6. The Price of Transgression

The next morning, just before six, the neon lights that had flickered all night in the city were finally dimming, and the sky over Las Vegas was already beginning to lighten.

Dean climbed up from the sofa in the living room, glanced at his fighting skill proficiency—now 18 out of 100 after a night of hard practice—and smiled in satisfaction. He woke his friend from the bed, washed up quickly, and the two of them, carrying backpacks and cameras, headed downstairs. They made a brief shopping trip to the nearby department store. Dean had no money and could only borrow a few dollars from Rust.

“Hey man, are these canned fish really any good? I’ve never heard of them before,” Rust asked, munching on a hotdog stuffed with sausage, curiosity written all over his face as Dean stuffed a round tin of some sort of fish into his bag.

“It’s not for eating…” Dean replied with a mysterious smile. “This is a strategic deterrent weapon. I bought it especially for your self-defense.”

He patted Rust’s backpack. In this era, information didn’t travel as it would in the future; aside from some Dutch and Swedish manufacturers, few knew the true power of these biohazard cans.

“Hide it well. If anyone bullies you again, just hold your breath, open the can, and splash it on them! Believe me, they won’t forget you—next time they see you, they’ll steer clear.”

Rust’s eyes lit up. “But why do I have to hold my breath when I open it?”

“You’ll know once you use it.”

…

Afterwards, they made a stop by Dean’s neighborhood. More than a hundred meters away, they spotted an SUV police car parked outside the yard.

A tall Las Vegas cop in a khaki uniform, gun and baton at his waist, was questioning neighbors by the roadside, the LVPD badge gleaming gold on his chest.

“Around three-thirty in the morning, ‘Tarzan’ suddenly started barking like crazy and woke me up from a deep sleep. I looked out the window and saw the lights on at young Dean’s house across the street,” a plump woman clutching a black poodle said, still visibly shaken. “Three masked men with bandanas were smashing and bashing with crowbars, making such a racket I nearly had a heart attack—one of them even had a gun. Dear God, they were complete lunatics!”

“It’s probably trouble that Quipa stirred up north. That Indian’s never been a law-abiding guy! And now he’s dragged his nephew into it,” a lanky man in a cowboy jacket rambled on.

“Shut up, you racist!” retorted a man over six foot three, with a wild white beard like seaweed and a look reminiscent of Hagrid from Harry Potter, shaking his head.

“Gang members in Vegas don’t dress like that,” he added. “Looks more like some out-of-towner robbers passing through. If I hadn’t been on the night shift, I’d have shot them all dead.”

“Thank goodness Paqui works out of town and young Dean was out somewhere…” a silver-haired old woman said with relief. “Otherwise, who knows what would’ve happened.”

“Look, young Dean’s back!”

…

“Officer, this is my house. I’d like to go in and take a look!”

With a nod from the cop, Dean slipped past the neighbors and entered.

The carpet in the hall had been slashed into dozens of pieces and was messily draped over tables, the ceiling, chandeliers, and the stair railings. The floor was piled with chairs, cabinets, and wooden planks ripped from the furniture.

In the kitchen, the kettle and toaster had been stomped flat, the heavy black television smashed to bits, glassware scattered everywhere. Every window in the living room was shattered by brute force. The once tidy home was now unrecognizable—a wasteland of filth and wreckage, as if a storm had swept through.

A row of kitchen knives was stuck in the cupboard, above which were scrawled insults in red paint:

“Chingchong!”

“Get out of my country!”

Dean felt a chill of terror. What would have happened if he’d been at home last night? Paralyzed? Or dead?

He doubted that the little fighting skill he’d just learned would have helped him against three armed men.

…

“You stayed at my place last night because you saw this coming? You’re a genius!” Rust exclaimed, looking at Dean with admiration. “But how could Bob have done this? Just because of a fight, he sent people to destroy my home?”

Dean hurried up the stairs, almost tripping over the warped wooden steps.

The second floor was even worse.

The doors were kicked in, leaving black holes that exposed rough timber. Wallpaper had been stripped from the walls, leaving them pockmarked and ugly.

In Dean’s bedroom, the window was smeared with bright red words: “Kill you,” “Jerk,” “Stupid guy.”

Almost nothing was left intact. His treasured horror novels, textbooks, and Star Wars posters were all torn to shreds, pages scattered like snow over the ruins.

And the family photo from his bedside table—removed from its frame—had been torn in half at the waist, leaving only the lower halves of the three figures.

Frantically, Dean searched for the missing upper half, but it was gone. The last keepsake of his missing parents was lost.

Cradling the photo, Dean covered his face, overwhelmed by guilt—he’d taken over this body, but hadn’t even protected its most precious memory.

“I was wrong. I should’ve come home and taken the photo first.”

“Don’t be too sad, man. Let’s talk to the cops and have them catch those bastards!” Rust urged.

Dean shook his head, took a deep breath to calm himself, and carefully put the photo into his backpack.

…

“I’m Officer Marvin Manson of the LVPD. Please answer a few questions.”

“Alright.” Dean felt a chill settle in his heart. There was no doubt Bob was behind this—he hadn’t expected the guy to actually go this far.

He was also starting to feel a creeping fear. The power and malice of Las Vegas’s rich kids far exceeded his expectations.

“Have you had any conflicts or disputes with anyone recently?”

“A baseball field operator.”

The cop stared at him impassively. “Bob Law.”

Dean emphasized, “His father owns several casinos and theaters, and he has a gang of thugs under him. He’s the most likely suspect!”

“We’ll draw conclusions after investigating.” The cop’s face was cold and businesslike. “Anything valuable or large sums of cash lost?”

“The most expensive thing was the TV. It’s broken…”

“Besides you and Paqui, does anyone else live here?”

“No.”

The cop asked a few more questions about his relationship with the neighbors, and after about half an hour, carelessly told Dean to wait for further notice before driving off. Dean asked how long it would take to hear back but got no answer.

“That’s not even remotely professional! Didn’t even wear gloves or take photos for evidence?”

“No one died, nothing really valuable was stolen. These small cases happen every day. The cop probably doesn’t care much,” Rust said, shaking his head.

“Kid, this place is too remote and doesn’t contribute much in taxes,” the big bearded man and the silver-haired woman from before approached. “He’ll probably catch another case in the city the moment he’s back.”

“God bless you,” the woman said, crossing herself. “Poor young Dean, at least you’re safe. Don’t get your hopes up—based on my experience, this case likely won’t go anywhere. You can count on losing a few hundred dollars. But don’t worry, we’ve already contacted your uncle Paqui—he’ll be back this afternoon.”

Dean looked gratefully at his helpful neighbors.

“Thank you… thank you, Uncle Jacob, Aunt Tanya.”

Unlike his blurred memories of school, he vaguely remembered these two. Jacob had once worked with Uncle Paqui. Grandma Tanya was gentle and had always liked the well-behaved Dean.

“Young Dean, you’ve been so busy with school and dating these past months that you haven’t come to visit Jacob’s house. When are you coming to try my barbecue again?” the big man laughed.

Dean thought he was just making a joke.

“Go to class. We’ll help you tidy up the house. No need to thank us—we’ve been neighbors for over ten years.”

…