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However, one day he falls prey to the [i]wrong[/i] shop owner. Begging for a second chance, Mike is given the opportunity to housesit, landing an even bigger opportunity to score. He hasn't learned his lesson at all...but he [b]will.[/b]\n\n[iconname]DreamGod[/iconname]—oooh, this is a [i][b]good[/b][/i] one. 😁 \nI wanted to upload two stories today, but one of them took a little longer than expected to go through. I figured, I don't [i]need[/i] to do multiples every time, so enjoy this one that's finished!\n\nThis story contains humans in sexual situations; please follow the link here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57846637", "description_bbcode_parsed": "Mike has been sweeping pawn shops across the city, looking for valuables he can steal and raise a profit off of. However, one day he falls prey to the wrong shop owner. Begging for a second chance, Mike is given the opportunity to housesit, landing an even bigger opportunity to score. He hasn't learned his lesson at all...but he will.

\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tDreamGod\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t		\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tDreamGod\r\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
—oooh, this is a good one. 😁
I wanted to upload two stories today, but one of them took a little longer than expected to go through. I figured, I don't need to do multiples every time, so enjoy this one that's finished!

This story contains humans in sexual situations; please follow the link here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57846637", "writing": "[i]Not even a proper pawn shop[/i], Mike thought, looking around the old store. There was hardly anything of value - no video games, no guns, no portable power tools. The only thing Mike could hawk at all were the big T.V.s, but he could hardly carry one of those out under his teal, buttoned-down shirt.\n\n[i]Maybe some of the [/i]jewelry[i] is real...[/i] Mike walked past the old, rusted tools, antique furniture, and an odd assortment of stupid-looking board games with airplanes and World War II soldiers on them. He couldn't help but roll his eyes at the hand-made Christmas ornaments. This place wasn't a pawn shop - it was a [i]junk[/i] shop.\n\n\"Anythin' I can help you find?'' the middle-aged man behind the counter asked politely. They were always polite when the sixteen-year-old wore his nice clothes, hoping that he would actually [i]buy[/i] something.\n\nBeneath the glass were necklaces, bracelets, and rings, all too gaudy to be real. Mike had developed a real eye for this stuff after the first few times Roberto had chewed him out for wasting his time with cubic zirconia. Now [i]Roberto[/i] had a pawn shop. He had everything, and the prices were [i]literally[/i] criminal. Easy to sell low when the stuff you get is stolen.\n\n\"I'm looking for something for my girlfriend,'' Mike explained, scanning the rest of the jewelry. \"Do you gift wrap?'' [i]Ah, there we go...[/i] he thought, spying a diamond ring just a touch dimmer than the fakes, and rather huge, too! Now that would be worth a few hundred bucks.\n\n\"Ah, you got a good eye,'' the 50-year-old man twanged with a slight southern accent. \"That ring is really something special.\n\n[i]Hick.[/i] Mike looked up at the redneck. [i]Pretty attentive, I'll have to be careful.[/i] \"Really? Can I see it?''\n\n\"`Course,'' he said, leaning down to unlock the sliding glass door. He groaned, his plaid shirt crinkling as he reached in to pick up the ring. [i]Worst comes to worse, I can outrun this guy.[/i] \"Here she is,'' he said, simply handing the diamond to him.\n\n[i]I could just run now,[/i] Mike thought, but he hesitated. He was better than that. \"How much?''\n\n\"Two hunnerd,'' the redneck suggested, spitting on the floor of his own shop.\n\nMike widened his eyes to feign surprise. \"Oh...I've got...five dollars.'' Carefully, he placed the diamond ring on the counter. [i]Don't reach for it, old man, just leave it right there.[/i]\n\nThe corner of the old man's right eye had folded over skin, pinched and wrinkled so that when he squinted at Mike, it almost looked like he was winking his left. \"Then you'll be int'ressed in the other pieces. What about this one?'' he asked, wincing as he pulled out a cheap bracelet.\n\n\"Oh, yeah,'' Mike said. \"That looks great. How much?''\n\nThe man spat again, \"Five dollars.''\n\n[i]Asshole. It was worth a dollar at best.[/i] Mike ran his hand through his short, brown hair and said, \"Great, but do you, uh...gift wrap? I want to make a good impression, but everything I wrap looks like a three-year-old did it.''\n\n\"I think I got some wrappin' paper in the back. If'n you don' mind snowmen and reindeer.''\n\n\"No, that's fine.'' [i]This couldn't be easier! He's going to leave me alone with the ring![/i] Mike's heart began to [i]thud[/i] in his chest, preparing him for the moment he would run. He wouldn't even have to hand over the five bucks!\n\n\"A'ight boy, just let me get the tape.'' The junk man walked stiffly over to the front door, reaching down to grab some packing tape. Then he walked toward the old, faded door to the back room.\n\nMike waited until he was out of sight, forcing himself to wait to pick up the ring. He couldn't risk the old man turning around at the last second. [i]Finally[/i] the rusted hinges [i]squeaked [/i]closed. Mike laughed, picking up the ring and heading straight for the front door.\n\nHe pushed on the bar, but nothing happened. He pushed harder. [i]What the? It's locked!\n\nChik-chock![/i]\n\nMike froze. That's what you do when you hear someone cocking a shotgun.\n\n\"Turn `round, boy.''\n\nEver so slowly, the teenager turned around, keeping his hands in the air, his heart pounding for a [i]different[/i] reason now. The black, metal shotgun stood out against the redneck's plaid shirt, pointed straight at him. \"Easy...easy...'' Mike said, gulping.\n\nThe junk dealer squinted, holding the gun steady. \"Thought you'd pull one over on [i]me[/i], boy? I've already called the police. Put that ring back on the counter.''\n\n[i]Okay, he saw the ring. Time to pull out the waterworks.[/i] Mike slowly stepped toward the counter, working on the tears. Normally he'd jab himself with his keys or something to start crying, but he couldn't do that with his hands in the air. The shotgun proved a good enough motivation. \"Look, I'm sorry,'' Mike wept. \"I just wanted to buy groceries for Mom and my sister...''\n\nThe man just stared at him. After Mike put the ring on the counter, the old coot said, \"Tell that to the police.''\n\n[i]Okay, that's not good.[/i] Mike had a history with the police - he'd better get out of there before they arrived. \"Please, man, I'm serious. If Dad finds out what I did...he'll beat me! C'mon, I just want to eat. There's gotta be something I can do...''\n\n\"What's your name?'' he asked.\n\n[i]Lie, or tell the truth?[/i] Mike looked the man over, shotgun and all, and decided he'd better play it safe. \"Michael Redman.''\n\n\"Toss me your wallet, and we'll see about that,'' he said simply, pointing the shotgun.\n\n[i]Phew, I chose right.[/i] Reaching carefully into his pocket, he tossed the tattered wallet at the junk dealer. The man kept the gun straight on him, using one hand to root through the wallet and find the teenager's I.D. \"A'right, Mike. My name's Edgar Hatheway. You wanna way outta this? I can tell the police this was all a... misunderstanding.''\n\n\"If?''\n\nEdgar finally put the shotgun down on the counter. \"I dunno if you really need money for food or what, but regardless - I'm inclined to give you a second chance. There won't be a third.''\n\nMike blinked. \"Of course, man.''\n\nThe old man stared him down. \"Stealing ain't right, Mike. But I'll give you a chance at some [i]real[/i] employment. It ain't much, but I'll pay ya well enough to feed your Mom and sister. You want the police off your back, you'll work for me for a week. If things work out, maybe I'll keep you on.''\n\n[i]As soon as he lets me go, I'm out of here anyway - he'll never see me again[/i]. \"What do I have to do?''\n\nEdgar looked the teenager over, picking his words like a painter mixes his palette. \"Used to have two dogs, but now I've only got the one. Can't have him at the store, so he's all alone at home every day. It ain't much and it ain't a flashy, but I'll pay ya fifteen bucks to walk him and play with him for an hour every day.''\n\n\"Fifteen [i]bucks[/i]?'' Mike whined, forgetting that Edgar had the upper hand in this negotiation.\n\n\"Enough to buy groceries,'' the old man said, squinting. \"But like I said, you only have to do it for a week. Or I can tell the police exactly what happened here.''\n\n\"Alright, alright!'' Mike paused. \"What kind of dog is it?''\n\nEven just talking about the dog made the redneck smile. \"Duke's a Great Dane. He's big, but I think you'll find out he's really just a sweetheart.''\n\n[i]Great, he wants me to pick up Great Dane poop[/i]. That wasn't about to happen, but he still had to play along. \"Ok.''\n\n\"You start tomorrow, noon. I live at 254 Court Street, near the First National Bank. Now, I'll be at work so you just need to know three things: plastic bags by the fridge, leash by the door, and the key to the house in a fake rock to the left of the side door.''\n\n[i]Wait a minute,[/i] Mike thought. [i]He's really going to let me into his house [/i]alone[i]? Might as well take a look around the house, see if anything valuable isn't tied down.[/i] Mike nodded as enthusiastically as he could muster, \"I'll be there.''\n\n\"Yeah, I expect you will,'' Edgar said, waving his hand dismissively. \"Get out of here; I'll explain the mix up to the cops.''\n\nMike spun around, fumbling at the lock. [i]Don't need to tell [/i]me[i] twice![/i]\n\nAs the dial went [i]click![/i] and Mike went out the door, Edgar said a few final words that Mike barely caught in his rush, \"Do the job right, boy, or you'll be on the hook for a [i]lot[/i] longer than a week!''\n\n* * * * *\n\n\"Don't mess with Edgar Hatheway,'' Roberto had said when Mike explained his plan.\n\nMike wasn't surprised that Roberto knew the old junk dealer. Roberto knew every pawn shop in the quad-city area! But the teenager didn't expect the warning.\n\n[i]Roberto's some pussy afraid of an old hick with a shotgun,[/i] Mike thought standing across the street from 254 Court Street. The run-down house had a chain link fence, peeling paint, and missing shingles. Hardly the kind of place to make a real good score, but Mike wanted a little revenge. [i]And who knows, maybe he'll have some good stuff after all?[/i]\n\nMike looked at his phone.\n\nIt was 10:30 in the morning, and Mike had been careful enough to make sure Edgar was keeping the shop today. The teenager should be in and out well before noon. [i]What I wouldn't give to see that bastard's face when he comes home and all his shit is gone![/i]\n\nMike glanced down the street both ways, but the place was almost deserted. Just like the junk shop, there were no cameras on Edgar's house either, that Mike could see. The old man would have no evidence that the sixteen-year-old had committed any crimes.\n\nHe walked across the street. [i]What could possibly go wrong?[/i]\n\nThe remainder of this story contains humans in sexual situations; please follow the link here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57846637\n\n", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "Not even a proper pawn shop, Mike thought, looking around the old store. There was hardly anything of value - no video games, no guns, no portable power tools. The only thing Mike could hawk at all were the big T.V.s, but he could hardly carry one of those out under his teal, buttoned-down shirt.

Maybe some of the jewelry is real... Mike walked past the old, rusted tools, antique furniture, and an odd assortment of stupid-looking board games with airplanes and World War II soldiers on them. He couldn't help but roll his eyes at the hand-made Christmas ornaments. This place wasn't a pawn shop - it was a junk shop.

"Anythin' I can help you find?'' the middle-aged man behind the counter asked politely. They were always polite when the sixteen-year-old wore his nice clothes, hoping that he would actually buy something.

Beneath the glass were necklaces, bracelets, and rings, all too gaudy to be real. Mike had developed a real eye for this stuff after the first few times Roberto had chewed him out for wasting his time with cubic zirconia. Now Roberto had a pawn shop. He had everything, and the prices were literally criminal. Easy to sell low when the stuff you get is stolen.

"I'm looking for something for my girlfriend,'' Mike explained, scanning the rest of the jewelry. "Do you gift wrap?'' Ah, there we go... he thought, spying a diamond ring just a touch dimmer than the fakes, and rather huge, too! Now that would be worth a few hundred bucks.

"Ah, you got a good eye,'' the 50-year-old man twanged with a slight southern accent. "That ring is really something special.

Hick. Mike looked up at the redneck. Pretty attentive, I'll have to be careful. "Really? Can I see it?''

"`Course,'' he said, leaning down to unlock the sliding glass door. He groaned, his plaid shirt crinkling as he reached in to pick up the ring. Worst comes to worse, I can outrun this guy. "Here she is,'' he said, simply handing the diamond to him.

I could just run now, Mike thought, but he hesitated. He was better than that. "How much?''

"Two hunnerd,'' the redneck suggested, spitting on the floor of his own shop.

Mike widened his eyes to feign surprise. "Oh...I've got...five dollars.'' Carefully, he placed the diamond ring on the counter. Don't reach for it, old man, just leave it right there.

The corner of the old man's right eye had folded over skin, pinched and wrinkled so that when he squinted at Mike, it almost looked like he was winking his left. "Then you'll be int'ressed in the other pieces. What about this one?'' he asked, wincing as he pulled out a cheap bracelet.

"Oh, yeah,'' Mike said. "That looks great. How much?''

The man spat again, "Five dollars.''

Asshole. It was worth a dollar at best. Mike ran his hand through his short, brown hair and said, "Great, but do you, uh...gift wrap? I want to make a good impression, but everything I wrap looks like a three-year-old did it.''

"I think I got some wrappin' paper in the back. If'n you don' mind snowmen and reindeer.''

"No, that's fine.'' This couldn't be easier! He's going to leave me alone with the ring! Mike's heart began to thud in his chest, preparing him for the moment he would run. He wouldn't even have to hand over the five bucks!

"A'ight boy, just let me get the tape.'' The junk man walked stiffly over to the front door, reaching down to grab some packing tape. Then he walked toward the old, faded door to the back room.

Mike waited until he was out of sight, forcing himself to wait to pick up the ring. He couldn't risk the old man turning around at the last second. Finally the rusted hinges squeaked closed. Mike laughed, picking up the ring and heading straight for the front door.

He pushed on the bar, but nothing happened. He pushed harder. What the? It's locked!

Chik-chock!

Mike froze. That's what you do when you hear someone cocking a shotgun.

"Turn `round, boy.''

Ever so slowly, the teenager turned around, keeping his hands in the air, his heart pounding for a different reason now. The black, metal shotgun stood out against the redneck's plaid shirt, pointed straight at him. "Easy...easy...'' Mike said, gulping.

The junk dealer squinted, holding the gun steady. "Thought you'd pull one over on me, boy? I've already called the police. Put that ring back on the counter.''

Okay, he saw the ring. Time to pull out the waterworks. Mike slowly stepped toward the counter, working on the tears. Normally he'd jab himself with his keys or something to start crying, but he couldn't do that with his hands in the air. The shotgun proved a good enough motivation. "Look, I'm sorry,'' Mike wept. "I just wanted to buy groceries for Mom and my sister...''

The man just stared at him. After Mike put the ring on the counter, the old coot said, "Tell that to the police.''

Okay, that's not good. Mike had a history with the police - he'd better get out of there before they arrived. "Please, man, I'm serious. If Dad finds out what I did...he'll beat me! C'mon, I just want to eat. There's gotta be something I can do...''

"What's your name?'' he asked.

Lie, or tell the truth? Mike looked the man over, shotgun and all, and decided he'd better play it safe. "Michael Redman.''

"Toss me your wallet, and we'll see about that,'' he said simply, pointing the shotgun.

Phew, I chose right. Reaching carefully into his pocket, he tossed the tattered wallet at the junk dealer. The man kept the gun straight on him, using one hand to root through the wallet and find the teenager's I.D. "A'right, Mike. My name's Edgar Hatheway. You wanna way outta this? I can tell the police this was all a... misunderstanding.''

"If?''

Edgar finally put the shotgun down on the counter. "I dunno if you really need money for food or what, but regardless - I'm inclined to give you a second chance. There won't be a third.''

Mike blinked. "Of course, man.''

The old man stared him down. "Stealing ain't right, Mike. But I'll give you a chance at some real employment. It ain't much, but I'll pay ya well enough to feed your Mom and sister. You want the police off your back, you'll work for me for a week. If things work out, maybe I'll keep you on.''

As soon as he lets me go, I'm out of here anyway - he'll never see me again. "What do I have to do?''

Edgar looked the teenager over, picking his words like a painter mixes his palette. "Used to have two dogs, but now I've only got the one. Can't have him at the store, so he's all alone at home every day. It ain't much and it ain't a flashy, but I'll pay ya fifteen bucks to walk him and play with him for an hour every day.''

"Fifteen bucks?'' Mike whined, forgetting that Edgar had the upper hand in this negotiation.

"Enough to buy groceries,'' the old man said, squinting. "But like I said, you only have to do it for a week. Or I can tell the police exactly what happened here.''

"Alright, alright!'' Mike paused. "What kind of dog is it?''

Even just talking about the dog made the redneck smile. "Duke's a Great Dane. He's big, but I think you'll find out he's really just a sweetheart.''

Great, he wants me to pick up Great Dane poop. That wasn't about to happen, but he still had to play along. "Ok.''

"You start tomorrow, noon. I live at 254 Court Street, near the First National Bank. Now, I'll be at work so you just need to know three things: plastic bags by the fridge, leash by the door, and the key to the house in a fake rock to the left of the side door.''

Wait a minute, Mike thought. He's really going to let me into his house alone? Might as well take a look around the house, see if anything valuable isn't tied down. Mike nodded as enthusiastically as he could muster, "I'll be there.''

"Yeah, I expect you will,'' Edgar said, waving his hand dismissively. "Get out of here; I'll explain the mix up to the cops.''

Mike spun around, fumbling at the lock. Don't need to tell me twice!

As the dial went click! and Mike went out the door, Edgar said a few final words that Mike barely caught in his rush, "Do the job right, boy, or you'll be on the hook for a lot longer than a week!''

* * * * *

"Don't mess with Edgar Hatheway,'' Roberto had said when Mike explained his plan.

Mike wasn't surprised that Roberto knew the old junk dealer. Roberto knew every pawn shop in the quad-city area! But the teenager didn't expect the warning.

Roberto's some pussy afraid of an old hick with a shotgun, Mike thought standing across the street from 254 Court Street. The run-down house had a chain link fence, peeling paint, and missing shingles. Hardly the kind of place to make a real good score, but Mike wanted a little revenge. And who knows, maybe he'll have some good stuff after all?

Mike looked at his phone.

It was 10:30 in the morning, and Mike had been careful enough to make sure Edgar was keeping the shop today. The teenager should be in and out well before noon. What I wouldn't give to see that bastard's face when he comes home and all his shit is gone!

Mike glanced down the street both ways, but the place was almost deserted. Just like the junk shop, there were no cameras on Edgar's house either, that Mike could see. The old man would have no evidence that the sixteen-year-old had committed any crimes.

He walked across the street. What could possibly go wrong?

The remainder of this story contains humans in sexual situations; please follow the link here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57846637

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