Frank hunched his shoulders and crept to the mouth of the alley, poking his head out to scan the street.
Nothing.
He scratched his head.
The memory of the taser crackling against his ribs and the warm piss running down his leg hit him like a fresh slap. The back of his neck prickled.
"Fuck no," he muttered, already backing up. "Can't pull that shit right now. The kid really would kill me."
The more he thought about it, the madder he got, but there wasn't a damn thing he could do.
Fight Shane? He'd lose. The kid wasn't playing anymore.
Pull some sneaky Gallagher move? Yeah, right—he was scared shitless.
From the way Shane had been handling things lately, Frank had zero doubt the boy could make him disappear and still sleep like a baby.
"Goddamn it," he grumbled, walking down the sidewalk and cursing under his breath. "When the hell did Frank Gallagher start living like this? Shit! Should've never hooked up with that woman—though fuck, the stuff she brought was strong as hell—"
He kept muttering, half pissed, half nostalgic, scaring off the bums and drunks who passed him.
But the longer he walked and bitched, the more his anger twisted into something else.
By the time he reached a crosswalk he stopped, chest puffed out like he'd just solved world hunger.
"Yeah, yeah, exactly," he told himself out loud. "This isn't about the money. I'm doing this for the family."
An old lady waiting for the light gave him a wide-eyed stare and stepped back. Frank didn't notice. He needed an audience.
"You know, ma'am?" he announced, turning toward her like she'd asked. "I just made a huge contribution to my family—Frank Gallagher style!"
The woman backed away faster. Frank kept going, voice rising with every word.
"Shane needs my connections. That store's gotta open fast, but those kids don't know shit about how the city really works. Without my people and my intel they'd be dead in the water…"
He was on a roll now, eyes shining with pure self-satisfaction.
"Yeah. I'm the backbone of this family. The shadow hero. They don't get it yet, but one day they'll thank me. They will!"
The perfect self-delusion clicked into place. All the fear and humiliation melted away. Frank grinned like a man who'd just won the lottery.
The light turned green. He strutted across the street, head high.
Spotting a half-full beer bottle next to a sleeping bum under some cardboard, he didn't even break stride. He bent down, snatched it, and took a long swig.
"Hey! That's mine!" the bum woke up yelling.
"Shut up. You just contributed to a great cause, pal," Frank shot back, already walking away.
A bottle smashed at his heels. Then another.
"Ungrateful bastard! You'll regret not supporting the family mission!" Frank hollered over his shoulder, dodging glass as he hustled down the block.
Back at the Gallagher house the same afternoon, the living room sounded like a war zone.
THUD.
Carl took a running start and launched a flying kick at the inside of the front door. The old wood groaned and bowed outward.
He stepped back, studied the dent and the lock, then nodded like a pro. "Door's still solid. Lock didn't break. Just a little loose. Pass."
This was his official "store security test."
Done with the door, he grabbed the rusty wrench Frank had given him and started banging on the walls and floorboards—bang, crack, thud—full of military enthusiasm.
In the middle of the living-room floor Debbie sat surrounded by every random thing she could drag out of closets and drawers. She had a stack of stolen school label stickers and a marker, tagging everything with deadly seriousness.
An old first-aid kit got: "MEDICAL STUFF – Band-Aids, alcohol wipes, ONLY FOR REAL EMERGENCIES!"
Cans of beans and Spam were lined up neatly: "FOOD CANS – Do NOT eat without asking Fiona or Shane first!"
Even Liam's beat-up toys got labels: "BABY TOYS – Liam's."
She kept repeating her new job like a mantra. "I'm important. Everything has to be organized so we can find it when we need it…"
Meanwhile Carl had already punched a couple holes in the wall and cracked a floorboard.
His tactical brain leveled up. Store gets robbed. Bad guys breaking in.
He dropped the wrench, ran upstairs, and dragged out his secret project from under the bed.
It looked like a homemade spear crossed with a cattle prod—Carl's upgraded taser. He'd duct-taped on extra batteries, stuck an antenna on the end, and zip-tied a couple of razor blades to the tip for good measure.
Carl charged back downstairs, leveled the weapon at the dented front door, and struck a hero pose.
"You break into our store, you get the Carl Special! BZZZZZT!"
He made the exact same electrocution noises Frank had made when Shane tased him.
"Hahaha! Feel the power of General Carl! Try that shit again and see what happens!"
His victory celebration lasted about ten minutes.
When Shane walked in from the Alibi later that afternoon, the first thing he saw was the front door bulging outward like it had been kicked by a mule.
He stepped inside.
The whole house was covered in labels. Half the walls and floor looked like a war zone. Carl was bouncing on the couch, waving his homemade death spear at imaginary enemies.
Shane didn't say a word. He crossed the room in three strides, snatched the weapon out of Carl's hands and tossed it on the couch, then grabbed the kid by the back of his shirt.
"Whoa—Shane! Let go!"
"What the hell is all this?" Shane pointed at the fresh holes and dents.
"I—I was testing! Security testing for the store!"
Carl stuck his chest out, trying to look official. "I was running invasion drills! You can't spank me—I'm working!"
"Working?" Shane let out a tired laugh. He dragged Carl over to the ruined door and pointed at the perfect footprint-shaped dent.
"This is your security test? Repairs are coming out of your future allowance until next year."
"Nooooo!" Carl howled. "I'm the general! I was protecting everybody!"
"Protecting my ass."
Shane sat on the couch, yanked Carl across his knee, and started laying into his butt with firm, stinging smacks—hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to injure.
In the original show Carl ran wild because nobody ever gave him real consequences. Shane figured a few well-timed ass-whoopings might fix that.
The more he thought about it, the madder he got. Smack. Smack.
This is what happens when you don't have an immediate pain-feedback system!
Carl's tough-guy act vanished instantly.
"Ow! Fiona! Help! Lip! Debbie! Ian! Frank! Somebody save me!"
Debbie had already fled to the second floor. She peeked down the stairs, voice tiny. "I—I only put labels on stuff… I didn't break anything…"
Carl ended up standing in the corner, hands rubbing his burning ass, doing forced wall time while Shane patched the holes and swapped out the front door.
Shane looked at the wreckage and rubbed his temples.
Yeah. Turning the Gallaghers into a functional family was going to be a lot louder—and a lot messier—than any business plan.
Dinner time, Shane was downstairs in the basement scrolling Pinduoduo on his phone, adding cheap renovation supplies to the cart.
Knock knock.
He opened the door.
Lip stood there, hands behind his back, looking awkward as hell.
"Can I come in? There's… something I wanna talk to you about."