Consequences by Kevin R. Tipple

    Lightning flashed across the sky as I pulled into Dad’s parking lot. It had been a harrowing thirty-minute drive across northeast Dallas and I was relieved to have made it safely. I was more than a bit annoyed as well. He’d been gone six weeks now and this was the fourth night I’d been dragged out to the old furniture store thanks to the damn alarm. I was ready to leave a gallon of gas and a box of matches with the place unlocked as the joint was more trouble than it was worth. 

When I parked in front of the tall windows, I could see the pillar strobes flashing from their scattered points across the showroom floor. I was going to have to reset the alarm and deal with DPD whenever they showed up. If they did. Even in the grave, the old man would not let me be. 

    It was still raining a bit as I got out of the rental sedan and jogged over to the shelter of the covered walkway outside the store. I had Dad’s old .38 in my right jacket pocket. One never knew in Dallas these days.

    After watching a car slowly roll by, I popped the lock and stepped inside. I then thumbed in the code of the panel shutting off the alarm. It beeped and the strobes stopped their annoying flashing. I hit the store lights. 

    As I stood there, looking around, I thought I heard a noise. My heartrate jumped way up and I started to sweat. The front panel did not turn on any lights in the back room, behind the swinging doors, or in Dad’s office. I’d spent a lot of the last month in that office looking at the files and talking to Dad’s accountant. 

    I’d also had to deal with a couple of visits from a very shady guy. Not the Hollywood version loan shark. The Texas version where the guy wore nice clothes, was very polite, never made an actual direct threat, and made it very clear that there would be serious consequences if I did not make good on dear old Dad’s debt.

    Considering the fact that the business was bankrupt for all intents and purposes, and he reverse mortgaged the house, I had no idea how I was going to pay the guy a penny. I certainly did not have it. 

    I’d inherited a failed business. Dad had taken it over in the sixties from his own father, who had started it decades earlier, but now it was long dead due to the rise of the furniture warehouse stores and everything coming from overseas at crazy-low prices. Dad couldn’t compete. I’d told Dad to get out a few years ago. He’d been adamant that I had no idea what I was talking about. Ironic, since I was the one with a damn MBA. Now I was left to clean up the mess. I also had to figure out what the damn noise was because I heard it again. 

    I looked out at the parking lot and there was still no sign of DPD. I pulled my gun from my jacket pocket, made like a private detective on a tv show, and let it point my way to the back. 

    I was in no rush, so it was a full minute before I slid through the double doors into the store’s back area. The doors swung open and space lit up briefly as I made my way through them before dropping back into darkness. The only light came from the red neon EXIT sign over the closed door next to the loading dock. I eased to the left a little bit, and with my gun hand sticking out in front of me, felt along the cinderblocks with my left hand until I found the light switches. I hit them and the back lit up, revealing mounds of boxes, pallets of merchandise, and grey cinderblock walls. 

    Verifying nobody was hiding in the clutter left only the office to check. I discovered its door was barely closed. I knew it had been pulled fully shut when I locked it yesterday. Now it was unlocked and just waiting for a nudge to open. 

    I nudged. Sitting in the highbacked chair was Barbara, Dad’s assistant manager, and maybe once something more, but now very much dead. 

    I stumbled into the office and tried to swallow. Gone was the normal long-sleeve dress she wore, regardless of the weather. Nude, she sat in the chair, legs akimbo, a bullet hole in the middle of her throat. I had no idea how long she had been dead, but it clearly had been a while. 

    That was where the cops found me. I was slammed into the desk, disarmed, and cuffed before I knew what had hit me. I was patted down hard and fast and then spun back around to face them. The older officer pulled me back towards the doorway as his partner, a younger guy, moved to the desk, picked up the gun, and popped open the cylinder. We could all see there were only five live rounds in it. 

​    I knew then that there were consequences for not paying debts, even inherited ones. 

© 2026 Kevin R. Tipple 

About the author:
​A known weirdo according to some, and far worse according to others, Kevin R. Tipple has had a lot of short stories published. Some publishers have even survived the experience. His award-winning blog, now with more than thirty-million-page views and counting, features reviews, guest posts and more.  https://kevintipplescorner.blogspot.com/