Jumping into his car, he was now the embodiment of Justice—a literal luck-based hitman, with a Task.

  Maluck approached the coin exhibition booth, where Ron was animatedly discussing his wares with a burly biker, clad in worn leather and sporting a tangled beard—a man who seemed more at home in a garage than amidst coin collectors. The biker’s passion for coins was evident, though his methods of acquisition were questionable, often involving nocturnal ‘collections’ from unsuspecting owners.

  Spotting Maluck, Ron plastered on a customer-service smile. “What can I do for you, friend?”

  Maluck’s expression remained stony. “I’m not your friend. I’m here to collect Chloe’s back wages.”

  Ron scoffed, his demeanor shifting. “I already told that bitch she’s not getting anything.”

  The biker leaned in, his presence imposing. “Ron, is this guy causing you problems?”

  Maluck met his gaze unflinchingly. “Hey, Bigfoot, this is none of your business.”

  The biker’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, it wasn’t before, but now it is.”

  Maluck smirked. “What are you going to do? Punch me in front of this exhibition booth?”

  Ron quickly intervened, placing a hand on the biker’s arm. “Yeah, don’t do that. We’ve still got two days left in this show, and I don’t want to lose my booth.”

  Maluck glanced around at the sparse display. “Why do you even have a booth? Your junk here is all crap.”

  The biker bristled. “Crap? What are you talking about?”

  Maluck gestured dismissively. “I’m talking about this sad excuse for a booth. You don’t even have anything good here.”

  Ron clenched his fists. “Shut your damn mouth.”

  Maluck said. “Hell, I bet my pocket change is worth more than what you’ve got here. And I know none of it isn’t fake.”

  A small crowd had begun to gather, drawn by the escalating confrontation.

  Ron sneered. “Oh yeah? You said you’d bet? Alright then, I’ll bet that my collection isn’t fake and that it’s worth more than whatever pocket change you’ve got. What are you putting up?”

  Maluck smirked and pulled out a thick roll of cash—the winnings from his recent lottery ticket. “I’ll bet this. Think you can afford to match it?”

  Ron, no stranger to handling large sums of cash, eyed the roll greedily. “Alright, I’ll take that bet. The total value of my collection against whatever’s in your pocket—for the full amount of that roll.”

  The biker chuckled, clearly enjoying the spectacle. The crowd now grew bigger, excited to see what was going to happen.

  Maluck nodded. “Sure. Why don’t we call someone over to judge?”

  The crowd had grown, and among them were a few individuals who appeared knowledgeable about coins. Two stepped forward, their presence commanding attention.

  “I think we could help.” The crowd were excited when they saw who had stepped out to be impromptu judges for this bet.

  One was Judge Arlo Thornton, a retired federal judge with a deep passion for numismatics, known for his sharp eye for detail and rare coins. The other was Iris Montgomery, a well-known coin collector and historian, recognized across the country for her extensive private collection and her expertise in rare, historical currencies.

  Judge Thornton adjusted his glasses and looked over the collection with a calm, practiced eye. “I must say, these pieces have potential,” he said in a low, gravelly voice. “Not just in their apparent value, but in the stories they could tell. Some of these may be rarer than you think.”

  Iris Montgomery leaned in closer, her fingers lightly tracing the edges of one of the coins. “Yes, indeed. A lot of people think they know what’s valuable, but the true worth is often hidden beneath the surface. I’d be very curious to see what we’re working with here.”

  Maluck stepped forward, nodding. “Alright, what’s the verdict?”

  Judge Thornton raised an eyebrow. “Well, without doing a more thorough examination. I can tell you right now that at least three of these coins have historical significance, and depending on their condition…” He trailed off, the anticipation hanging in the air.

  Iris tapped her fingers thoughtfully on the table. “I’d say you’re sitting on something special. I would recommend a full authentication and valuation from an accredited numismatic institute, but just by eye… some of these are worth more than you might guess.”

  They meticulously continued examining Ron’s collection, carefully tallying up the values. After several minutes, Judge Thornton looked up and cleared his throat. “Indeed, a few of these coins, I can’t determine with 100% certainty whether they’re authentic. But the rest add up to roughly $70,000 to $75,000.”

  Nobody would outright say someone’s coins were fake, but saying they couldn’t determine their authenticity was pretty much the polite way of calling them counterfeit.

  Ron’s face twitched as he crossed his arms, a huff escaping his lips. His gaze flickered between Maluck and the display of coins, clearly unsettled by the revelation that some of his prized collection had questionable authenticity. Despite that, the mention of $70k seemed to have a calming effect on him. It was still a substantial amount, after all. He squinted at Maluck, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “I think it’s worth more, but I’m sure it’s worth more than you’ve got on you, pretty boy,” he said, his voice dripping with a mix of annoyance and begrudging respect.

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  Maluck slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small collection of coins. He opened his hand, revealing a modest assortment: a few loonies (the Canadian one-dollar coin), some toonies (the Canadian two-dollar coin), a couple of dimes, and a single penny. The clink of metal echoed in the quiet space as the coins settled into his palm, their dull shine hardly reflecting the kind of wealth Ron was expecting.

  He smirked slightly, knowing this wasn’t exactly what Ron had in mind. The coins seemed out of place next to the pile of rare, valuable treasures they’d been discussing. Maluck met Ron’s gaze with an almost nonchalant expression, as if to say, This is all I’ve got—let’s see what you make of it.

  Ron eyed the coins in Maluck’s hand, his eyebrows twitching in confusion. “That’s what you’re putting on the table?” he scoffed, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

  Maluck just smiled back at him.

  Ron burst into laughter. “Looks like you’ve got about six bucks in change.”

  Iris Montgomery carefully examined the coins, nodding in agreement as she assessed their value. “Yeah, about six dollars. Oh, wait a second…”

  She paused, her eyes widening as she focused on one of the coins.

  “Oh my!” she exclaimed, a note of excitement creeping into her voice.

  Judge Thornton, who had been observing quietly, leaned in closer. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Is this what I think it is?”

  Iris nodded slowly, still holding the coin in her hand. “I think so.”

  “Well, looks like we have a winner,” Judge Thornton said, a satisfied smile forming on his face.

  The crowd, still uncertain about what was happening, exchanged curious glances. They had no idea why the two appraisers were so excited over a single penny.

  Iris held up the penny, adjusting her glasses as she addressed the growing crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, this isn’t just any penny. This is a rare and valuable find!”

  The crowd grew super excited, this was the kind of thing you’d see on TV.

  “Alright, folks, let me explain why this little coin is worth a fortune. Back in 1982, the Royal Canadian Mint was switching from making pennies mostly out of copper to a cheaper zinc version. The new pennies were supposed to weigh 2.5 grams, while the older copper ones were 3.56 grams. Simple enough, right?

  “But here’s where it gets interesting—somewhere in the middle of this change, a mistake happened. A handful of the new pennies were accidentally made with the older, heavier copper.

  “How many of these rare misprints exist? Maybe three. And you, my friend,”—he pointed at Maluck—“just so happened to have one of them in your pocket.”

  The crowd murmured in shock, some people pulling out their own pennies just in case they had a hidden jackpot. The Judge smiled, happy to show off his knowledge.

  “So, indeed. This penny alone is worth over a hundred grand. Congratulations on your win. And Ron? You might want to start counting your losses.”

  The crowd murmured in surprise, and Ron’s face paled.

  Iris Montgomery looked at Ron. “Based on this, it seems you’ve lost the bet. You should pay the man.”

  The crowd erupted in cheers and laughter, reveling in Ron’s misfortune.

  Maluck pocketed the rare penny with a sly grin. “Guess my pocket change isn’t so worthless after all.”

  Ron, defeated and humiliated, begrudgingly pulled out a few bills to cover Chloe’s back wages, muttering under his breath.

  Maluck eyed the stack—just a thousand bucks—and then turned his gaze back to Ron with a sly smirk. “Sorry, friend,” he said, stretching the word “friend” with enough sarcasm to make it practically drip. “But the bet wasn’t just about Chloe’s wages, was it? You remember the terms—my roll against the same amount of cash. Not just the back wages.”

  He waved the thick wad of bills again, just to rub it in. “And my pocket change just outperformed your entire display. So…” Maluck’s eyes flicked down to the small, almost pathetic stack of bills Ron had pulled out, barely over a thousand. “Looks like you’re a little short, don’t you think?”

  Ron’s face, already twisted in anger from the thought of handing over Chloe’s last paycheck, darkened further. Losing that money was bad enough, but now he was on the hook for nine grand on top of it. With the growing crowd still watching, there was no way he could just slink away. If he tried, his reputation among the other coin dealers would be in shambles. Worse, after the subtle accusations that some of his coins might not be entirely authentic, word would spread fast. No one in the industry would trust him, and coin collectors could be ruthless when it came to sniffing out fraud.

  Grinding his teeth so hard it looked like he might crack a molar, Ron reluctantly reached into his cash reserves. His fingers curled around each roll of bills like he was about to strangle them before he slapped them onto the table. Every muscle in his face twitched as he peeled off the cash, looking more pained with each bill that left his possession.

  Maluck, thoroughly enjoying every second of Ron’s slow descent into financial despair, counted along in his head like he was savoring a fine meal.

  Eight thousand. Eight thousand five hundred. Nine thousand, one hundred.

  Ron’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles turning white as he practically growled through gritted teeth. “There. Happy now?”

  Maluck picked up the money, gave it a slow, deliberate count, and then let out a theatrical sigh, shaking his head. “Not really. My roll was $9,180—looks like you’re a little short.” He reached into his own pocket and rattled some loose change. “If you need, I can spot you a couple quarters.”

  The crowd erupted into laughter, a few people even literally slapping their knees. The moment Maluck rattled his loose change, the crowd lost it.

  “Ohhh DAMN!” someone hollered from the back.

  “Yo, this man just penny-shamed you, Ron!” another laughed.

  “I thought this was a coin show, not a public execution!”

  A guy in a vintage hockey jersey let out a loud whistle. “Somebody get this man some aloe for that burn!”

  One of the older collectors, a distinguished-looking man with a monocle—yes, an actual monocle—shook his head. “This is the worst financial decision I’ve witnessed in decades. And I was there for the Weenie Baby crash.”

  Meanwhile, a younger guy with a Pokémonsters card binder was recording on his phone, grinning ear to ear. “Oh, this is going straight to CoinTok.”

  A woman elbowed her husband and cackled. “That’s what you get for lowballing customers, Ronald!”

  Ron, jaw clenched so tight it could cut diamonds, threw the extra twenties down with enough force to make them flutter dramatically in the air before landing in front of Maluck.

  “Damn, he had to dig real deep for those last bills,” someone said with mock sympathy.

  Another man shook his head and muttered, “Bro’s about to start charging entry fees just to breathe near his booth.”

  The laughter didn’t stop, even as Ron turned a shade of red not commonly found in nature.

  Maluck picked them up with a satisfied grin. “Pleasure doing business.”

  As Maluck walked away, the biker leaned in close to Ron, his voice low and gravelly. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it back.”

  Ron, still seething, barely acknowledged him, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His face was a mix of humiliation and barely contained rage, the kind of look that promised petty revenge in the near future.

  The biker cracked his knuckles, a slow, deliberate sound, like someone snapping the neck of Ron’s dignity one vertebra at a time. “Nobody takes the cash like that and walks away clean, right?”

  Ron exhaled sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring. “Damn right,” he muttered.

  Behind them, the crowd was still buzzing, some people filming, others still laughing at the spectacle. Somewhere, a vendor was already making a joke about limited edition Ron Rage Coins being the next big collectible.

  But Ron wasn’t listening. He was too busy plotting.