Francis leaned back in his comfortable second-hand arm chair, reading an old copy of Call of the Wild by Jack London. Something about those adventure books called to him, made him yearn to be an explorer like them, to wander the parts of the world that very few men have seen. He was reaching for the glass at his arm when the phone rang. Amber liquid poured out, staining the threadbare carpet.

"Shit," Francis muttered. He picked up the glass and sat it back on the table. He tried to keep the mourning for rotgut whiskey out of his voice when he picked up the phone. "Francis."

"Frank? It's Charlie," the caller said. "I have a job for you."

Francis straightened in his chair. He'd been wanting some work to do, something besides low-level dealing and standing guard on liquor shipments. "Uh, sure. You need me to come down to the office?"

"No, no," Charlie replied. "I need you to go the Tulloch housing complex, down by the waterfront. You're looking for a specific shack, number 118. You'll recognize it from a mile away, it's got this ugly dark-green paint."

Francis scrambled for a pencil and a notebook. He repeated the number. "Who am I looking for?"

"They call him the Limper. He drinks like a fish and plays blackjack about as well. He's pretty deep in debt, and went underground when we tried to collect. Go have a conversation with him." Francis could almost sense the air quotes, but he knew better than to say anything.

"I'll go pay him a visit and get in touch after."

"Good."

The moon was starting to reach its zenith when Francis walked down the old dirt path to what looked like a glorified shack. There were no lights in the windows, but he could just make out the sound of a radio playing from somewhere inside. He glanced towards the other houses around; the toughs that had eyed him on the sidewalk told him that nobody would be surprised to hear shouting, or noise. As long as there weren't any shots. He took a deep breath and let it out slow as he walked up to the door. His fist pounded against it.

"Who is it?" a rough voice called from inside, words slurring together drunkenly.

Francis affected a cough and a weak voice. "I'm a neighbor." Fake, heavy cough. "I was hoping you could spare a bit of bread..."

"Fuck off!" the voice inside called. "Go find a church or something!"

"Please, sir.," another cough; Francis' throat would hurt the next morning if he kept this up. "Just a heel, that's all I need."

Loud footsteps echoed off a wooden floor. The green door swung open wide to reveal a fat, balding man that favored his left leg. The man took in Francis' appearance, at first with disdain, then surprise. "You're not..." Sudden realization dawned on him. He gripped the door and swung it, trying to slam it closed. Francis caught it with an open hand and forced it back open, stepping over the threshold. The Limper stumbled back towards the living room. His feet caught on a moth-eaten robe and he fell, landing hard through an end table. Chunks and splinters of wood flew, and the Limper could only look up in horror as Francis approached.

"You really should pay your debts, friend," Francis said. The bald man replied by grabbing one of the broken table legs and swinging it. It glanced off Francis' right arm, the one he was keeping close to his body. He cursed and let the crowbar he had hidden drop into his hand. "That was a bad fucking idea!"

Francis lashed out with the crowbar, rapping the bald man across the knuckles with a crunch. The man shouted as bones shattered.

"Where do you keep your valuables?" Francis demanded.

"Up your ass!" the Limper replied, clutching his broken hand.  Francis answered that by knocking the man down on his back, planting his foot on his shoulder.

"You want a broken arm to go with that hand?!"

"Please, I don't have any money! That's why I'm living in this shithole!"

Francis shook his head. "Then why are you wearing gold rings, dumbass? I figured you'd be better at this than this!"

The Limper was panicking. "No, that's just my wedding ring, my wife died three years ago, it's all I have left of her!"

"Then you'd better give me some fucking money then, hadn't you?!"

Realization crossed the man's face. "In...in the kitchen, under the sink. There's a wooden box, it's got $3,000 in cash in there. That should cover the debt."

Francis took his foot off the Limper's shoulder, but kept watching him as he walked over to the sink. He knelt down and pulled open the door. Sure enough, there was a box under there. Francis pulled it close and started opening it. His eyes widened at the money hidden inside.

Footsteps. Francis looked up, brought his arm up. He grunted as a pan came down hard on his forearm. The swing was weak and one-handed, but it still made his arm throb. "You fucking idiot!"

The Limper brought the pan up for another swing. Francis punched, moving more on instinct than anything else. The Limper stumbled backward, giving Francis just enough room to swing with the crowbar. It caught the Limper square in the kneecap, shattering bones and tearing through tendons. The man screamed as he collapsed, his leg no longer able to support his weight.

Francis didn't hesitate; he scooped the money out of the box and got to his feet. He stuffed the bills in his pocket and made for the door, holding his injured arm against his chest.

Francis stood under a streetlight, blood dripping from a frying pan cut on his arm. He stuck a dime in the pay phone and dialed a familiar number.

"It's Francis; our friend didn't like it very much, but he came through."