The Last Moral Man

The Last Mortal Man

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Inside a gaping hole, a small mouse went by. On the street the criminals went around dressed in uniforms. Many people around town are evil, but the governor’s quite a normal person. Gov. Joe Small had been Governor for several weeks before he was replaced by Gov. Garry Tiny. Garry became governor long enough to organize the office, but was promptly killed, and replaced by a wicked governor. Her name was Gov. Lucy.

From what I understand she must have been wicked to the core. She held the position for a year before slipping away halfway through her term, her coin purse suspiciously full. There was Gov. Joshua next. A bit peevish. He would be such a kind person one minute then the next he was taunting the lower class. He didn’t make it through the night.

To this day I don’t know who is in charge of my town, city, or state.

At the corner of the street where the library, bank, and corner store are, then inside the store sitting on a bench against the wall I am looking over the bible. Of course like any person in this world, my mind is elsewhere. The words I see are many.

Ding-ding.

A person rushes in, clothed in a striped pinstripe suit with a dainty little mustache, darting to the store keeper begging for help.

“They attacked me outside,” he clutches his stomach, gasping for breath.

“Who attacked?” The cashier glanced up from his money he’s counting off.

“Thieves! They stole my bag, they stole my wallet. I had all my things in there.”

The cashier sighs, picks up his phone, and dials. “All right, all right, just sit tight. I’ll get you some help.”

It wasn’t long before the police arrived dressed in uniforms, with duty belts and guns, and tasers. One of them, probably the leader of them, stepped forward. I observed his clean shaven, and tidy look. I looked at his enormous green eyes. I looked down at his big boots. Back up to his broad shoulders, and overall muscled appearance.

He sniffed at the room, just me reading, the suit guy, now named Cal in my head, the store keeper before mentioned, and one other customer in the back of the store. “Is this the reporter of crime,” the officer said to the cashier, pointing at Cal, the officer’s chin raised, sniffing loudly, thick and intimidating.

“Yes,” came the quiet answer. He put his head down low with pity in his eyes. “I had to turn you in, to the cops,” he whispered.

“No! I can’t go back to prison,” Cal darted around the cops, but ran into the lead officer’s thick hands.

“NO NO!” But it’s too late to stop them. Before Cal could do much more than struggle, he’s being pulled off his feet, and a taser is being discharged. “AHHHH!” He is now thumping against the ground. “You’re under arrest,” the officer says flatly.

The cashier watches, unconcerned, returning to his stack of bills.

Cal writhed on the floor, his body jerking violently as the taser finished its work. One of the officers knelt down, wrenching his arms behind his back, binding his wrists.

“For the crime of reporting a crime,” the lead officer said, shaking his head.

“This is wrong,” I blurted.

The officer’s enormous green eyes snapped toward me. “Excuse me?”

I gripped the Bible in my lap. “You’re arresting the wrong man. He was the one robbed.”

The room held still.

The cashier’s hands moved lazily over his stack of bills. He barely looked up. “Don’t get involved, kid.”

I ignored him. “You should be chasing the thieves, not him.”

The officer’s lips curled slightly. “Oh, we don’t chase thieves.”

The other customer in the back of the store coughed, but he didn’t move.

The officer slammed his baton into Cal’s gut. A breathless wheeze escaped him as he folded over. The door swung open. A gust of wind rushed in. Then they were gone. I stood there, pulse thudding in my ears. The store was silent, save for the rhythmic shuffling of paper. The cashier continued counting his bills, slow and methodical.

I swallowed hard, turning to him. “You turned him in,” I said.

His hands never stopped moving. He licked his thumb, flicking another bill into place. “And?”

I clenched my fists. “And the real criminals are still out there.”

Now he did look up angrily. Something twisted in my stomach.

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You ask too many questions.” His fingers tapped the money in his hands. “It’s bad for business.”

The store felt darker now, the walls closer. Outside, the vehicles roared away like motorcycle gang riders. The cashier flicked another bill into his stack and went back to his counting.

Cough cough.

Not just a casual cough—something deliberate. The walls of the store felt closer now, the air thicker. I realized, then, that a bandit was in the store.

I shouldn’t be here. I stood up, gripping the Bible like a lifeline.

The store sat heavy in silence. The cashier flicked another bill into his stack. Slap. Slap. Slap. His fingers were steady, practiced.

I shifted, glancing toward the back of the store. The other customer—the one who never looked up—was gone.

The hairs on my neck rose. Hadn’t he just been there?

A low creak sounded behind a shelf and I turned. Just left in the narrow aisle near the back, just past the rows of canned goods, a figure moved. Not a customer. Not anymore.

The man who had been standing there earlier was now hunched, his back pressed to the shelves, his hands tucked deep into his coat pockets. His eyes flicked toward me.

Something about him—it wasn’t right. He wasn’t shopping. He wasn’t waiting.

He is watching. He knew I’d seen him. And that’s when I saw it—the tiniest flash of silver glinting at his waist. A gun. I forced my breath to stay steady. My fingers pressed against the worn cover of my Bible. The cashier never stopped counting. Slap. Slap.

I turned back to him. “You knew.”

The cashier licked his thumb. Another bill flicked into place. “Knew what?”

I swallowed. “You knew he was here with a gun”

The cashier gave a slow, knowing smile.

“This store gets all kinds of customers.” His voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp now, watching for my reaction.

“Like cops?” I asked.

The smile twitched.

Then, slowly, the cashier placed the bills down. He reached under the counter. My heart slammed against my ribs. But he didn’t pull out a gun. He pulled out a small bag of white powder. I stared. Not fully noticing the customer coming near me. His presence filled the room like a shadow.

The bandit reached for the bag without a word.The cashier didn’t hand it to him right away. His fingers stayed curled around the plastic, his eyes expectant.

A pause. Then—A glint of green. Not the gun. A bill—weathered, dropped onto the counter. The cashier inspected it, nodding slightly. Only then did he slide the bag across.

The bandit snatched it up, tucking it deep inside his coat. His hand hovered near his waist, right where the gun sat. His eyes flicked to me. I didn’t move.

Slap. Slap. The cashier returned to his counting. The front door swung open. Another customer. The cashier looked up. His lips twitched. “Evening, sir.”

No answer. The new man’s eyes landed on the bandit.

The bandit tensed. His hand still hovered near his coat, his fingers twitching.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

The cashier finally broke the silence. “You looking for something?”

The man in the doorway didn’t respond. Then, very deliberately, he turned his gaze to me.

I stayed still, gripping the bible.

His stare lingered. Just a second too long. Then he moved towards the counter. He pulled a crumpled bill from his pocket, smoothed it against the counter, and placed it down.

The cashier studied him, then slowly, lazily, reached under the counter. Another bag.

The bandit inhaled sharply through his nose. His grip tightened at his waist. The man in the coat remained still, watching. My fingers pressed against the Bible, my pulse steady, measured. And then—Slap.

The cashier placed another bill down. A subtle motion. Deliberate. A signal. The bandit saw it. His body tensed, eyes flicking toward the man in the coat.

The man in the coat saw it too. His fingers twitched, hovering near his pocket. For the first time, I exhaled. Not in relief, but in understanding. At his belt he has a badge of identification which says Dr. Williams. This second guy’s not an addict, he is a Doctor needing medicine.

The cashier asked, “what do you need?” as if realizing the same thing. He kept the bag out of sight.

The bandit had already stuffed his bag into his coat, his shoulders relaxing now that his transaction was complete. His eyes still flicked between Dr. Williams and me, like he wasn’t sure which one of us made him more uneasy.

“I need the good stuff,” said the good doctor.

Silence.

The bandit’s fingers twitched at his side.

The man who had walked in looking like a professional—a coat, and underneath white for his working coat, the sort of man who might’ve belonged in a hospital or a clinic—didn't hesitate. He didn’t ask for medication, didn't mention any ailment, but instead, with a sharp glance and a slight tilt of his head, asked for cocaine—something too out of place, too strange for the white coat he wore underneath the big black coat, too startling for the man he appeared to be. It was as if the white coat of a healer, so often associated with care, had been twisted and undone in that very moment.

The bandit let out a small huff of laughter. A kind of shared understanding. And that’s when I knew Dr. Williams wasn’t here for prescriptions. He was here for the same reason as the man with the gun.

Everything looked good then. Time to execute the plan. I slammed the Bible down, the pages fanning. I grabbed from inside of my suit the drill from beneath the bench and tore into the wall. The sound was deafening, metal grinding against brick. The others froze, their faces a mix of shock and confusion, but I didn’t care.

As the drill buzzed to life, Dr Williams, standing still, finally spoke, his voice low, measured. "What the hell are you doing?"

The cashier, who had been completely unfazed up until this point, took a step back, his expression shifting into something darker, more alert. "You’re gonna ruin everything," he warned, his voice rising slightly, panic creeping in. "Stop! You don’t know what you’re doing."

I didn’t stop. DRRRR! DRRR! Went the drill The drill bit into the wall with a dull thunk. Another layer of stone crumbled. Whirr. The wall began crumbling, and ripping, and everyone went quiet for a moment stunned.

The noise sliced through the quiet, sharp and grinding. I pushed the drill harder, the walls giving way inch by inch, the sound growing louder, more insistent. The mortar cracked. The stone splintered.

The bandit let out a low growl, his fingers twitching near the gun again. "Stop the drilling, man," he barked, "or I swear, I’ll—"

And then—boom—the wall gave way.

A dark space opened up in front of me, the vault just beyond. It was hidden, waiting. The smell of stale air, of money. Behind me, I heard them. The gasps.

The good Doctor shuttered, his voice seething with fear, “The…the…the bank vault f—from next door.”

I grabbed a stack of bills, stuffed it in my coat, then another, then another, then another, and turned back to the hole. The others were still standing there, stunned.

I let out a slow breath, a smile creeping across my face as I walked back toward the gap. I didn't look at them. I didn’t need to.

“Just wanted to make sure this place was a front full of strong morals,” I grinned, not bothering to glance at the confusion in their eyes. “Before I used it.”

They wouldn’t follow. Not now. Not after what I had shown them.

The Bible lay on the ground, its pages fanned out, one of the verses went like this, “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness.”