The man reached over and cut on the lights. The light was white hot after sitting in the dark so long. As Chester’s eyes adjusted, he realized he did know the man but just wasn’t sure from where. He was a thick, muscular fella with a brushy reddish beard and narrow eyes the color of a swamp. He had on a brown Mossy Oak hoodie and a pair of camo pants with lace-up military boots. He held a big black automatic pistol at his side as he stared right at Chester Pratt, studying on him and appearing to be considering his next course of action. The man was white with reddened cheeks and wore a ball cap over a shaved head. The ball cap had a gold patch with a timber rattler on it, the familiar don’t tread on me written below. Only the fella had a more don’t fuck with me look about him, spitting some tobacco juice on the floor and walking up to where Pratt sat at his desk. The man stunk of BO and cigarettes, his breath hot and spicy on Chester’s face.

“I was told to bring your pecker back on a silver platter.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“This row back here,” the man said. “On the racks? That’s all your top shelf hooch?”

“Yes, sir,” Pratt said. “Sure is. Help yourself. Some wine boxes over there in the corner, sir.”

“My name’s Bishop.”

“Take what you like, Mr. Bishop.”

“Just Bishop,” the man said. “Best not to forget it.”

Bishop walked over to the floor-to-ceiling metal storage racks and plucked a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle 23. He pulled out the cork, took a sniff, and then shook his head. He dropped it onto the concrete floor, where the glass cracked and the bourbon splattered. That bottle would’ve gone on the cheap for more than three grand. Bishop did the same thing with four, five, six of his other prestige bottles. Not smiling, not laughing. Just smelling each one and dropping them onto the floor as if they weren’t to his liking.

“Ain’t a bourbon man, I guess,” Pratt said, trying to keep it light. But it sure did hurt seeing nearly ten grand destroyed before his very eyes. Not to mention some of the finest whiskey ever made by man.

“I wouldn’t drink this shit ’less I had a Coca-Cola to mix in it,” Bishop said. “You agree, don’t you, Chester Pratt?”

“Destroying my top shelf items ain’t gonna get that money any faster.”

“Shut your damn pussy lips.”

Pratt wasn’t tied up nor had the man pointed the gun on him. But he was afraid just the same. Something in those swampy eyes, narrow and small, made the man seem more animal than human.