Lloyd had never been a good man, but he had never been a bad man. Despite his ambiguous moral standing, Lloyd was definitely an unlucky man, which is why Lloyd, at the ripe-old age of 42, ended up on Main Street with a bullet in his head.  

‘See, where Lloyd was unlucky, I was lucky—God-damned lucky. 

I didn’t ask to come across Lloyd that morning, but I also didn’t ask to owe two-thousand dollars either. I was in a pinch, and Lloyd, well I knew he’d been pinching dough from Harvey’s for years. 

I’m sure you thought I was the one who ganked him, but I assure you, when I saw Lloyd on the street that day, he was already horizontal, stiff-as-a-board, D-E-A-D, dead. 

Why? I didn’t really care. 

One look at his fat, leather billfold made me forget about the gaping hole between his eyes and the awkward angle of his beefy neck. All the green poking out of the zipper winked at me. Taunted me. It was anyone’s for the taking. 

So I took. I gleaned every bit of coin I could. Then I took some more—even ripped the pennies from his rank loafers. 

With my trousers stuffed with treasure, I was well on my way to turning my life around. Every step I thanked God, the thug who answered my prayers, and, of course, Lloyd. 

You see, Lloyd was never a good man or a bad man, but by golly he made me a lucky man. 

What an unlucky man...