Defying Fate With My Ultimate Black Card

Chapter 3

Christian stares at the phone screen. The water moves below the bridge. The wind blows. His ribs still hurt. His head still hurts. None of it feels real.

“Go home and check your Mail now!”

“The f**k is this?”, he asks himself.

Probably one of the rich people he owes. He has borrowed from a few over the years, friends of friends, people Isaiah introduced him to. None of them would send a text like this. None of them would tell him to check his mail. They would show up at his door with bats. He knows this because it has happened before.

He wants to ghost the message. He wants to throw the phone into the river and finish what he came here to do. But something stops him. A question. Would they leave him a package if he is owing them? No. They would not. They would want to see his face when they break his knees. A package means something else.

He steps down from the railing. His legs feel weak. He walks back across the bridge, past the rusted green rails, past the gravel path, back toward his apartment.

The walk takes twenty minutes. Every step sends a small spike of pain through his ribs. The stitches in his scalp pull tight when he turns his head. He keeps walking.

His apartment building is old and gray, three stories of cracked paint and broken buzzers. The front door sticks. He pushes it open with his shoulder and climbs the stairs to the second floor. His door is still unlocked from when the police broke in. There is a yellow evidence sticker on the frame. He pushes the door open.

The living room is the same as he left it. Her cardigan on the couch. Her flats by the coffee table. The wine bottle on the counter. The bedroom door is still open. He does not look inside. He cannot look inside yet.

On the floor just inside the front door, there is an envelope.

He does not remember seeing it before. The police must have missed it, or maybe someone slid it under after they left. The envelope is thick, made of heavy paper, black with gold trim. No stamp. No return address. Just his name written in gold ink: Christian McCarthy.

He picks it up. The paper feels expensive, like something a lawyer would use. He opens it.

Inside is a bank card.

The card is black and gold. Not plastic, more like metal. The numbers are raised gold foil. The top right corner has a symbol he does not recognize, an infinity sign lying on its side, the kind of symbol that means forever. The bank name is printed below it in small gold letters: Ouroboros Infinite. He has never heard of this bank. He has never seen this card before in his life.

He turns it over. The back has a magnetic strip and a space for a signature, already signed in gold ink. His signature. His handwriting. He did not sign this.

He searches for a note, an explanation, something. The envelope is empty except for the card.

He pulls out his phone. He searches for Ouroboros Infinite. Nothing, No website, no social media, no news articles, nothing. He searches again with different spelling. Nothing. The bank does not exist.

He is about to throw the card across the room when his phone buzzes.

A new notification. An app is installing itself on his home screen. He did not download it. He watches the progress bar fill up. The app icon is the same infinity sign, gold on black. The name below it says Ouroboros.

The app opens on its own.

The screen is black with Gold text. An account balance. He stares at the screen.

It is not a number. It is the same infinity sign.

He refreshes the screen. Infinity. He closes the app and opens it again. Infinity. He refreshes five more times. Infinity.

Nah. It cannot be real.

He thinks about the punches William landed on his temple. He thinks about the mirror shattering, the glass digging into his skull, the blood loss. Maybe the concussion is worse than the doctors said.

His phone buzzes again. The same unknown number.

Use the card how you must, but there will be cooldowns.

This is impossible. He has infinite money in the account? That makes no sense. Did William's punches ruin his brain? Because this is impossible.

He sits on the floor of his living room, the card in one hand, the phone in the other. He stares at the infinity sign on the screen. He stares at the infinity sign on the card.

Then a new thought hits him. A cold one.

He is not awake. He is still in the hospital. The coma theory. He never left. The walk to the bridge was a dream. The text was a dream. This card is a dream. His brain is bleeding on a pillow somewhere while machines beep around him, and none of this is happening.

He pinches his arm. It hurts. He presses on his cracked ribs. They hurt worse. Pain feels real, but dreams can feel real too. He read that somewhere.

He does not know what to believe.

His stomach growls. Loud. He has not eaten since yesterday afternoon, before he bought the flowers and the Chinese food. The Thai food is still on the floor outside his bedroom door, probably cold, probably ruined. He does not want to go in there anyway.

He looks at the card again.

What has he got to lose.

The bridge is always there. If this is a dream, he will wake up in the hospital bed. If this is real and the card works, he eats. If this is real and the card does not work, he eats either ways then goes back to the bridge. Either way, he is not at a loss. He stands up, puts the card in his wallet, and walks out the door.

He knows a restaurant a few blocks away. A nice place. White tablecloths, candles on the tables, waiters in vests. He has not been there in two years. Not since the last time he ate there and left without paying. He does not remember exactly how much he owes. A lot. The manager used to have a photo of him by the register. That was two years ago. The photo is probably gone by now. The staff has probably turned over. No one will recognize him.

He walks in.

The restaurant is warm and busy. Soft music plays from speakers in the ceiling. The hostess is a young woman he has never seen before. She smiles at him. She does not flinch at his bruised face or his bandaged scalp. She does not look at his blood stained collar. She just asks how many.

"One," he says.

She grabs a menu and leads him to a small table near the window. The chair is comfortable. The menu is heavy, leather bound, with gold letters. He opens it.

He orders everything. Not everything on the menu, but close. An appetizer of fried calamari. A bowl of lobster bisque. A steak, medium rare, with truffle mashed potatoes and asparagus. A side of mac and cheese. A glass of red wine. Another glass of red wine. For dessert, a chocolate lava cake with vanilla ice cream.

The waiter writes it all down without changing his expression. He does not ask for payment upfront. He does not stare at Christian's bruises. He just takes the order and disappears into the kitchen.

The food comes. It is the best meal Christian has ever eaten. The calamari is crispy and tender. The bisque is rich and warm. The steak cuts like butter. He eats slowly at first, savoring each bite, then faster because he is hungrier than he realized. He has to stop halfway through because his ribs hurt from the pressure of a full stomach. He sits back. He finishes the wine. He orders a third glass.

He thinks about the card sitting in his wallet. He thinks about the infinity sign. He thinks about the cooldown message. He does not know if any of this is real, but the food is real. The wine is real. The feeling in his chest is real.

He finishes dessert. He sits for a while, delaying the moment when he has to pay.

Then the manager comes out from the back.

Christian recognizes him. The manager has been here for years, a heavy man with a shaved head and a permanent scowl. His name is Mr. Hale. Christian has not seen him in two years, but he remembers the way Mr. Hale chased him half a block, screaming about calling the police. Mr. Hale stops at Christian's table. He looks at the plates, the empty glasses, the mess of a meal that cost more than Christian's rent. Then he looks at Christian's bruised face, his blood stained shirt, his dirty jeans. His eyes narrow. He is trying to place the face.

Then his expression changes. He remembers.

"Who let this begger in?" Mr. Hale says, loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear. Heads turn. Mr. Hale points at a young waiter near the kitchen. "Jerome, was it you? Are you that retarded that you cannot see a worthless penniless fool when you see one?"

Jerome says nothing. His face goes red.

Mr. Hale looks back at Christian. He looks at the table again, counting the dishes. "Oh, and look just how much he ordered. Jerome, you have disappointed me." He turns to the young waiter. "Or does it look like this street dog can afford even a single fry?"

"No Sir, he most definitely can't," Jerome says. His voice is small.

Christian sits in his chair. His hands are under the table. They are shaking, but not from fear.

"Who says I cannot pay?" Christian says.

Mr. Hale turns. He laughs. It is a big laugh, a belly laugh, and a few customers laugh with him.

"You?" Mr. Hale says. "Pay? I used to have a poster here to ward off beggers, and you were the face on the poster. As far as I remember, you have never once paid. Whenever you have come here, you always say 'add it to my next bill.' Well, do you know how much you owe, asshole?"

Christian feels the heat spread from his chest to his face. "How much?”

"Fifteen hundred dollars!" Hale says. "From visits over the past two years. Plus what he ordered tonight…” he turn to Jerome, who begins to do the math on a tablet.

“That comes to one hundred and fifty dollars for the food and wine. Total of sixteen hundred and fifty dollars Sir."

Mr. Hale spreads his arms like a showman. "Sixteen hundred and fifty dollars. Enough to cover everyone's meal for two days." He looks at Christian. "What do you have to say for yourself, street dog?"

Christian stands up. His ribs scream, but he does not show it. He pulls the black and gold card from his wallet and holds it up.

"No problem," Christian says. "I will pay it all now."

Mr. Hale stares at the card. Then he laughs again. "What is that? A fake? A prop? You think I was born yesterday?" He turns to the other customers. "Look at this. A begger with a gold card. This is the funniest thing I have seen all year."

Some of the customers laugh.

Christian's jaw tightens. "Try the card. If it does not work, you can do whatever you want with me."

Mr. Hale stops laughing. He walks closer to Christian, close enough that Christian can smell the garlic on his breath. "You want to make a bet?"

"What kind of bet?"

Mr. Hale thinks for a moment. His eyes are small and mean. "If you cannot pay, you will do dishes for a year. You will mop my floors every night. You will never eat here again. And you will pay me five times your debt on top of that. I will put it on your tab, and you will work it off."

"And if I can pay?" Christian asks.

Mr. Hale smiles. It is not a nice smile. "If you can pay, I will give you fifteen percent of my daily revenue."

"No," Christian says. "Fifteen percent is too low. You are so sure I cannot pay. You said I was a street dog. You called me an asshole. So put your money where your mouth is. Sixty percent."

The whole restaurant goes quiet. Mr. Hale's smile disappears. He stares at Christian for a long moment. Then he laughs again, but this laugh is different. Harder and Meaner.

"Fine," Mr. Hale says. "Sixty percent. Because I know you cannot pay. I know that card is fake. I know you are a liar and a thief and a begger. And when that card declines, you are going to wish you had never walked through my door."

He turns to Jerome. "Run the card."

Christian follows them to the register. His heart is pounding. His ribs ache. His head throbs. He hands the card to Jerome.

Jerome takes it with shaking hands. He swipes it through the machine.

The machine beeps.

Jerome stares at the screen.

"Well?" Mr. Hale says. "What does it say?"

“The machine could not find the card sir.” Jerome pulls out the card and hands it back to Christian.

Christian couldn't believe his eyes, it was fake, “Who could've pranked me this hard with all this?” he said to himself.

Hale laughed out hard and loud.

“You see, I told you, you're a fake, a loser, a poverty derailed i***t. You can't afford s**t,” he used his index finger to shove Christians forehead.

“Louisa,” he calls out to the kitchen. Get the mops!” He continues laughing as he turns to Christian.

“You're finished.”

Christian looks around, people are already snickering and recording the moments on their phones.

No, it had to be real, he thought.

“Try it again.” He hands the card out back to Jerome. “One last time.”

“I'm sorry,bwe don't have the time to tolerate nuisances here, I have work to do.” Jerome dismisses, turns to the man standing by a table next to the entrance. “Next customer please”

“Get to f*****g work asshole.” Hale shoves Christian by the shoulder as he grabs the mop from Louisa and throws it at Christian.

“I want this whole place spotless by the next 20 minutes.”

“Why won't you try it again?”

“We have no time.” Hale cuts back.

“If you know deep down I'm a failure and a broke asshole, then it should be no problem watching me fail again.”

That grabs Hale’s attention.

“Come to think of it,” he steps forward. “You're right. I mean, you've been a bit of a joker here tonight, and I'm sure the customers have had a good time.”

They laugh again.

“Fine, Jerome,” he turns to Jerome. “Give the card one last swipe, and if it doesn't work, break it and throw it on the ground.”

“Alright sir,” Jerome grabs the card from Christian and gives it one last swipe.

It says pending, for a little too long.

Hale is trying not to laugh to loud and every phone is out already to record the failure fail again.

Christian does not look at the screen. He looks at Mr. Hale's face, and he watches the man realize that he might have just bet away sixty percent of his daily income on a card that should not have worked.

The screen glows.

Transaction pending.

Christian waits.