Page 10 of Law Maker

He was. He’d never seen an animal killed that way. Now his hand was stuck in the wet belly, warm blood oozing out and the insides of it twisted around his fingers.

He didn’t think he’d ever be that hungry.

He’d eat out of dumpsters; people threw away some good stuff. There was always nice food out of the one behind the 7-Eleven he robbed for the park kids.

At twelve years old he taught himself how to handle a switchblade. It became his favorite pocket accessory.

No one could tell Penn how to survive on the streets when he owned them.

There wasn’t an inch of Cleveland, Ohio, that he didn’t know and use to his advantage. Either for making money or hiding out.

Because he was one of the oldest kids in the trailer park, it meant the little ones came to him with their problems.

Tiny needy creatures all looking to Penn to fix their world, make it better.

He told them often, you can’t squeeze roses out of shit.

What was he gonna do, watch them go hungry ‘cause their momma’s spent the food money on dope? He stole and became their champion.

Mammals were so fucking clingy. He had to separate himself from that noise sometimes, but he always made sure the kids were fine and not dead in a ditch.

Their trailer park might not be the nastiest one in the area but it was right there in the top ten of slums.

It stank with raw, unchecked sewage from pipes that were never updated over the years. You could smell it on the approach in. And it was a smell that clung to the insides of his nostrils, making him forever nauseous.

Bugs crawled on him in the night. To the point he was sure he was developing a phobia but he wouldn’t allow a fear to manifest, he faced everything head on. The night before he turned fourteen, he got his first tattoo. A black spider on his neck. It took six agonized sessions for his full neck cover.

They were always a reminder of where he was, where he never wanted to end up.

Where he vowed he’d never return the moment he got his ass out of there.

Only the ink artist knew his reasons. Not long after, the artist hung himself over his woman banging his brother, so the secret was Penn’s alone now.

He displayed his reminders in plain sight so he never forgot.

At fifteen he walked tall with a powerful stride to his gait and people took notice. He was all of a sudden so much taller than any of his momma’s boyfriends so they left Penn alone. Good enough, because he had a taste for giving pain and he didn’t mind doling it out when provoked.

His switchblade upgraded and now he had three fishing knives carried on his body at all time.

He liked other things too, fishing line, zip ties and a blow torch. But he always relied on his old faithful blades in a pinch.

Running with some of the notorious gangs in the state, everyone heard about Penn. Most important never to mess with him.

Not that he took orders.

You could say he was Ohio’s answer to a consigliere to a lot of powerful people.

They learned quick that Penn knew shit and could get shit done if paid well.

He liked money so he didn’t have a ceiling on what he’d do for that cash.

His momma stopped bleating in his face and around sixteen he left that trailer park and didn’t look back.

What kids were still around begged him to take them with him, but he couldn’t have meat hanging off his legs, could he? He wasn’t Santa fucking Claus.

He gave them what he could. Left them with a few life lessons and a knife each.

Their survival was in their hands now.

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