Chapter 33 — Even Frank Has a Day When He Admits He's Wrong
"Holy crap! What are you guys doing!?"
Frank immediately started struggling.
But after years of drinking and whoring hollowed him out, there was no way he could compete with several tough, full-grown men.
Within moments, a black van pulled up at the curb.
Terry gave a subtle signal.
The group worked together, hoisting Frank like a sack of trash and tossing him into the van.
They piled in after him.
When the vehicle pulled away, the only one left on the street was a homeless man slumped in a wheelchair, half-asleep, barely reacting.
As if street kidnappings had become so routine that not even that could wake him.
---
The South District junkyard was surrounded by rusted barbed-wire fencing.
Many of the area's homeless gathered here.
Old stone drums stuffed with wood, scraps of newspaper, or whatever garbage could burn served as makeshift heaters—
their only comfort against the winter cold.
Suddenly, a black van rolled to a stop at the junkyard entrance.
Anyone who roamed the South District knew the Mikovic family, at least a little.
And these homeless men recognized Terry's van instantly.
Heads dropped.
Bodies leaned closer to the fires.
No one dared get involved.
Bang.
The van door slid open, and Frank was dragged out like a dead dog.
Terry stepped down from the passenger seat, a cigarette hanging from his lips and a butterfly knife twirling in his hand.
He swept his gaze across the homeless crowd—
the menace in his expression enough to make the few who hadn't lowered their heads instantly avert their eyes.
"Move."
He jerked his chin, and his crew followed him into the junkyard, hauling Frank along.
"What the hell, Terry! What the hell are you doing!?"
Frank thrashed inside the sack over his head.
"Shut up, you piece of trash."
His struggles annoyed the thug carrying him, who solved the problem by punching him hard in the ribs.
"Fuck!"
Frank yelped in pain—but he did quiet down.
The idiot wasn't dead after all these years because he did know when to read the situation.
Inside the junkyard, they reached an abandoned car.
Terry gave a small nod.
The thug slung Frank onto the hood.
Another stepped forward and yanked the sack off his head.
"What the hell is this!? What do you want!? Did Ian sleep with Mandy? Bro, I swear—whatever that kid did, it had nothing to do with me!"
"Shut the fuck up."
Terry's fist slammed square into Frank's face.
His left hand might've been injured, but he could still throw a punch with his right.
"God… damn it!"
Blood trickled from Frank's mouth down his palm. He spat another mouthful off to the side.
"Take his pants off."
Terry ignored Frank's panic and gave another subtle signal.
A few of the older thugs pinned Frank's arms. Others held down his legs.
One guy knelt down and yanked at his waistband.
Moments later, Frank's lower half was completely bare.
The touch of cold metal against his skin sent a freezing shock straight through his chest.
"Holy fu— what the hell are you doing!? Shit! If I did something wrong just say it! I'll fix it! I'll fix it, alright!?
I'm sorry, Terry!
It was Ian! That little bastard—this has nothing to do with me!"
Pinned by several strong men, Frank couldn't move an inch.
All he could do was stare in terror at Terry, who stood over him with a smile that promised nothing good.
The butterfly knife in Terry's hand flicked open with a crisp snap.
"To be honest, Frank, you didn't piss me off.
But you pissed off someone you really shouldn't have."
Terry lowered the blade and tapped it against Frank's most precious spot.
The cold sting turned Frank into a statue.
"Terry, man—let's talk, okay? Don't joke around with that!"
This time, Frank dared not say anything stupid.
When it came to his ability to have future descendants, he suddenly became very rational.
"Good. Then let's talk. Hold on."
Terry reached into his pocket and pulled out a small folded note.
He cleared his throat and began reading word-for-word:
"Frank, do you know what you did wrong?"
"Holy crap—just tell me! How the hell am I supposed to know!?" Frank broke down.
"Fuck! That's exactly what it says on the paper, you idiot!"
Terry snapped, folding the note away.
Then he punched Frank in the face.
"Don't interrupt me again," Terry snarled.
He reopened the note and continued reading:
"Fraudulently claiming a dead person's pension is a deeply immoral act.
If you don't want to say goodbye to your little friend forever,
you'd better repent sincerely."
Terry crumpled the note and tossed it aside.
Then he pressed the cold butterfly knife back against Frank's crotch.
"Holy fu— I get it! I get it, alright!? Be careful with that knife! Terry, I KNOW I WAS WRONG!"
Frank still had no idea how claiming pension money offended anyone.
Terry didn't understand it either. When William told him the reason earlier, Terry was just as confused.
He couldn't make sense of William's logic—but after seeing the guy's fearless behavior before, Terry had mentally labeled him as a lunatic.
---
Across the junkyard, on a six-story rooftop
William sat at the building's edge, a pair of binoculars in hand, watching Frank scream and flail.
[Ding! Claiming a dead person's pension is immoral. Make Frank Gallagher realize the error of his ways.]
[Reward acquired: Gambling Mastery.]
With the mission done, whatever happened to Frank afterward—whether Terry killed him or buried him—wasn't his problem.
William stored the binoculars back into his inventory and stood up.
He wasn't afraid of heights.
In fact, he even looked straight down.
If there weren't still pedestrians around at this hour, he would've jumped just to test whether he could land safely.
After all, he could clearly feel that the Healing Factor not only healed his injuries at insane speed—
it was also strengthening his body nonstop.
Bianca and Fiona had experienced that firsthand.
---
Later that night
Terry's black van rolled back up to the Gallagher home.
Thud!
Frank was tossed out like a bag of garbage.
"God… damn it!"
He rolled on the ground in agony.
"Ouch!"
A cane suddenly smacked against him. Then—
Bang!
The van peeled away into the night.
"Shit…"
Frank groaned, forcing himself upright.
He patted himself down, took out a pack of cigarettes, shook it—
Empty.
"Damn it…"
The noise outside naturally drew attention from inside the house.
Fiona opened the front door.
There, in the middle of the road, sat Frank in a pathetic heap.
"It's Dad!"
Debbie poked her head out, spotted him, and immediately ran outside.