Chapter 5: A Thousand-Fold Return

Chapter 5: A Thousand-Fold Return

The twenty-minute drive to the nearest ATM and back was the longest of Liam’s life. The world outside his car windows seemed to move in slow motion, a blurry backdrop to the high-speed thriller unfolding in his mind. He was acutely aware of every sensation: the tremor in his hands on the steering wheel, the dry, metallic taste of adrenaline in his mouth, the almost sacred feel of the four crisp, fresh-from-the-machine one-hundred-dollar bills in his pocket. It felt like a down payment on a decade of buried resentment.

When he pulled back up to the curb on Maple Street, his sensible sedan looked laughably small, a getaway car ill-suited for the scale of the heist. Mrs. Vance was waiting by the garage, looking relieved, as if she’d been afraid he wouldn’t return. Derek was, miraculously, still glued to his phone, now pacing near the end of the driveway like a caged, irritable animal, completely oblivious to the grand larceny about to occur under his nose.

“I was starting to worry!” Mrs. Vance said, forcing a smile.

“Sorry, there was a line,” Liam lied smoothly, handing her the four bills. She took them without a second glance, her eyes already on the mountain of boxes. To her, this was just cash for trash. To Liam, it was a symbolic payment—ten times the original forty-dollar debt. A fair price for the lesson, he thought, with a grim sense of satisfaction.

The next thirty minutes were a blur of strenuous, nerve-wracking labor. The boxes were heavy, dense with years of carefully preserved plastic and paper. Liam’s back began to ache, and sweat beaded on his forehead, plastering strands of hair to his skin. He worked with a frantic, focused energy, his mind chanting a single mantra: Don’t let him look up. Don’t let him look up.

He loaded the trunk until it was full, then the back seat, stacking the boxes so high they obscured his rear-view mirror. The final few had to be squeezed into the passenger seat beside him, a silent, cardboard co-conspirator. Through it all, Derek remained a sullen statue just yards away, a prince ignorant of the sacking of his own castle. He took one angry phone call, shouting about a security deposit, his back turned to the garage. It was the perfect diversion.

As Liam slid the final box into place, Mrs. Vance wiped her hands on her jeans, a look of profound relief on her face. “Thank you so much,” she said, her voice sincere. “You have no idea what a help this is.”

“Oh, I think I do,” Liam replied, the double meaning lost on her entirely. He gave a polite, neighborly wave and slid into the driver's seat. He didn’t dare look in his mirrors as he pulled away. He drove at a painstakingly normal speed, obeying every traffic law, his knuckles white on the wheel. It wasn't until he was three blocks away, Maple Street and its ghosts shrinking behind him, that he allowed himself to exhale.

He pulled over to the side of a quiet residential street, the car’s engine ticking softly. He leaned his head back against the seat and just breathed. He had done it. The dragon’s hoard was in his car. The victory was so immense, so complete, it felt unreal. His father’s words echoed in his mind—a battle not worth fighting. He let out a short, sharp laugh. It had been the easiest battle he’d ever fought. He’d won it with patience, four hundred dollars, and a polite smile.

The thrill of the heist was intoxicating, but it was quickly replaced by the pressing, practical question: what now? He drove not to his own home, but to his Uncle Mike’s. Mike was his father's younger brother, a cheerful bachelor who had never fully outgrown his own hobbies. His basement was a museum of nerdy passions: vintage video game consoles, longboxes of comics, and shelves of meticulously painted Warhammer miniatures. If anyone could give him a quick, honest appraisal without asking too many questions, it was Mike.

He found his uncle in his basement lair, squinting at a tiny goblin figure under a magnifying lamp. “Liam! To what do I owe the pleasure? Don’t tell me your mother sent you over to help me clean.”

“Even better,” Liam said, a grin spreading across his face. “I need you to look at some old junk.”

One by one, they hauled the boxes from the car down into the basement. Mike’s initial curiosity quickly morphed into wide-eyed astonishment. He sliced open the first box, the one Liam had already peeked into, and let out a low whistle.

“Whoa, kid. Power of the Force, mint on card…” He lifted the Boba Fett figure reverently. “This isn’t junk. This is a mortgage payment for a very small house in a very bad neighborhood.”

For the next two hours, the basement became a whirlwind of discovery. Mike, giddy with the thrill of the hunt, tore into the boxes with the excitement of a kid on Christmas morning. His pronouncements became more and more breathless.

“Liam! The Amazing Spider-Man 300! This is a 9.6, easy! That’s two grand, right there!” “Oh my God. Is this a Black Lotus? From Magic: The Gathering? It’s tucked into this binder! Do you have any idea what this is worth?!” “The entire first wave of Kenner’s Star Wars figures. All sealed. Liam, where in God’s name did you get this stuff?”

Liam just smiled and shrugged. “Garage sale.”

By the end, they were surrounded by a sea of plastic and cardboard that covered every inch of the floor. Mike sat back on his heels, his face flushed, a calculator in his hand. He punched in numbers, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“Okay, this is just a ballpark estimate, right? Based on recent auction sales, ungraded,” he cautioned, though his voice trembled with excitement. “But being conservative… very conservative…” He turned the calculator around for Liam to see.

The number displayed on the screen was $40,000.

Liam stared at it. Forty thousand dollars. A thousand times the original forty-dollar debt. A thousand-fold return. The number was so perfect, so poetic, it felt like a message from the cosmos. It was vindication. It was freedom. It was the final, crushing answer to Derek’s long-ago dismissal. This was a him problem now.

A giddy, triumphant laugh escaped Liam’s lips. It was done. Truly done.

As Mike started meticulously sorting the comics into piles for professional grading, Liam helped him, carefully moving a stack of bagged-and-boarded issues. As he lifted the stack, something small and heavy slid out from between two comics and landed on the floor with a soft thud.

It wasn’t a toy or a trading card. It was a small, black notebook, the kind with a simple elastic band holding it shut. It felt completely out of place, a piece of the real world hidden within the fantasy. It had Derek’s initials, D.V., embossed in faded gold on the cover.

Curious, Liam picked it up. This must have been where Derek kept his inventory. He slid the elastic band off and opened it to the first page, expecting to see a neat list of action figures and comic book titles.

But it wasn't an inventory.

The page was filled with Derek’s familiar, arrogant handwriting. At the top was a name: Kevin M. Underneath it was a list. Not of collectibles, but of transgressions.

- Told Mr. Henderson I cheated on the history test. - Laughed when I tripped in the cafeteria. - Borrowed my copy of Goldeneye and scratched the disc. Payback: The Meme Apocalypse. Cost: $40 of Liam's credit. Status: Complete.

Liam’s blood ran cold. He flipped the page. Another name. Mark P. A different list of slights, followed by a different, equally petty plan for revenge. He flipped again. And again. The notebook was a ledger. A meticulously kept record of every perceived wrong done to Derek Vance, and the cruel, calculated punishments he had enacted in return. The Meme Apocalypse hadn’t been a spontaneous prank. It had been a planned execution, and Liam hadn't been collateral damage.

He had been the ammunition.

The sweet, clean taste of his $40,000 victory was suddenly tainted. This wasn't just about a collection. This notebook was something else entirely. It was a map of Derek's pathologies, and Liam realized with a sickening lurch that his story, the one he thought had just concluded so perfectly, might not be over at all. It might have just gotten infinitely more complicated.