlier, remembered Elena sprawling on the kitchen floor gasping for air, and realized that in the face of his family's vulnerability, he was nothing but a prisoner.With slow movements that felt like pulling out his own soul, David bent his knees.A soft squeak was heard as he dropped his body weight onto a cracked red plastic chair sticky with soda stains. He sat, bowing his head in silence, l

"You are insane if you think I can burn this place down without triggering a gang war," David growled softly. He stared into the tiny camera lens hidden in the collar of his black jacket.Elliot's voice crackled through the wireless earpiece, the size of a bean, in David's right ear. "I don't care about your gang war, Vexley. I just want a good Friday night show. Get in there. Burn everything. And make sure your camera is pointed straight. Or do you want to see your wife's heart graph flatline tonight?"David ground his teeth. His still-blistered hand, wrapped in rough bandages, gripped the handle of a hunting knife with a dull blade. In his left pocket were two rolls of silver duct tape. Those were his only weapons tonight. He brought no gun. Gunshots would invite the local police, and dead bodies would invite federal agents. He had to do this like a mortal ghost.The night wind blew cold, carrying the smell of rust and gasoline as David sneaked behind stacks o