My dad would beat me up, and I was always getting bullied at school. With nowhere else to turn, I found myself wandering into a tattoo shop tucked away in the corner of an alley. They said the owner was a bit of a tough guy, known for being fierce in fights, and everyone in town was scared of him.
I pushed open the door and dug out a crumpled ten-dollar bill from my pocket. Gathering my courage, I asked, "I heard you charge for protection. So... can you protect me?"
Through the haze of smoke, the man smirked, "Whose kid are you? You’ve got guts."
In the end, for those ten bucks, he looked out for me for ten years.
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