Just Make A Choice!

You've been to the finish line of a marathon before. It always looks like the scene of an international incident. Everyone is emaciated, covered in their own waste, their thighs ripped open from the chafing with blood pooling at the lips of their shoes, all of them writhing on the ground in pain while volunteers force water and citrus down their throats to keep them from dying or succumbing to madness. For charity.

Today is no different. Women and men are all over the street, writhing and hugging and holding up poster size pictures of mothers and sisters they've lost. You're careful to position yourself away from the path of the runners, afraid that one might come flailing into you and scream for any salt tablets you might have on your person.

"PSSSST!"

It's very loud and pronounced and you turn around to find its source.

"PSSSST!"

Loud as a bullet whizzing past your ear.

"PSSSST!"

Finally you spot a man with his face hidden under a black hood standing behind a water kiosk, impatiently shooting air between his teeth at you. You go to him.

"Chet," you say.

"Stop calling me that," he says through the hood.

You notice the "Hi, My Name Is Chet" sticker on his tee-shirt but you refrain from calling his attention to it.

“You don’t exactly blend in with the hood on,” you say.

“The black hoods represent the dead claimed by the disease,” Chet says. “Look around.”

You scan the crowd and find dozens of people wearing black hoods. You see a volunteer handing them out to new arrivals.

“And yes,” Chet says. “Some of those hoods are my associates. They are watching us closely.”

You are frightened when a runner flails herself against the plywood of Chet’s kiosk with enough force that he has to steady himself to keep the whole structure from tipping over. He quickly unscrews a bottle of vitamin water and thrusts it into the runner's writhing hands.

When the runner leaves, you say to Chet, "So this is just a convenient cover for the drop-off? Pretty cold-hearted."

By the look in his eyes, Chet is personally offended. He says he volunteers at the marathon every year. He starts barking statistics at you, how many die of breast cancer each year, how little funding is being allocated.

"Maybe you should think a little more about others for a change,” Chet says. “Now, do you have the money or are we going to have to kill your girlfriend."

You show Chet your father's check for $50,000.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?" Chet asks.

"I could sign it over to you," you say.

"Cash," Chet says. "Go to the bank and come back here with 50 grand in green or your girlfriend gets it."