The Path We Choose

It was late in the day and Donald 'Donnie Boy' Nelson was in a particularly good mood as he walked down a well-worn path through the woods. And why wouldn't he be? His drug business was booming and in fact he had just picked up three new customers at Reggie's, his favorite bar. To top it off, a patron who had obviously drank more than his share of liquor, bought a round of tequila shots for everyone. Donald didn't particularly care for tequila, but a free shot is a free shot. He had in fact intended on thanking the guy, maybe even acquiring a new customer out of the interaction, but he had disappeared shortly after buying the drinks. Probably passed out in the back of a cab by now. Donald shook his head and laughed, man what a day. Then again, his luck had been on the upswing since about five years ago when he beat a murder rap. A young kid, Steve something or another, that he had sold fentanyl-laced pills to had overdosed and died. Everyone knew he was the dealer responsible but with the help of a lawyer who was even shadier than he was and an easily bought cop who knew how to make evidence 'disappear', Donald had walked away scot-free. Life was good.

As he rounded a bend in the path, something on the right side of it caught his eye. A small wooden handle was sticking out of a patch of high grass. He approached it suspiciously. It was a ball peen hammer, and the head of it was lying on the top of a large, weathered manila envelope. He picked up the hammer, nothing special about it, some cheap foreign-made piece of junk you would find in a discount bin at a hardware store. Probably would break on the first nail. He tossed it aside and picked up the envelope. It was bulky and had some weight to it. He peeled back the flap and peered into the opening. It was loaded with bundles of cash.

He looked around to make sure that no one was in the area, then darted off the path and into the woods. He took his backpack off and set down behind a large tree. After checking again to make sure no one was around, he turned the envelope upside down. Several bundles of cash spilled into his lap; 50s, 20s, and 100s, along with a small black notebook.

All in all, there was a total of $20,000. This was unbelievable. He had broken into a sweat and was also feeling a little light-headed. Who carries around 20 grand in an envelope? Being in the drug biz, he pretty much knew the answer to that. But who did it belong to?

He picked up the little black book. It seemed to be fairly new, and the pages were all blank except for the very last one. Two words, written in Spanish. El fin. He knew very little Spanish but enough to translate this small entry. El fin. The end. The end of what? It was on the last page so he guessed in a way it made some sort of sense, however vague it may be.

He was having trouble focusing on those two words though because his vision was starting to blur. The last thing he thought before blacking out was how thick his tongue felt.

Donald slumped back against the tree, completely unaware that he was being watched.

When he came to, it was slowly, like being in a train that was approaching the light at the end of a tunnel. His mouth tasted like booze and he could smell it. He hadn't drunk THAT much. What happened? He tried to move but couldn't.

"Donnnnie boooy. Wake up, Donnie boy."

Who was calling his name and why couldn't he move? A bucket of ice-cold water thrown in his face thrust him into full consciousness. Choking and sputtering, he looked around in a panic, his vision back but distorted by the water. He appeared to be in some sort of garage or maybe a small warehouse. The lighting was dim, but he could make out some scattered tools and several car batteries lying around.

He was in a chair, his hands and feet securely tied to its arms and legs. 'What the fu-' a lit cigarette put out on his forehead elicited a yelp of pain.

"You're awake. Good."

Donald recognized that voice. It belonged to Little Lobo, leader of a local Mexican gang in fellow drug dealer. Not that Donald was in the same league as Lobo. Not even close. Despite his short stature, or maybe because of it, Lobo was not somebody you would want to tangle with. Many who crossed him weren't recognizable when their bodies were found, if they were ever found at all.

Donald was now glad they had thrown the water on him; it would help cover up the fact that he had just pissed himself.

"Lo...Lobo? What's this all about man? I swear if I took any of your customers, I didn't-"

Lobo tossed the manila envelope full of money onto a small table in front of him. Donald blinked, and his eyes focused.

"Oh shit, is that yours? Take it. I found it lying by the path I was walking on. I passed out shortly after that. I..I..don't know. HOW did I get here?"

Lobo only stared at him, and Donald knew what prey must feel like when it was about to be eaten.

Then Lobo reached into the envelope and pulled out the little black book and opened it. " Story time, Donnie Boy." He bent over close to Donald. " Carlos Johnson. Goes by Big Freak. Works the corners of Fox and Taylor streets. Meth. Heroin. Biggest deals done on Tuesday and Thursday nights." Donald was confused. What the hell was happening? " That's not the same book." Lobo continued.

" Mike Wade. Goes by Jackal. Crack. Ecstasy. Various pills. Works the projects at the East end of town. Receives largest shipments on the third Friday of every month."

Donald tried to speak again, but Lobo flicked his hand and one of his lackeys stepped out of the shadows and slammed a golf club across Donald's knee. He felt the top of his kneecap shatter and screamed in pain. Lobo sipped on a beer and let him writhe in agony for a while. When Donald's crying subsided into a low whimper, Lobos spoke again.

" You have the names and hangouts of every dealer in this city. Myself included. And then we have this." He reached into the envelope again and pulled out a sheet of folded paper. Unfolding it, he read, " T- Here is everything you need to 'clean up the streets'. My lawyer will be glad to help you with any other questions you may have. I trust this is enough money to fund your efforts, for now at least. "

Donald was shaking his head, wailing. " Lobo, man you have to believe me, I FOUND that envelope! There was NO letter in there! The black book? It was blank, all except the last page. It only had 'el fin' written on it, that was IT, nothing else."

Lobo flipped to the last page and looked at it, then flipped it around to where Donald could read it. It was in English.

Justifies the means.

Donald was now openly sobbing. None of this made any sense.

Lobo continued. " A few hours ago, one of my mules who was carrying a large sum of money- ..care to guess how much?"

Donald managed to squeak out, " $20,000. "

Lobo nodded. " Yeah, $20,000. Odd, huh? He was found unconscious in his house, struck from behind. The wound seems to be about the same size this hammer you're carrying around would make. " He reached into Donald's backpack and pulled out the hammer he had tossed aside in the woods. There was blood on it. " And the money? Missing. Until now of course. "

He lit a cigarette and took a long drag off of it. " Then I get an anonymous phone call from some tweaker looking to score some free goods saying we should check out your place. So me and my boys let ourselves in and lo and behold, we find you passed out drunk, an empty bottle of tequila by your side. Along with the envelope. You celebrated too soon, Donnie boy."

" Lobo I swear, I SWEAR-"

" Shut up! You think a two-bit wannabe like you could just waltz in and take over an entire city by selling us out, just like that? You're in deep shit. Like the deepest shit possible."

"Please don't kill me! I'll do anything! You can have all my customers. My money. Anything!"

"Oh, I'm not going to kill you. Not me personally anyway." Donald's head dropped. Lobo stood up and walked over to one of the work benches. He picked up a torch. " No, I'm gonna have some fun. But I'm not selfish, I called everyone in your little black book, they're all on the way to join in. By the end, you'll want to die. I guarantee it. And one of them will probably help you out with that at some point. They already paid a visit to your lawyer and Lieutenant Thompson." Donald looked up. "Yeah, we know which cop helped you out with your murder case and was going to help you with this bullshit scheme. When they get here, they can see what they have to look forward to." He lit the torch and took a step towards Donald.

Chris Wilkins stood in the woods for several minutes, listening to the screams. To him it was beautiful music. Soon he saw headlights snaking down the road towards the warehouse, with more twinkling in the distance behind them.

Time to go.

He made his way through the brush back to his truck. He cranked up the old Toyota and pulled onto the road.

Rattling down the highway, he glanced at the little black book sitting on the seat beside him. It's amazing what a man can do when he has nothing left in this world but hatred and time.

Five years ago, he had a son, Steve. Or Stevie as Chris liked to call him. A son who while out drunk with some friends one night, made a poor decision that cost him his life. And the person who killed him walked away without so much as community service. Chris's pleas for some sort of justice, any kind, fell on deaf ears. So it was up to him.

If you have the patience, along with the desire, you can learn everything you need to know about someone. Their patterns, routines. Their hangouts. Their friends and enemies, but more importantly their enemies that they think are their friends. Like a bartender who was sick of watching someone destroy so many lives and is willing to slip a little something into their drink. You learn when mules are running drugs and when they are returning with large amounts of cash.

You learn when someone is most likely to be alone in the woods. And you wait. You wait for that perfect opportunity to put all that you have learned into play.

If it all works out the way you planned it, no matter what you did to accomplish it, well, the end really does justify the means.

About 45 minutes later, Chris placed one last anonymous phone call. Shortly afterwards he heard sirens racing in the direction he had come from.

He smiled, probably for the first time in years, and aimed his truck out of town.