Chapter 37 — The Power of the Devil's Eye & The Encirclement
William examined the finished tattoo and nodded with satisfaction.
He pulled out a roll of Franklins and tossed it to the tattoo artist.
"Here's the rest. I'm leaving."
With that, he hefted Frank's limp body over his shoulder and walked out of the shop.
Once William was gone, the tattooist grimaced in disgust and dumped the used needles and other disposable tools straight into the trash.
---
Outside Karen's House
William threw Frank onto the ground like a dead mutt.
He tossed the crutch beside him as well.
Then William crouched down, bracing himself mentally as he forced himself to get close enough to use Devil's Eye—
and transferred Erectile Dysfunction onto Frank.
He stood up quickly, wiping his hands as if the air itself was contaminated, and walked away.
After all this…
if Sheila still kept Frank?
William would have no choice but to use more extreme measures.
He disappeared into the night.
---
Not long after, the anesthetic wore off.
Frank groaned awake, disoriented.
"Fuck… what happened…?"
His head spun.
A sharp, burning pain shot across his backside.
"Shit—did I… did someone…?"
He didn't dare finish the thought.
If Sheila had messed with him—whatever, he could deal with that.
But if it was any of the homeless weirdos outside?
He'd rather die.
"Bloody hell…
It must've been Lip!
That ungrateful little bastard must've hired someone to get revenge!"
Frank cursed loudly as he staggered upright.
His injured left leg throbbed.
His freshly tattooed ass burned like fire.
His whole body trembled.
"OxyContin—
I need OxyContin!
I can't—holy hell!"
Face pale with pain, Frank looked around and realized he was right outside Sheila's house.
He dragged himself to the door, half collapsing against the frame, and pressed the doorbell repeatedly.
He called out in a long, pathetic wail:
"Sheilaaaa! Sheila! Heeelp!"
A moment later, Sheila cracked open the door.
When she saw Frank, she immediately pulled it fully open.
"Oh, Frank—what happened to you?"
"Painkillers! Hurry! Give me something—I can't take it!"
Frank gasped.
"Okay, okay… but take your shoes off first.
Your shoes track outside germs into the house."
"For fuck's sake, Sheila!"
Frank nearly screamed.
He was in agony—
and she was worried about germs.
But Sheila insisted.
No matter how much Frank screamed, cursed, or complained,
she made him take off his shoes before entering.
In the end, Frank had no choice but to submit.
With Sheila's help, he finally made it inside, collapsed onto the sofa, and swallowed the painkillers she fed him.
A warm wave of relief washed over him.
"Karen, could you help an immobile old man grab a beer?"
The moment he felt a little better, Frank's shameless instincts reemerged.
Karen ignored him completely.
She went upstairs, pulled out her phone, and immediately called William.
Beep… beep…
He picked up.
"William, what happened? Why is Frank back in my house again?"
She genuinely didn't understand.
"Relax. Frank is like herpes—he won't go away unless you deal with the root cause.
I've already taken care of it.
Now we just wait.
If nothing unexpected happens, your mom should kick him out tonight."
Karen hung up, half-convinced, half-skeptical.
---
Late Night
Frank took a deep breath.
It was time to "pay rent" again.
Since being kicked out by his ungrateful brood, Sheila's warm, comfortable home was the only place he could stay.
If a "payment" was required—so be it.
He looked at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror—disheveled, battered, miserable.
He slapped his face lightly, psyching himself up.
Like a soldier marching toward the battlefield, he walked out and made his way to Sheila's bedroom.
The usual ritual:
Frank reluctantly lay down on the bed.
Sheila's eyes brightened.
Frank's presence filled certain… needs she hadn't satisfied in a long time.
She looked at him with a warm, contented smile.
But then—
she looked closer.
And she froze.
On Frank's backside…
a gigantic demonic eye stared directly at her.
Soul-shaking, grotesque, horrifying.
"Holy mother of—! Oh God! OH MY GOD!"
Sheila shrieked so loudly she almost passed out.
"What? What happened?"
Frank turned around in confusion, unaware of the horror sitting on his own rear end.
But Sheila snapped.
As if possessed, she grabbed the nearest object—a rather large toy—and swung it at Frank with all her strength.
"GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!
YOU BLASPHEMOUS MONSTER! GET OUT!"
Frank was completely stunned.
He didn't believe in God much anymore,
but he was raised a devout Irish Catholic—
people used to call him Father Frank.
"This must be a misunderstanding, Sheila—"
"No misunderstanding! GET OUT!
Only demons tattoo things like that!
You disgust me, Frank!
You disappeared for hours—THIS is what you went to do!?
I misjudged you! Now get OUT of my HOUSE!"
Sheila wasn't reacting out of religious devotion—
she had none.
She was reacting because the tattoo was horrifying, revolting, and triggered her extreme OCD.
She simply could not survive in the same building as that… thing.
With the massive toy as her weapon, she beat Frank until he stumbled away, limping and screaming.
---
Upstairs, in Karen's room
Karen had cracked her door the moment the screaming started.
Seeing Frank get beaten and chased out by her mother, she gained a whole new level of respect for William's efficiency.
Excited, she jumped onto her bed and texted him the victory report.
---
Elsewhere — at the Alibi Room
William sat at the bar, waiting.
If Frank somehow didn't get thrown out,
he was prepared to go drag the man away manually.
But he didn't need to.
His phone buzzed.
[Ding!
Mission Complete: Help Karen kick Frank out of her house.
Reward: MotoGP Champion Riding Experience.]
"Kevin, check please."
William tossed the money onto the bar and walked out.
He headed toward the parking lot.
A few minutes later, he reached the rented Chevrolet and pulled out the keys.
He opened the door—
but at that moment—
Men appeared from every direction.
Big, muscular, and very, very armed Black gang members.
Their silhouettes bulged at the waist—clearly carrying guns.
Then one man stepped forward.
He wore a black wave cap and had the kind of swagger that came from too many years on the street.
He glared at William.
"Hey, you.
You William Blake?"