Chapter 4: The Silver Tongue Gamble
Two weeks in, and Ben's garage had a line.
Mrs. Rodriguez had been true to her word. She'd told everyone—neighbors, customers, the priest at her church, probably random people on the bus. Word spread through South Side's underground network faster than any advertising could achieve. The guy who fixed things cheap. Really cheap. Almost suspiciously cheap.
Ben's mornings started at 6 AM now, unlocking the garage to find two or three people already waiting. Broken appliances. Shorted electronics. Cars making mysterious sounds their owners couldn't afford to diagnose at a real mechanic. His MacGyver Mind had become a production line: identify problem, visualize solution, execute repair. Twenty minutes per job, sometimes less.
The money was steady if not spectacular. Fifty dollars a day most days, sometimes seventy. Enough to eat properly, pay Kowalski his rent, start building savings. Enough to feel like he might actually survive this.
He should have known better.
Ben's Danger Intuition woke him at 11:47 AM on a Tuesday, thirty seconds before they arrived.
He was under the hood of a '98 Civic, diagnosing a misfire in cylinder three, when the wrongness hit him. Not immediate physical danger. More like standing downwind from a chemical plant—pervasive, toxic, unavoidable.
Ben straightened, wiping grease on his jeans. Scanned the street.
Two men walking toward his garage with the kind of purposeful stride that meant trouble. Both were in their late twenties, dressed in layers that hid their builds but suggested they didn't need the bulk. The one in front was Black, moving with coiled energy like a boxer between rounds. His companion was white, broader, with a shaved head and a jaw that looked like it had been broken and reset wrong.
They stopped at the garage entrance, blocking the light.
"You Ben?" the first one asked.
"That's what the sign says."
"I'm Marcus. This is Ray." He gestured at his companion. "We're here about insurance."
Ben's heart rate kicked up, but his Silver Tongue stirred in his throat, preparing responses. He kept his hands visible, nonthreatening. "Already paid my taxes for the year."
"Different kind of insurance." Marcus smiled without warmth. "Business insurance. You're new here, so you might not know—new businesses in this neighborhood, they pay for protection. Fifty a week. Keeps accidents from happening."
"Accidents."
"Yeah. Fires. Break-ins. Equipment mysteriously breaking. Real tragic stuff." Ray cracked his knuckles, the sound like breaking popsicle sticks. "But with insurance, all that gets avoided."
This was it. The protection racket. Ben had known it was coming—every TV show and movie about urban neighborhoods had this scene. But knowing it intellectually and facing it physically were different things.
His MacGyver Mind was already cataloging escape routes, improvised weapons. The wrench in his back pocket. The jack handle within reach. Neither would matter if Ray closed the distance.
His Danger Intuition showed him two paths: pay and establish himself as an easy mark, or refuse and face consequences. Both options were poison, just different speeds.
So Ben chose the third option.
He let his Silver Tongue activate fully.
"Appreciate the offer," Ben said, his voice taking on that particular smoothness that meant the power was working. "But I'm already covered. Got protection through the crew from Bridgeport."
Marcus's expression didn't change, but Ben saw the micro-calculation. "Bridgeport."
"Yeah. Friend of a friend connection, you know how it is." Ben let names float through his memory—background gangsters mentioned in the show, minor characters, people who existed in the Shameless universe but weren't major players. "Work through Matty's operation. Probably know him."
"Matty Dembrowski?"
Ben nodded, hoping that was the right Matty. His Silver Tongue adjusted his delivery, reading Marcus's body language, finding the exact tone that suggested confidence without challenge.
"Small world," Marcus said carefully. "Didn't know Matty was expanding territory this far north."
"Not expanding. Just doing a favor." Ben shrugged. "But I appreciate you checking. Shows you're thorough."
The lie hung in the air like smoke. Marcus studied him with the expression of someone solving a math problem. Ray looked ready to start breaking things regardless, but Ray clearly wasn't the brains of this operation.
Finally, Marcus nodded. "Alright. But if your situation changes—if Matty's coverage lapses—you come find us. Fifty a week is the standard rate."
"I'll keep that in mind."
They left. Ben watched them walk back down the street, his hands shaking so badly he had to shove them in his pockets. His Silver Tongue had worked. The lie had landed. But his Danger Intuition was still pulsing, softer now but not gone.
They're going to check. They're going to ask around about Matty's "new guy" and realize I'm bullshit.
Ben closed the garage door and leaned against it, breathing hard. Sweat ran down his spine despite the January cold. He'd just gambled on his power's persuasiveness and won, but the victory felt temporary. Fragile.
He gave himself five minutes to be terrified, then went back to work. The Civic's owner was coming back at three. Bills didn't stop coming just because the mob was circling.
The rest of the day passed in controlled panic. Ben worked mechanically, his MacGyver Mind handling repairs while his conscious thoughts spiraled through worst-case scenarios. Marcus would check his story. Find out there was no Matty connection. Come back angrier for being lied to.
Or maybe he wouldn't check. Maybe the lie was convincing enough, the names familiar enough, the story just plausible enough to defer confrontation.
Ben was cleaning his tools at 5 PM when Kevin Ball burst through the garage door like a natural disaster.
"Emergency!" Kevin shouted, carrying what looked like a beer tap trailing foam and liquid. "Need you to fix this right the fuck now!"
Ben blinked. "What?"
"Keg tap!" Kevin thrust the assembly at him like a baby needing a diaper change. "Broke mid-shift, foam everywhere, losing money every minute this thing's down. Mrs. Rodriguez said you were a wizard with broken stuff."
"I'm not a—okay, let me look."
Kevin was built like someone who'd played high school football and never quite left that body type: broad shoulders, slight beer gut, face that still carried traces of teenage handsomeness under adult wear. He vibrated with anxious energy while Ben examined the tap.
MacGyver Mind supplied the answer instantly: pressure valve stuck in partial-open position, causing uncontrolled foam. Simple fix, needed the right tool and correct timing.
"Give me ten minutes," Ben said.
"Ten? Seriously?"
"Seriously. But I need you to not talk while I work. Concentration thing."
Kevin mimed zipping his lips, which lasted approximately thirty seconds before he started asking questions.
"So how'd you learn all this stuff?"
Ben grunted, focused on the valve assembly.
"Because Mrs. Rodriguez said you fixed her washing machine in like twenty minutes. And Tommy—you know Tommy? Kid with the bike? Said you rebuilt his entire bike from basically scrap. That's impressive, man."
"Uh-huh."
"Also heard you handled Marcus like a boss."
Ben's hands froze. "What?"
"Marcus and Ray. Heard they came by, you told them you were covered, and they actually left. That's wild. Most new businesses, Marcus bleeds them for six months minimum."
So people were talking. Great.
"Just had the right connections," Ben muttered, going back to work.
"Bridgeport crew, right? Matty's operation?"
Ben looked up sharply. Kevin's expression was open, curious, with zero suspicion. He wasn't probing—he was impressed.
"Something like that," Ben said carefully.
"Smart. Real smart." Kevin leaned against the workbench. "Protection rackets are cancer, but you gotta play the game. Having Marcus think you're connected is like... that's genius, man."
Think I'm connected. The emphasis made Ben's stomach clench. Kevin had just casually revealed he assumed the connection was bullshit but thought it was clever bullshit.
"Don't tell anyone that," Ben said.
"What, that you're bluffing? Dude, I assumed. But it's working, so who cares?"
Ben tested the tap—foam was controlled now, flow was correct. "It's working until Marcus verifies."
"He won't. Too much effort for fifty bucks a week." Kevin took the tap, examined it. "Holy shit, this is perfect. How much?"
"Nothing. Consider it a favor."
"Nothing? Man, I was gonna pay—"
"Just spread the word that I'm a good guy to know. That's payment enough."
Kevin grinned. "Deal. Also, free beer at the Alibi whenever you want. I'm Kevin, by the way. Own the place with my girl V."
"Ben."
They shook hands. Kevin's grip was enthusiastic, borderline painful.
"You're gonna do great here," Kevin said. "Good work ethic, smart about the rackets, and Mrs. Rodriguez already declared you a saint. In South Side, that's like getting a Michelin star."
He left with his repaired tap, still talking, voice fading as he headed back to the Alibi. Ben stood in his garage and felt a weird emotion he couldn't quite name.
He'd made a friend. An actual friend, not a customer or a mark or someone he'd manipulated. Kevin genuinely liked him, thought he was clever, wanted to help him succeed.
It felt good and terrifying in equal measure.
Ben locked up at 6 PM, counted his earnings—sixty-three dollars today—and headed home. The garage was starting to feel like home, which was both comforting and depressing. A concrete box with secondhand furniture shouldn't feel like safety, but compared to where he'd started, it was a palace.
His Danger Intuition pulsed as he approached his street.
Ben stopped walking. The sensation wasn't urgent, but it was present. Wrongness ahead, not immediate threat but something off. He scanned the area, looking for the source.
Marcus stood across the street from his garage. Just standing there, hands in pockets, watching.
Their eyes met. Marcus didn't move, didn't gesture. Just watched. Then he turned and walked away, disappearing around a corner.
Message received: I know where you are.
Ben's appetite vanished. He went inside, locked the door, and spent the evening in paranoid awareness of every sound. His Danger Intuition stayed quiet, which meant no immediate threat, but the warning was clear.
Marcus wasn't done.
The next morning, Mrs. Rodriguez was waiting at his garage with tears streaming down her face.
"Destrozado," she sobbed. "Everything destroyed. They break it all."
Ben's stomach dropped. "The washing machine?"
She nodded, unable to speak. Ben locked his garage and followed her back to her house, dread mounting with each step.
Someone had broken in through a window. Ignored everything of value—TV, jewelry, cash in a drawer. Went straight to the washing machine and systematically destroyed it. Motor smashed with a hammer. Drum cracked. Wiring torn out. The machine wasn't broken, it was murdered.
The message was unmistakable.
Ben stood in Mrs. Rodriguez's kitchen while she cried, and felt the full weight of his Silver Tongue gamble. He'd lied to Marcus. Thought he'd won. And Marcus had responded by going after someone Ben cared about, someone who couldn't defend herself.
The guilt tasted like copper on his tongue.
"I fix it," Ben said quietly. "I fix it for free. Today. Right now."
"You can fix?"
"Yes."
He couldn't. The machine was beyond repair. But he could source a used motor, replace the damaged parts, make it functional again. It would take all day and cost him money he didn't have, but that didn't matter.
This was his fault.
Ben spent eight hours rebuilding the washing machine while Mrs. Rodriguez watched with confused gratitude. His MacGyver Mind worked overtime, improvising solutions, adapting parts that didn't quite fit. He bought a replacement motor from a scrapyard with money from his emergency fund. Made it work.
By 6 PM, the machine was functional. Not pretty, but it ran.
Mrs. Rodriguez kissed his cheek again, tried to pay him, couldn't understand when he refused. Ben accepted her gratitude and left feeling like he'd swallowed glass.
Walking back to his garage, he added a new rule to his growing list of survival principles:
Powers are tools, not solutions. Every time you use them, someone else pays the price.
The question was whether he could live with that math. Whether helping people was worth the collateral damage his interference created.
Ben didn't have an answer yet. But Marcus did. Marcus had shown him exactly what happened when you played games with people who played for keeps.
His garage felt colder than usual that night. Ben sat in the dark, listening to distant sirens, and wondered how long he could keep gambling before his luck ran out.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
Can't wait for the next chapter of [Shameless: The Gallagher Guardian]?
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them (20+ chapters ahead!). No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1