Page 9 of Law Maker

It was only when he was eleven that he discovered his surname was Penn by snooping in his momma’s purse. He got a smack for that, but it didn’t hurt.

He knew his momma loved him even without a name.

It made him all the more special and unique, as his nana said.

He had no father; his sire could be anyone that came through his momma’s bedroom door.

He knew he was different when he went to school for the first time. His momma was a fan of alias names so her debts didn’t find her.

Extraordinary smart, the teacher said.

His momma was not pleased when the school called. After that and a few tests—that he thought were too easy—he moved up grades.

He sometimes helped the older kids with their homework. Later, he charged them ten bucks. It was then he realized how much he enjoyed making money.

And so it began.

Turns out it was easy as his nana’s pecan pie to make money.

So he made a lot.

Gave most of it to his momma, who for a time, knew she was onto a good thing and didn’t act … nuts.

She threw him into the street for a week once when he was seven years old because he was being too loud. Go figure, crazy bitch.

He didn’t know any better other than the trailer park. Living in their shabby double wide with a variety of uncles coming through the door. None of them were blood related. His momma said it was because men knew how to do things better than women. Penn reckoned she was full of shit when those so-called uncles didn’t do a fucking thing around the trailer other than smoke, eat and piss on the bathroom floor.

He was the boy with no name.

The boy who wore ratty jeans and sneakers too big for him. He was told he’d grow into them and not to be so fucking ungrateful.

He was the kid who huddled outside the trailer all night long in torrential weather while his momma had parties.

He was the boy who learned how to fight and steal to survive.

He was the kid who grew six inches one summer and eight inches the next.

He was the boy all the other trailer park kids ran to if they were in trouble and needed protecting. He was the same boy who made sure every kid had something to eat even if he had to steal it.

He was the boy his momma forgot existed sometimes but she loved him a whole lot even when she tossed him out.

Learning fast how to take care of himself. Through necessity and survival.

It wasn’t a bad childhood if you compared it to a war torn kid growing up around famine and bombs.

But it wasn’t sunshine and fucking roses either.

He learned endurance early on.

“You see that, boy?” Sheamus asked, glee in his old, craggy voice. He’d seen the man smoke fifteen cigs right after the other. That’s why his voice was all jacked up now.

He nodded, staring at the dripping blood. Of course he saw it, he wanted to scream. He had blood falling off his fingers while he tried to stop himself from throwing up. Which he wouldn’t do because he loved hot dogs and he hardly ever got hot dogs any more so he wasn’t wasting his dinner. But man, that was disgusting.

“Now you fish out the guts.”

“Me?”

“Hell yeah, boy. Make a man outer you. You’ll never go hungry if you know how to gut an animal.” When he paused, uncle Sheamus hunkered down and stared at him, “You scared, boy?”

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