The Debt

THE DEBT

A Short Story

by

Yungie Boi

2026

Copyright

The Debt

Copyright © 2026 by Yungie Boi

All rights reserved.

Disclaimer

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This work contains explicit sexual content and is intended for mature readers aged 18 and older only. By purchasing and reading this story, you acknowledge that you are a consenting adult of legal age, fully aware of the graphic depictions of consensual power exchange, dominance and submission, older/younger dynamics, and intense erotic acts contained herein. All characters are fictional and above 18 years old. This is adult erotic fiction.

THE DEBT

The Camaro's starter grinds in the bay behind me, but I'm not thinking about the Camaro. I'm not thinking about the torque wrench in my hand or the oil stain spreading through my jeans or the fact that my boss is going to dock me for leaving early on a Friday.

I'm thinking about the number. Four hundred. That's what I owe Dano. Four hundred dollars I don't have, won't have, can't get by tomorrow night.

I set the wrench down. Wipe my hands on a rag that's already black with grease. The clock above the parts counter says 6:47. Dano's boys will be at the alley by nine. I have two hours to figure out how to produce four hundred dollars, or I show up at the alley and take whatever deal Dano offers instead.

There's no deal. I know that. Everyone knows that. Dano doesn't make deals. Dano collects. And when you can't pay, Dano finds another way to get his money's worth.

I pull my phone out. Scroll through contacts. Jamie—owes me sixty, doesn't have it. Mom—hasn't spoken to me in eight months since she found out about the betting. Rico—dead or in jail, nobody knows which.

I put the phone away. Lock up the shop. Get in my truck.

The alley is behind the old Cudahy packing plant, same as always. I park on the service road and walk in. The streetlight at the entrance has been dead for two years, and the city isn't going to fix it. That's the point.

* * *

He's early. I watch him come in from the service road, his boots crunching on the broken glass and gravel, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets. He walks like a man going to the dentist—steady, resigned, jaw set. He's got grease under his fingernails and a stain on his collar, and his hair is sticking up on one side like he's been running his hand through it all day.

Tommy Reyes. Twenty-six. Mechanic at Hal's Auto on Fourth Street. Decent kid, as far as these things go. Works hard, bets harder. Started coming to my games six months ago. Started losing three months ago. Started owing two weeks ago.

I'm standing by the dumpster—the big one, the rusted green one that smells like dead things and motor oil. My boys are behind me. Four of them tonight. Marco, who runs the book. Little Pete, who handles security. Darnell, who's here because he's always here. And Slick, who got his name for a reason.

Tommy stops about ten feet away. He looks at me. Looks at the boys. Looks at the ground.

"You got my money?" I say.

"No."

"Figured." I pull a cigarette from behind my ear, light it. The flame jumps in the dark. "You got half my money?"

"No."

"Quarter?"

He shakes his head.

I take a drag. Let the smoke out slow. "So what do you got, Tommy?"

He pulls his hands from his pockets. Empty. "I got nothing, Dano. I'll get it. Give me another week."

"You said that last week."

"I know."

"And the week before that."

"I know."

I drop the cigarette. Step on it. The ember dies against the wet concrete. "I don't do weeks, Tommy. You know that. I do tonight. You pay tonight, or you pay another way."

His throat moves. He swallows. His eyes flick to my boys behind me, then back. "What's the other way?"

"You know what the other way."

He does. I can see it in his face. The knowledge has been sitting in him for days, probably. Growing. He's been turning it over, measuring it against the debt, against what he'd have to do, against what it would mean. He's already decided. He's just making himself say it.

"What do I gotta do?"

"Four hundred. At fifty a head, that's eight customers." I gesture behind me. "I got four boys here tonight. Plus me. That's five. I can radio for three more. You take all of them—mouth and ass—and we're square."

His face goes white. Then red. Then something in between. "Five? You said eight—"

"Five here, three more by midnight. You want to do the math, or you want to start paying?"

* * *

Five. Eight. The numbers spin in my head and don't stick. I'm looking at Dano and his boys, and I'm doing the math, and the math doesn't matter because the answer is the same either way. I don't have four hundred dollars. I have a truck ...