In one of the science classes back in high school - the ones where Ford's hand was in the air half the time, the ones where Stan entrained himself by drooling in his notebook, sleeping, or cracking jokes just to get a smile out of his twin - Stan was taught that there are three natural responses to fear: fight, flight, and some other third thing he couldn't care enough to remember.
Ma used to call him a little fighter, her little free-spirit. He was well okay with taking a few punches if it meant he had the chance to punch back. So, yeah, you could say his usual response to fear was fight. Not that he was ever afraid! No way!
Still, he wasn't totally happy about his recent assignment.
Stan had been working for Jorge and Rico for a few short months, ever since his old prison mates helped him bust out of Columbia. Too many shortcomings and lost bets put him in a bit of debt, so unless he wanted to become a literal mule for drugs, or locked in a trunk in the middle of Arizona, he was going to have to do a few things to earn some cash.
A few shady comments from Rico made it very clear on what he was expected to do to make some money. He didn't like it, but he was a fighter. He had a hard stomach. He could do this.
After a quick bite to eat from a cheap fast-food place, Stan settled in the shadows of a dark alleyway on the streets of New Orleans. A grandfather clock chimed nine times. So like predator after prey, Stan waited for his first victim.
As the clock ticked by the night went on, fog from the ocean pouring over the brick sidewalk, Stan hated every minute. His knees were cramping, his stomach was in knots; maybe eating before this was a bad idea. He distracted himself from thinking of what he was about to do by being observant of his environment. Faint sounds of the sea beating against the docks, very distant jazz, happy chatter and the clinging of beer mugs.
Footsteps alerted him, and he steadied his body, ready to approach his prey.
Giggling. A tall shadow became sharper, and Stan made himself freeze.
A man his age was carrying a toddler, letting the little girl ride her father's shoulders, tickling her ribs. "Daddy, put me down!" She laughed.
"Okay, princess, feel like walking like a big girl, huh?"
"Yeah!"
The father held the little girl's hand and they walked past the alleyway together safely.
Stan let out a breath he did not know he was holding. He was a lot of things; a conman, a thief, a liar, an overall horrible person by most people's standards. But he would never scare a child. Not like that.
More footsteps. Stan shook himself free from his memories and readied himself, this time swearing to himself that he wouldn't chicken out.
A young man leaned against the wall of the building, at the mouth of the alleyway. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a puff, looking weary and a little stressed. Perfect. Stan prepared his aching knees to move.
"There you are!" A female's voice called, and she stood in front of the alleyway, holding the man's free arm while he hastily put out his cigarette. "You okay, honey? That bar was pretty loud. Wanna go home and watch a movie or something?"
"Erm, no! I ran, I'm fine! I just… got a lot on my mind." The man stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.
"Oh. Wanna talk about it?"
"Actually… yes."
Stan watched as the man took both of the woman's hands and got on one knee. The woman gasped and Stan unconsciously stared with round eyes.
"You… You make me happy. Like, really happy. Way happier than I ever thought I could be. So…" And the man released the woman's hands to reach into his pocket and open a tiny box. "Will you marry me?"
"YES!" The woman squealed, knocking the man to the ground as she leaped into his arms and hugged him, kissing him all over his face while he laughed, and only stopped so he could slip the ring on her finger, and then kiss on the lips.
The happy couple stood and ran off to celebrate their engagement, leaving Stan to snap out of his trance, mutter swears at himself, and kick a wall just hard enough to vex some frustration, but light enough so he wouldn't have to nurse a broken toe.
If he was ever gonna pay Rico back he was gonna have to suck it up and do this. He swore on Moses' staff, he was going to fight his way out of this mess.
So Stan crouched and patiently waited.
The clock chimed ten times, eleven, twelve times. People were due to emerge from bars and clubs any moment. A drunken stooper would be the perfect target, an easy job with next to no harm done.
Faint footsteps. Stan was ready. No backing down.
A young lady stumbled, high heels in her hand as she walked barefoot. She kept looking up at the lampposts and blinking at them, trying to concentrate. She was so drunk this would be too easy. Stan took in a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows.
The woman turned sluggishly at the sounds of boots against brick, and she slurred, "Hey, know wh'r Ch'stnut Street is, mis'er?"
Stan had his hand in the pocket of his maroon hoodie, fingers wrapped around the handle, but he couldn't pull his hand out. His mouth, for the first time in his life, was clamped shut.
He couldn't do it.
Stan sighed and pulled his hand out of his pocket, his weapon in his hoodie. He smiled softly at the drunk woman and chuckled warmly, "Yeah, you're only a few blocks away. I'll walk ya to the right street, k'?"
The woman smiled at him. "Thanks."
The two walked in near-silence; only near because the woman hummed and occasionally muttered a song under her breath.
They came to the beginning of the road that read Chestnut Street, and Stan pointed at it. "Here we are. Know where you're going from here?"
The woman blinked at the sign and her eyes lit up in recognition. "Yeah, I live here. Thanks. You're a pretty good guy." The woman reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet.
Stan bit his tongue. It was too easy, but he stood still with his hands in his pocket.
The drunk woman pulled a five out of her wallet and held it out to him. "Here, I owe you a milkshake or something."
It wasn't nearly enough to cover Stan's debt, but he still couldn't help but laugh at the irony. He took the bill, nodded to the woman, and said, "No problem. G'night." And he watched as the woman turned and walked to a small house in the neighborhood. Lights turned on in the house, and Stan chuckled to himself as the voice of an angry mother filled the night air.
Stan looked around at the cheap neighborhood he stood in. It being midnight and a more homey kind of neighborhood, there wasn't much going on. But he did catch an infant's cries halting as their dad took them to the front porch to cool off in the sweet evening air, the tired father happily rubbing the baby's back and looking up at the stars.
Knowing this wasn't a neighborhood he would be welcomed in, Stan turned and started on the long walk towards the shitty apartment he called home.
As clouds sailed over the moon and freed it's light once again, by the river,
Stan stopped, growled at himself, and grabbed his brown mullet in frustration. What was he about to do?! Was he really that desperate?! He looked down at his rough hands, which shook with a mixture of rage and, as much as he didn't want to admit it, fear.
He couldn't do it. He wouldn't do it.
He would find some other way. He always did. Because Stan is a fighter.
"Aye, chimaco… you're a disappointment."
Stan was far too used to hearing that from his own father, that all he could do was roll his eyes. "Aw, c'mon, amigos, y'know what would make us a lot of money? Pugs! I got a couple of buddies that could help us traffic a couple of puppies and boom! We'll be rich within a week!"
The business partners looked at each other and snickered, exchanging an old joke.
"Querías que muriera?"
"Sí."
Stan's blood ran cold. He felt someone's presence, someone behind, but then his head hurt and everything went black.
