Gierstrad remembered the day when his father taught him about the importance of respect. 'It is the most important currency in life,' his father once said, and it created a mark that will never be forgotten. From then on, Gierstrad vowed that he will always respect the deserving ones - to earn respect, one must be willing to give it. 'If only Father remembered what he said,' Gierstrad muttered in his mind, and another memory rushed in. It came like a torrent of water, chillingly real but distant and can never be changed by any substantial force of reality. Now, Gierstrad can see his father seated in the old couch. Head bowed. A nearly empty flask of whiskey dangles from the old man's right hand. The memory felt so maddeningly real that Gierstrad almost wished to have his mind scrubbed. He let out a silent gasp when his father took an old Luger, aimed at the head, and blew away - all in a lightning instant. The whole room trembled as the gunshot reverberated across the room. 'Get me outta here,' Gierstrad whispered to something unseen. As if an ominous deity hears his ordeal. 

Gierstrad woke up, sweating and breathing heavily. He got up from his musky cot (bought from a cheapskate peddler) and rushed to the sink to wash his face. The cold water pulled him back to reality...to the confines of his simple room. From the streets, he heard one or two gunshots but he shrugged it off; the streets are full of lead nowadays, with all crews and hustlers working hard for respect. The night is still young, and there's room for one more contract.

~

Swooney Alker unloaded the last crate of molasses from a dilapidated truck. He didn't estimate the amount of the swag yet, since his mind is still busy reminiscing the previous stick-ups he committed today. 'Someone out there is probably shitting bricks,' Alker thought, funnily. At morning, he knocked over a small craps ring - this yielded extra grand on his end. 

By mid-afternoon, he furiously beat a whore to death and pocketed another grand. This gave Alker the notion that he, as a hustler, can indeed take anything in the streets willingly. This led him to the night stick-up where a young driver lost his life. Admittedly, the stick-up took a large portion of his strength and he intends to take a small vacation...at least away from the prying eyes of the streets.

"Swooney." A sinewy voice rang from behind, just as Swooney is beginning to light a cigarette. "Be still. I'm your friend."

"Gierstrad." Swooney smiled. He knows by heart that Gierstrad is holding a gun. "So, you'll kill me over molasses?"

"I got your name in the list. You've been too reckless, I presume."

"I helped you crack skulls before," Swooney replied, trying his best not to shake. His hand inched gradually towards his sidearm, hoping to land at least one clear shot. "Is this how you return a favor?"

"You didn't respect the streets. So, the tide rolls."

Swooney turned in anger, drawing his gun; in response, Gierstrad pulled the trigger, pumping three bullets onto Swooney Alker's chest. The bullets crashed through Alker's chest - each with the intensity of a sledgehammer. The cold pistol left Alker's hand, and he sprawled on the ground. His vision started to blur and he felt the desire to sleep and end it all. But the pain...the perforated flesh...kept him awake. He coughed out blood and felt an unquenchable thirst. He heard Gierstrad approaching, and waited for the final strike.

"Finish...me.." 

"Alker, have you ever respected yourself?"

"Fuck you-

Gierstrad didn't let him finish. He fired one more shot, and the bullet shattered Alker's forehead. And as if fate is playing a game with him, Gierstrad remembered everything about his old man. The talks about respect, life lessons, and the challenges ahead. But one thing irks him greatly. Does his father - even in the bitter end - truly understand the complexity of respect? For in that act of suicide alone, Gierstrad's father failed to respect one important person: himself.

...