The incessant blaring of the alarm clock was the first sense of being that came into Jacob's mind. Its rampant beeping was like an air horn directly planted in his ear canal, not helped that it had fallen off the shelf and directly next to his head. The result was a spastic eruption of blankets, and sheets, and suddenly ripped open pillow fluff as he went rolling over the opposite side of the bed. He landed in a heap, a strip of his pillow and its case still clenched tightly in his teeth, as his sheet lazily landed over him. Struggling to get rightward, Jacob forced his way over the bedside, grabbed his alarm clock, and with a swift yank ended its morning-shattering clamor. Now very much awake but no less annoyed, the young teen began the slow slog toward the washroom. There was no hot water, there was never any hot water, but it helped to wash away what few cobwebs remained in his head. After a battle with a t-shirt half a size too small and a sweater vest with a few too many moth holes, Jacob did a quick check in the mirror. His brown hair was still mussed despite very generous portions of shampoo and conditioner, giving it an almost windswept curve around the bangs. It looked like he had bruised the corner of his right eye, only further accentuating his abnormal green eye as opposed to its blue twin. Still, all in all, he looked fine, and he was ready to face the day.

  Who wasn't ready, judging from that sudden clamor in the kitchen was his uncle. Jacob made a swift exit to the kitchen and dining area of their small apartment, where he found his uncle hard at work attempting the archaic ritual that was breakfast. For a man in his late seventies, Jacob had to admit his uncle was a spry fellow to move so swiftly from one end of the counter to the other to try and keep things settled. Already, the bacon was burning, and the overflowing grease had started a small fire he was trying to put out. He had overpoured the milk for their cereal, creating a large puddle he periodically danced through while trying to keep his footing. Moreover, it seemed his tie had gotten stuck in the toaster, and now it was dangling around his six chins and bouncing against his paunch. It was a balancing act straight out of the circus, only this was the most sober drunken clown Jacob had ever seen.

  "Need some help, Uncle Laramie?" Jacob asked.

  The boy's sudden appearance caused a lapse in the man's judgment, and he was in the milk again before he was ready. All at once, he was airborne, doing a small flip before landing down hard against his bum. Jacob could hear further thumping from their neighbor downstairs, her broom actually poking a hole through the floor this time.

  "Laramie! You'd better stop that racket right now!" came the screeching nag of a woman passed her prime. "One more noise out of you, and I'll call my grandson with the city council! He'll make short work of..."

  That overflowing milk had become a river now that the whole gallon fell from the counter, and the woman's threat was silenced by her drowning momentarily. Jacob would have laughed if it wasn't so tragic, and he marched over to his uncle, helping him to his feet.

  "Thank you, my boy," Laramie grunted as he straightened out his clothes as well as freed his scorched tie from the toaster. "I swear, I've no earthly idea what went wrong."

  "Well, you're not supposed to wear the appliances, Unc." Jacob quipped.

  Laramie gave his eyes a small roll, and he ruffled the boy's hair.

  "I'll keep that under consideration. But perhaps that mouth of yours would better serve us if it were stuffed with this delicious food?"

  Jacob peaked around his uncle, noting the still burning skillet, toast clinging to the ceiling, and the very milky floor. He looked back to Laramie, and he cocked his head.

  "Diner?"

  "Diner."

  After a swift cleanup that was composed primarily of mopping everything up with napkins and throwing them into the sink, the two fellows started for the door and made their way out. However, not long after they walked out, a large fellow with a balding head, beer gut, and stained wifebeater shirt burst into their view. Mortimer stiffened, and Jacob immediately ducked behind him.

  "Mr. Talcott." Laramie chuckled nervously. "A fine morning to you. How's your..."

  "Don't get cute with me, fart knocker!" the named Talcott barked with a coarse gruff. "You're three months due on your rent, and I had to wade through a sea of complaints about you from the other tenants just this morning alone. You're constantly running the electricity, there's so much noise that half the city can't sleep, and don't even get me started on the damages! Just what in the Hardee's potato cakes are you even doing in there?!"

  Laramie was visibly sweating, as was Jacob. He watched as his uncle gulped down hard and put on his most disarming smile.

  "You must understand my inkling of embarrassment, sir. I assure you that..."

  Mr Talcot stuck a bony finger into Laramie's lapel.

  "I run a dive, but it's a clean dive, you hear me! I expect your rent plus extra for the damages by nightfall tomorrow, or I'm throwing you and that brat out with the rest of the garbage! Capiche?!"

  Laramie gulped so hard that his Adam's apple did three flips.

  "Yes sir. Crystal clear, sir."

  For good measure, Talcot took in a deep breath and then spat at Mortimer's shoes. He then turned and stormed off, letting Mortimer and Jacob hastily vacate the building. It was just in time, as well, as the trolley came up the track. Jacob and Mortimer quickly jumped aboard as it made its way up the hill. Jacob looked back, taking in the sights. While they had been in this city for three months now, Jacob still knew very little about it.

  Grummsdale was relatively small for a city, but it was still just complicated enough. They lived in what was called Lowtown, which, at one time, must have been a highlight. There was a large wharf where an old boardwalk once provided fun and whimsy, but now it was derelict and decayed with only the rusted-over Ferris wheel being a haunting reminder of what was. Now it was mostly used for shipping and bringing in what they sold in Uptown. Literally the polar opposite in every way, Uptown was best known for its high-rise condos and luxury casinos that blocked the sunrise and blanketed the city in a perpetual shade. Jacob had seen this side of town briefly when he and his uncle first arrived, and the dull greys and blacks of Lowtown made him pine for the brighter, more mirthful colors of Uptown. However, there was a compromise of the two elements in the form of Midtown. Midtown was where the common folk and middle class made their homes. It wasn't exactly a white picket fence area, but it was dotted with a number of mom-and-pop shops as well as where one found the local library and police station. Folks were generally more friendly here, often waving and saying high as people passed. All three towns were connected by a trolley line that followed an oval track with the station stopping in Midtown, directly in the center of everything.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The old diner was built right next to the station, and it was one of the oldest structures in the entire city. This was one of the few genuine factoids Jacob was aware of concerning the city simply because it was their most frequent haunt. A certified chef his uncle was not, and a gourmet neither was his nephew. Even as they rounded the bend to their usual seats, Jacob spied that the cushions had started to develop a groove in the leather from their respective seats. Nonetheless, they sat and awaited the waitress. Jacob skimmed through the menu quietly, trying to ignore the stares of the local patrons, and he couldn't help but notice several glares they were getting. Jacob recognized a number of them as his uncle's "investors"; people he brought into their home to finance the little project in his room. Even Jacob didn't know what his uncle was working on, only that it was apparently his old thesis from his days as a college professor, and likewise what got him booted out of campus.

  "You know, Uncle Laramie, I'm not really that hungry. Maybe we should just go?"

  "Eh?" Laramie asked, looking up.

  He took quick note of the many glaring individuals, and he blew a raspberry at them.

  "Phooey on them, the impatient jackals. So I hit a few roadblocks; it'll all be worth it in the end."

  "I don't think they think so," Jacob muttered, hiding his face behind a menu.

  "You really need to learn to lighten up, nephew." Laramie chuckled. "Here."

  He dug into his vest pocket, and he fished out a stray quarter.

  "The old jukebox over there. See if they have anything by Teresa Brewer."

  He tossed the coin to the boy, and Jacob caught it. He inspected it carefully before shooting his uncle a dubious look. Laramie flashed his nephew an assuring smile and waved him off. With a sigh, Jacob walked off, leaving Laramie to peruse his own menu.

  "Money, bah! Such a human concept, and rather a fuddy-duddy of one, too. It's not like you can take it with you, so why be burdened by it?"

  "It can definitely bring out the worst in folks, can't it?"

  "Aye, for certain."

  Laramie froze, and he suddenly became aware of a presence behind him.

  "Don't move, Larry boy. Stay perfectly solid, lest we cause a scene where it ain't wanted. Just be cool and easy like, you dig? Tap the chair once if you understand."

  With a trembling hand, Laramie carefully tapped the leather fabric of his booth, signaling thus.

  "Good, good. You actually can listen to instructions. Too little too late, but que siracha as the Frenchies like to quoth. Now, I'll make this quick and concise. The boss has been taking a good long look at the calendar, and you're well overdue, Larry Boy."

  Laramie's blood ran cold, and his heart sank.

  "I...uh...you don't say. Well, I sent him an email of my..."

  "Progress? Nice try, Larry, but the boss knows the words of a liar too well. But don't take it too hard. You took on a job you just weren't big-brained enough to fulfill. So the boss is cutting you loose, and I mean that in the gentler style. He's giving you twenty-four hours to get out of town and never to show your face around here again."

  There was an odd feeling of relief filling the man's soul at these words, but yet he did not relax.

  "That's not too much time. I'll have to go back and get my..."

  "Oh, you won't be. Someone's already on their way to your apartment to pick up the stuff. Sorry, Larry, but it ain't yours no more."

  Laramie's blood suddenly ran hot, and he started to rise.

  "That's my life's work. You can't..."

  Something stuck him in the ball of the back of his head, effectively knocking him back down and leaving his gaze bleary.

  "We can, and we are. This is the boss' town, which means there is no yours or mine; only his."

  He heard the figure behind him stand just as Put Another Nickel In started to play.

  "Teresa Brewer. Lovely girl, ain't she? Lovely set of pipes, too. So long, Larry. Pleasure doing business with ya."

  Laramie could hear him walking away as Jacob stepped into view.

  "Would you believe that was the only song she has on that old thing?" the ignorant boy asked. "It's not even a nickelodeon, so I don't..."

  He finally noted his uncle's condition when he saw Laramie rubbing the back of his head and saw the blood on his hand.

  "Unc, what happened?!" he exclaimed, rushing over to check on him.

  But Laramie gently pushed him back as he got to his feet.

  "Just banged my head against the back of the seat, my boy," he said, though it was an obvious lie. "I have made a horrible error. Wouldn't you know it, that quarter was the only scrap of money I had on me. I left my wallet back at the apartment and need to go back and get it."

  "Don't you mean we?" Jacob questioned.

  "No!" Laramie said curtly before catching himself. "I mean, no need. It'll just be a quick hopscotch back to the old wreck, and I'll be back before they serve your eggs. Just tell them to keep my platter warm and I'll be right back."

  Jacob cocked his head. He knew his uncle better than most, and he didn't like this sudden shift in his attitude.

  "I'd really rather we just both went back. I'm not really all that hungry and..."

  "No need to argue, my boy. Just have a seat, drink some chocolate milk, and I'll be back before you know it. But, if it'll make you feel better, you can hold onto this from me."

  He dug into his hip pocket and fished out a small pendant. It was fist-sized and cut in the shape of a six-pointed star. Citrine-colored and seemingly made of the gem, it had the rod and teeth of a key extending from its lowest point. Laramie handed it to Jacob, who accepted it and turned it over in his hands, studying it carefully.

  "Is this the part where you tell me we're Jewish?" he asked, only partly joking.

  "It belonged to your mother," Laramie stated bluntly.

  Jacob's hair stood on end as he looked back up at his uncle. Any and all questions about the boy's actual parents had often been met with redirection or outright silence.

  "My mother?" he gasped, the words feeling alien in his mouth. "My actual mother? How long have you had this?"

  "Ever since I picked you up," Larmie said, his tone a tad solemn. "Son, there are some things I haven't been upfront about, and maybe it's time I clear my conscience."

  "Unc, you're starting to scare me," Jacob said, a tremor in his voice.

  "Just stay put and wait for me," Laramie said coaxingly as he gently made him sit. "I'll be right back. Won't even be an hour, promise."

  Without another word, Laramie made for the door and rushed down the street like his feet were on fire. A short distance away, observing from a small payphone, the man from the booth watched him run.

  "Yep, just as you thought, boss. Running like his life depends on it. Guess it does. Yeah, we're all set. What about the kid? Yeah, there was a kid with him. Nah, he was at the jukebox, doubt he had anything. Okay, you're the boss."

  He hung up and made his way to his car. Soon, he was trundling down the road, staying within the limit while ensuring he was just far enough behind Laramie.

  "Sorry, Larry Boy," he chuckled under his breath. "I kinda liked you, but you should never have borrowed from the Slumlord. The man always gets his pound of flesh."