Gents Journey
Helping Men become the Gentleman they deserve to be. This Podcast is part inspiration part motivation. We discuss what it takes to be a Gentleman in the 21st Century. We also talk about how to deal with the internal and external battles that life throws at us. So come be apart of the Gents Journey!
Gents Journey
Death Of Peace Of Mind: The One Who Lied
A body in a freezer. A burned IOU card. Red ink that refuses to fade.
Detective Grayson thought he had buried his past, but when former informant Victor Ramos is found executed with Grayson's handwriting on an IOU card left at the scene, everything changes. This noir-inspired journey through Chicago's shadowy underworld isn't just about a murder—it's about the debts we all carry and the prices we pay when they come due.
What begins as a murder investigation quickly becomes a reckoning as Grayson confronts the bargain he made years ago: burning a police report to keep Ramos out of prison in exchange for information. His partner Black sees through his carefully constructed walls, delivering the cutting truth: "You're not haunted, Grayson, you're hiding." As the investigation deepens, we discover that Ramos wasn't just killed—he was audited, a balancing of books that threatens to expose everyone connected to him.
The real power of this episode lies in its universal message. Ramos believed collecting secrets and debts would protect him, that leverage equals power. But as Grayson discovers, "Leverage doesn't make you free; it makes you owned." This resonates deeply whether you're navigating Chicago's criminal underworld or simply confronting your own compromised choices.
"You don't get peace of mind from negotiation. You get it from deletion." These words echo beyond the story as we're challenged to examine our own ledgers—the promises we've broken, the compromises we've made, and the versions of ourselves that no longer deserve to live. What debts are you still carrying? What ledgers need burning? The lies we tell ourselves don't disappear; they collect interest.
The journey toward peace of mind begins when we stop writing IOUs to ourselves and finally settle accounts with who we've been to become who we're meant to be. Listen, reflect, and consider which ledgers in your life need burning.
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast. My name is Anthony, your host, and today we are in episode two of the Death of Peace of Mind series. This one's called the One who Lied, so let's go ahead and let's get into it Now. This is the cold opening, the last deal. Chicago, february 1987.
Speaker 1:Chicago doesn't sleep, but there are corners of the city where forgets how to breathe. The Southside Meatpacking District is one of them. By day it's a graveyard of industry. Rusting trucks line like tombstones, windows bricked over, doors bolted shut with chains that have held longer than promises. By night it's worse. Nothing moves but the wind. It scrapes down the alleys, rattles the corrugated steel and leaves the silence behind like a warning. Steal and leaves the silence behind like a warning. The smell hangs after years without work, spoiled fat, rust, cold grease in the cracks of concrete that'll never wash out. Every shadow feels deliberate, like the city itself has staged them Tonight.
Speaker 1:Room 12C is the stage. The freezer hasn't worked in five years, but the chill lingers stubborn, as if the ghosts of slaughtered cattle never left. The air is damp, it's heavy, it's sharp enough to sting the nostrils. Somewhere in the ductwork a fan blade ticks like a clock that never quite makes it around. And against the wall sits Victor Ramos. He isn't sitting so much. He's been placed shoulders braced, head slumped, arms hanging loose like a marionette whose strings were cut mid-performance. A neat hole blooms behind his right ear, small and clean, the kind of mark left by someone who doesn't waste movement. No struggle, no theatric, just the math of violence. One bullet, no change left over. The blood beneath him is still wet. It pools under the cheap gray suit he wore like armor. The fabric is wrinkled, cuffs frayed, but the shoes are polished. The polish is fresh, scuffed only by the drag into this room, as if Ramos wanted his last steps to look like he still belonged to a world that required shine. In his lap rests an IOU card. It's not just a paper ritual. The edges are charred, curling inward like the flames try to eat their way to the truth. The words scrawled across the center in red ink are shaky, almost too bold for the paper to hold. You never paid, the kind of sentence that isn't about money. The freezer hums Somewhere, a droplet of water falls and cracks against the concrete. The sound echoes like a metronome. The door opens.
Speaker 1:Grayson steps in first. His coat is heavy wool, charcoal with the wear of years, shoulders squared against the cold, his tire on his neck is loosened, the knot half-hearted. The cigarette dangles between his fingers though he hasn't lit it. The smoke is phantom, the habit stronger than the fire. His face is stone, eyes, deep-set, scanning the room not with curiosity but with recognition. He doesn't move like a man discovering a crime scene. He moves like he's come home.
Speaker 1:Behind him, laura Black enters Leather jacket zipped to her collarbone, dark jean boots that click sharp against the concrete. Her blonde hair is pulled back clean, but her eyes tell another story Circles faint beneath them, the sheen of a woman who knows the bottom of too many bottles. She keeps her voice level, her stance professional, but there's always a tremor just beneath. They stop just inside. Neither speaks.
Speaker 1:At first, grayson's gaze fixes on Ramos, the IOU, the careful placement of the body. His jaw tightens but nothing else shows. Black breaks the silence. You know him. Grayson doesn't look at her. His eyes stay on Ramos, unblinking, tied to an old case. Ramos used to flip names for the department, thought he had a gift for loyalty. She studies the scene the neat bullet wound, the IOU, the way Ramos' body is almost reverent in posture. Guess someone else had a better gift. The words hang between them heavier than the cold.
Speaker 1:Grayson steps forward. Each footfall echoes like a strike of the gravel. He crouches beside Ramos, careful not to touch the blood. His glove hand hovers just above the IOU. He lifts it and the charred edge flakes in his grip. For a moment he doesn't breathe. The handwriting is his, not recent, it's older From a life he thought he'd already buried. Red ink, sharp strokes, letters form the way his hand used to form them Back, when he believed color made words matter more. Black notices the shift in his face. He doesn't call it out, not. Yet. She stands by the door, arms crossed, the detective and the woman both waiting for an answer. She already suspects.
Speaker 1:Grayson folds the card into the evidence bag. His movements are deliberate but too slow. Deliberate enough to look normal, slow enough to portray weight. Hey, something wrong, black asks. He seals the bag, stands. His voice is steady. Anonymous, tip, right, that's what dispatch said. Of course it was.
Speaker 1:Black tilts her head, her eyes narrowing. You don't sound surprised. He doesn't respond. Instead he scans the room. The frost clings to the walls and sheet jagged like broken mirrors. A meat hook dangles from the ceiling, swaying faintly. Though there's no breeze. It squeals with every shift a rusted pendulum marking the time that no longer exists.
Speaker 1:There's something ritualistic about the way Ramos was placed. Execution is easy. Presentation takes thought. Whoever did this wanted the message to outlive the man. Black steps closer, her boots squeaking against the wet floor. She keeps her voice low. What message? Grayson exhales the breath long and thin. His fingers switch towards the cigarette still tucked behind his knuckle, but he doesn't light it. That debts don't disappear just because you stopped looking at the ledger? Her brows furrow. That's cryptic even for you. He turns to face her now. The lines in his face cut deep, shadowed by the single buzzing light overhead. It's the truth, he says.
Speaker 1:They stand in silence for a beat, only the freezer hum between them. Black studies him, the way his shoulders hold tension like an old injury, the way his eyes don't leave the IOU bag in his hand. She knows the look. It isn't the look of a man solving a case. It's the look of a man trying not to be solved. He doesn't push, not yet. Instead she turns towards the door. Let's get the scene logged. Friends will want the whole box. Grayson nods, but he doesn't move, not until she's already stepped into the hall. Only then does he crouch again, just for a moment, close enough to smell the stale clone still clinging to Ramos' lapel, close enough to whisper something under his breath that no one else hears. He should have paid. He stands, straightens his coat, slides the evidence bag into his pocket, as though he needs to keep it closer than the box at the precinct.
Speaker 1:Outside, the air smells like iron and burnt oil. The night hangs heavy fog rolling off the lake and spilling down the streets until the skyline itself looks smudged and erased. Somewhere in the distance a car passes with faint bleed of a song on the radio, phil Collins. In the air tonight. The drum break hasn't hit yet, just the slow pulse of something inevitable.
Speaker 1:Grayson lights a cigarette. The first drag burns hot, stings the lung. But the taste isn't smoke, it's memory. He looks down the alley, the city stretching beyond skyscrapers, piercing fog, neon signs, flickering, the hum of a place that never forgets, no matter how much you try to bury. Black steps beside him, her jacket zipped high, her head pulled tight, breath curling in the February night. She studies him from the corner of her eye. He doesn't look back. Whoever did this? She says they wanted you to see it. Grayson exhales smoke into the night. The cloud drifts upward, thin and dissolving, gone as quickly as it came. Yeah, he mutters, they did. He takes another long drag, slower this time, watching the smoke disappear and beneath the sound of his breath, beneath the hum of the streetlights, the freezer door creaks Back inside, the hook swings again, back and forth, back and forth, like time itself is refusing to stay still. The city holds its breath. The drum break never comes, just silent.
Speaker 1:Part One the IOU, the precinct in February always smells the same Wet shoes, old paper and a kind of chemical tang that clings to the walls, no matter how often the janitors mop Coffee burns in the corner pot. Thick and bitter. The smell almost louder than the voices on the phone. Grayson pushes through the glass doors, coat still damp from the freezer air. The cold doesn't leave you. When you leave the phone, grayson pushes through the glass doors, coat still damp from the freezer air. The cold doesn't leave you. When you leave the freezer, it stays inside, an echo in the bone. He doesn't shake it off, he doesn't even try.
Speaker 1:He heads for his desk, same corner spot, half hidden by a filing cabinet that sticks when you pull the drawers. The desk lamp flickers once before it holds it drops into the chair like the weight of the coat belongs to him as much as the shoulders. Beneath it. On the desk sits the evidence bag Inside IOU, burned at the edges, curled like something wanted to disappear but didn't finish the job. The writing bleeding into the paper like blood soaking cloth. He stares at it, takes a deep breath and doesn't touch it For a moment.
Speaker 1:The precinct moves around him. Phones ring, keyboards, clack, radio squawks, static lace, chatter about robberies, domestics and a stolen Buick on the west side, but none of it reaches him. He's locked on the IOU, like it might speak if he waits long enough. The sound of boots approach black. He carries two styrofoam cups of coffee, one in each hand. He sets down one beside him without asking. The steam curls faint against the folds, still clinging to his coat. You're welcome, she says.
Speaker 1:Grayson doesn't look up, his eyes stay on the bag. Black pulls up a chair, sits across from him, doesn't speak. At first she knows when silence does the work better than the worth. Finally she breaks it. You sure it's your handwriting. His jaw works once he nods. Just once I used to use red ink. He said His voice flat. But the words weigh Thought it made the note stand out.
Speaker 1:Black lifts her cup and sips Coffee's too hot, too bitter, kinda tastes more like punishment than caffeine. He sits it down slow. Did he owe you something? Grayson finally looks away from the IOU long enough to pick up his cup. He drinks Liquid, scalds his tongue but it keeps him anchored. He owed a lot of people, he said. Black doesn't move. He pulls her notepad from her jacket pocket, flips it open, pen poised. You want me to tell you how your writing ends up on a dead man's debt slip. The question is precise, surgical. She doesn't list it with accusations, she doesn't need to.
Speaker 1:Grayson sets the coffee down. His hand lingers on the rim, thumb tracing the styrofoam groove. There is a deal, he says, years ago. We're almost caught running numbers through a police-backed sting. Should have gone away for ten. He pauses. Then he breathes. I burn the report in exchange. Black finishes it for him. He owed you. Grayson nods once.
Speaker 1:Information Names Nothing violent, just leverage. Information names nothing violent, just leverage. His voice dips in the last word like it tastes rotten in his mouth. I was young. I thought if I controlled the scum I could keep the streets clean. Black raises an eyebrow.
Speaker 1:Her pens tap against the page. Well, how'd that work out for you? He gives a hollow smile, more grimace than grin. I stopped keeping score. The words hang there. They kind of sound like a confession but feel like a verdict.
Speaker 1:Black leans back, chair creaking under her weight. She studies him eyes sharp. You think this was revenge. Grayson shakes his head. No, okay, then what? He taps the evidence bag. The eye of you stares back at both of them. I think it was an audit. The words drop heavy. Not vengeance, not payback. An audit, a balancing of the books.
Speaker 1:They sit in silence. Phones ring, typewriters clatter Somewhere across the room. A detective swears at a jam stapler, but at his desk the silence stretches. Finally Black speaks again. You ever think about what he owed you. Someone came knocking on your door. Grayson doesn't answer. His hands tighten on the cup of coffee until the styrofoam creaks. The silence between them shifts. It feels like a ledger, invisible columns of numbers stretching between them, debts, tallied Interests accruing. Black studies his face. She doesn't push further. But the question hangs like smoke Across the room. A typewriter dings, a fresh sheet slaps into place. The sound is sharp, final, like a gavel striking wood. Grayson doesn't look up. His eyes stay on the IOU, as if the paper holds the answer to questions he's spent years refusing to ask. The edges of the card curl tighter inside the bag, as though even the fire didn't want to finish the job.
Speaker 1:The day drags. Calls come in, reports pile up, the precinct calms with the routine of chaos of a city that never runs out of crimes. But at Grayson's desk time slows. Every tick of the clock overhead feels heavier than the last. At one point Black leaves to make a call. Her voice is low, steady, professional, but when she glances back her eyes linger on him longer than they should. Grayson doesn't notice, or pretends not to.
Speaker 1:He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, marlboro Reds, worn at the edges. The pack's soft from use, doesn't light. One just taps the filter against his palm Again and again, like the rhythm might drown out the thought. How you stare is back. You never paid. The red ink feels louder now, louder than the phones, louder than the typewriters, louder than the city.
Speaker 1:Grayson exhales through his nose, closes the pack, puts it back into his pocket. He leans back in his chair, sealing above him a stain from the leak that was patched five years ago. The stain never left a watermark of failure. He closes his eyes for a second. He sees Ramos alive again, sweating, talking too fast, offering too much cheap suit, desperate grin. The memory is so vivid it feels like Ramos might step through the door right now, still begging for the deal that started it all. Grayson opens his eyes. Stain is still there. The IOU is still on the desk. Black returns, drops into her chair and watches him. You look like you've seen a ghost, she says. He doesn't answer, he doesn't smile, he doesn't move. He just says maybe I have clock ticks on. The ledger between them remains unbalanced and the ink of the IOU is still wet.
Speaker 1:Part 2. The Backroom Favor. Grayson parks two blocks away, the same way he always does when the destination isn't meant for daylight. Parking close is sloppy. Parking close makes you memorable. Two block gives the street time to swallow your name before you knock on the door. That remembers too much. The air is wet, with February Dirty slush piled against the curves, yellowed from weeks of cars spinning. Exhaust through the snow. Neon buzzes faint from the corner bar. Last call, glowing in letters that flicker one by one. Exhaust through the snow. Neon buzzes faint from the corner bar. Last call, glowing in letters that flicker. One by one, they're dying of old age. A baseline hums through the brick. Muffled substance, synthetic and sharp, probably to plush mode, bleeding out of the jukebox.
Speaker 1:Grayson doesn't stop there. He cuts the alley. The alley stinks of sour beer and rainwater soaked into the cardboard. Rats scatter against the dented trash cans. Tails quick as whispers. He passes the dumpster with a half-rusted lid, the one that's been there since before the city stopped pretending this neighborhood was worth fixing.
Speaker 1:At the end, door Paint peeling and Ninja sagging, a padlock that looks tough but hasn't clicked shut in years. Grayson lifts his hand, knocks once, pauses, knocks twice more. Door opens a crack. The man on the other side is shaped like regret Wide shoulders under a grease-stained undershirt, belly, heavy, gray beard, patchy, like he got tired of keeping up with the rest of them. Pistol rides under his apron as naturally as a belt. Buckle His eyes, black marble, slunk deep. He studied Grayson for half a second. Recognition lands, he nods once, steps back, no words.
Speaker 1:Grayson slips inside. The hallway hasn't changed. The walls are the color of cigarette tar, every inch layered with smoke from men who thought the last puff would make them lucky. A single lightbulb hangs overhead, buzzing faint, the chain swinging with every draft. The floor groaned. They passed through. The back room still smells the same Whiskey gone, stale Sweat cooked into the wood, desperation ground down into the carpet until it became part of the fabric. The table sits where it always did Green felt, worn, thin, cigarette burns, pocketed like constellations. No one wanted to chart Cherished creek. When you touch them, the sound of a memory sitting down beside you, grayson, pauses. This is where it happened Years ago, when the lines between cop and hostel were thinner, blurred by smoke and need. You can still see the memory overlaps the room like a transparency sheet.
Speaker 1:Ramos in a pinstripe suit that wasn't his size, the tie askew, sweat, staining the collar, talking too fast, felling himself like a man peddling counterfeit gold. His mouth never stopped moving, his hand shook. You saved me. Ramos had begged words trembling. You burnt that file and I'll keep you cleaner than God's laundry. Nobody will touch you, not the feds, not the streets. I'll give you names so pure you can wash in them. Grayson had to laugh then, Not because it was funny, because it was pathetic, but he'd still taken the deal. The file had burned, the ink had curled and Grayson's hands hadn't been cleaned since.
Speaker 1:Now the dealer sits at the table. He has it aged well. His face looks carved out of gristle and cheap cigars. His eyes yellow at the edges. He smirks when Grayson answers, showing teeth that look too sharp for a man who's lost so many bets. You come to cash in. His voice is gravel, dragged across asphalt. Grayson shakes his head, drops into a chair opposite of him. I came to remember. The dealer chuckles, pulls the cigar from a tin, lights it with a silver lighter, the flame reflecting in his tired eyes. He blows smoke across the table. Funny thing about memories he says they're only as clean as the ones who keep them.
Speaker 1:Grayson leans forward. Tell me what happened after I left. The dealer taps the ash into a chipped ashtray. I almost got greedy. Thought he could work. Both sides Started selling names twice, one for the cops, one for the syndicates. Same secret Two buyers, pocket full of IOUs, each one like a ticking time bomb.
Speaker 1:Grayson Jaws tightened. He remembers Ramos bragging about how silver his tongue was. Or he could talk his way out of a coffin if someone gave him two minutes. He always said he could talk his way out of anything. The dealer grins yeah, right up to the end.
Speaker 1:The silence stretches. The only sound is the buzz of the light, the scrape of the dealer's cigar against his teeth. Grayson pushes back from the table and stands. Thanks, the dealer shrugs. I owed you one. Grayson pauses at the door and looks back Don't? He says, and walks out.
Speaker 1:The alley air is colder now. His breath fogs and then dissipates. He pulls a cigarette from his pack, lights it with a matchbook he shouldn't be carrying. Flame flickers against the graffiti-scrawled brick. Smoke curls up For a moment. It looks like the shape of the ledger line stretching endless into the dark. Grayson exhales, thinks about leverage. How many times he told himself leverage was control, that silence could be bought, buried or bartered. But silence doesn't stay buried. Eventually it talks back. He flicks the matchbook to the ground, watches it burn out against the slush, a small orange eye closing on the alley floor and as the light dies, let his last trace of comfort he once took from the deal Part 3.
Speaker 1:When Black Knew, the sun hadn't been up long, but the precinct already sounded like a hive cracked open. Bones rang in uneven rhythms. Typewriters clacked, each one a different tempo. Voices carried across the bullpen, some clipped with fatigue, others heavy with hangovers, others just loud enough to prove they were still alive. Black sat at her desk, hand tapping against the margin of her notebook, not writing, just tapping. The rhythm didn't belong to her hand, it belonged to the silence pressing in on her thoughts Across the room.
Speaker 1:Grayson leaned over the evidence board. He moved pens around with a ritual precision, stringing invisible lines that didn't connect to anything yet. Photos of the freezer, the body, iou. His posture was rigid, shoulders square, but his eyes betrayed something else. They were fixed too long, like if he stared hard enough the pieces would rearrange themselves. Black watched. It wasn't the look of a detective chasing a killer. He knew that look. He lived beside it, night after night, case after case. The look of hunger, forward momentum, wanting the puzzle more than fearing the answer. No, this was, this was different. This was the look of a man trying not to be caught.
Speaker 1:She rose her boots, scraping the floor, walked over Steady, each step, carrying the weight of someone who already knew more than she wanted to. She stopped beside him and leaned against the board, though her shoulder brushed his Close enough that other detectives in the room would think they were trading theories. Close enough that Grayson would know better. We almost had your handwriting, she said, voice, even Not accusing, not yet Deal. You never logged and you're not asking the one question that actually matters.
Speaker 1:Grayson's eyes stayed on the board. He didn't turn. Okay, what question's that? Black tilted her head toward the photos, breath fogged faintly in the cold air of the bullpen. Who knew? The silence that followed was heavy? She could feel him searching for a place to put the answer. She didn't give him one. Someone knew you made that deal. She went on. Someone always wants to dismantle you slowly. If you don't let me in, I can't help you stop them.
Speaker 1:Grayson finally looked at her, his eyes gray red, with red from smoke and sleeplessness. He held hers without flinching, but there was no answer to them, only walls. Black straightened when I first started working with you, he said, voice quieter. Now I thought you were just tired, worn down, maybe even haunted. He paused, eyes narrowing. I've been watching you. I think it's more than that. Down, maybe even haunted. He paused, eyes narrowing. I've been watching you. I think it's more than that. Deep past. You're not haunted, grayson, you're hiding.
Speaker 1:The words landed like a blade, not a strike, just the cold pressed against the skin, a reminder of what could come next. He didn't deny it, he didn't move, he didn't blink. You still trust me, he asked. Black looked at him for a long time, kind of looked at, stripped the badge off, both of them Like the only two people standing in the shadow of truth neither wanted to face. Finally she nodded. For now she stepped back. The weight of her boots on the floor sounded louder than the phones, louder than the typewriters, louder than the chatter. She walked away, not fast, not slow, but deliberate, each step, pulling the truss between them tighter and thinner.
Speaker 1:Grayson exhaled soft, almost soundless. He reached for the evidence bag on the desk, pulled the eye review out, turned it in with his gloved hands. His thumb traced the edge. Char left a ripple on the surface like the paper itself had resisted being erased. He stared at it. The words flared back you never paid. In the back of his mind a voice whispered, not Ramos, not Black. His own voice, younger, sharper. Back when the ink was fresh. He always thought red ink made the words matter more. Grayson closed his eyes, but the burn marks still smoldered.
Speaker 1:Part Four the Ones you Owe. The gym doesn't look like much from the street. No signage, just a red door with chipped paint and a padlock that hangs loose, a bluff against anyone who doesn't know better, the kind of place that the city forgets on purpose. Grayson pushes the door open. The hinges complain, but they let him in. The air inside is thick Sweat and leather. Mildew in the walls, disinfectant, failing to cover the years of blood ground under the canvas. A single bulb dangles above the ring. It's like throwing long shadows across heavy bags that sway like tired men. Someone in the back radio crackles through static, a DJ mumbling before cutting into Peter Gabriel's Mercy Street. The song hangs in the space like incense.
Speaker 1:She's there, monica. Her hair is tied back, streaks of gray showing now, but her body is still cut from the same stone it always was. She's wrapping her hands now. Deliberate Tape winds around her knuckles like a ritual. She looks up before he says a word Detective. He says Monica. He nods towards a stool. He doesn't sit, you're still punching things. He says hey, it's cheaper than therapy. A corner of her mouth twitches almost a smile. He almost left himself return it.
Speaker 1:Almost five years since they last saw each other. Five years since he burned her, not romantically, professionally, made her cover for a decision that nearly cost her bad, then disappeared, disappeared into silence. No calls, no thanks, no apology. Now here he is, baseline, deeper eyes carrying ghosts, coast heavy with more than the cold. I need to know something. He says. He keeps rapping I'm retired.
Speaker 1:You ever work with Ramos? After I left, tape stops. She pulls it tight Once she says he tried to trade information about a judge. I didn't bite. He panicked. Why. Her eyes cut to his. He said your name was stolen on the ledger. Is? He said your name was stolen on the ledger? Grayson frowns, his voice dropped, takes a breath. He told me it was burned. Monica ties off the wrap, flexes her hand it was, but he kept a copy. Said it was insurance. Grayson exhales through his nose, sharp, of course Ramos did.
Speaker 1:Monica steps into the ring, starts shadowboxing Her fists, cut the air, gloves whispering With each strike. He said something else. He called over her shoulder. Grayson steps closer. He said if anything ever happened to him, they'd come looking for you next. Grayson leans on the ropes, coat brushing canvas. Who's they? She throws a jab hard, a smack echoes Guess you're about to find out. The words hang heavier than the music, heavier than the smell, heavier than the years between them. He watches her move, sharp and controlled, A rhythm that hasn't dulled. She's older. She's still dangerous, still precise and still right. Later, in his car, he pulls out the AU from his pocket. Their burn mark is deeper now, like it's been chewing itself while he wasn't looking, flips it over For a second, he swears smoke curls from the edge. Maybe it's his eyes, maybe it's the truth. Either way, the ledger isn't finished, not yet.
Speaker 1:Part 5. The Debt that Struck. It's late. When he finally makes it home. The city outside is awash with sodium lights and steam rising from sewer grates, but inside his apartment is just shadows and silence. Grayson drops his coat on the back of a chair and sits without taking off his tie. The table is scarred wood, ringed with old cigarette burns, the kind that mark time better than any clock. Single desk lamp throws a pool of yellow light across its surface, leaving the corners of the room in shadow. The hum of the refrigerator fills the silence. Steady and unbending, on the table in front of him, the IOU, burned, curled alive in its silence. He stares at it like an open wound.
Speaker 1:After a long moment he opens a drawer. Inside is an old tape recorder, the kind that still chews through cassettes. With a click and a whirr he pulls one out. The label reads in faded ink Ramos 2-83. He slides in and presses play. The tape hisses, then a voice leaks through Ramos.
Speaker 1:Come on, man, you owe me this. Younger, oilier words, rolling like dice. Then another verse, his own, younger, stronger, more alive. You owe me. That's what we're sitting here in this dump instead of court. A laugh, for almost again. You always play hard, gray, like you're like you're like you've got something to prove. The laugh dies. Silence hums on the tape. Then you ever wonder what you'd do without the badge. Grayson's younger voice doesn't answer. Just a pause. Then we're almost again soft cutting I think you'd be me.
Speaker 1:Grayson stops the tape. The silence afterwards is worse than the word. It echoes in the walls in his chest and the years that stretch between that moment and now. He rewinds, plays again You'd be me. He presses stop. The cassette clicks like a coffin lid. His hands drift to the table.
Speaker 1:The matchbook lying beside the IOU the same kind found in Eli's mouth Treasurer had coughed this one up too. Flips it open a men's side flap scribbled in rough ink. Your ledger is leaking. Letters crawl across the paper like veins. Grayson snaps it shut not carefully, violently. The lamp flickers and for a moment the IOU looks like it's smoldering again. Grayson snaps it shut not carefully, violently. The lamp flickers and for a moment the IOU looks like it's smoldering again. He leans back, runs a hand over his face, his stubble scratches against his palm. His eyes burn. For a moment he lets himself imagine what it would mean if Ramos was right, that without the badge he'd be nothing more than Ramos. The thought lingers longer than he wants.
Speaker 1:The next morning, black finds him in the precinct. He's at his desk, head slumped forward, asleep, the lamp still burning. That eye you clenched in one hand, the matchbook in the other. The blinds leak sunlight into the room, cutting across his face like bars. The light feels less like dawn and more like an interrogation lamp. She doesn't wake him, not yet. He just stands there watching and if he can feel her eyes. Even in sleep, grayson mutters we don't bury debts, we just forget where to put them. The words tell her more than the outside ever could. The city falls away behind him Streetlights thinning traffic bleeding into nothing but the hum of tires on a wet pavement. Out here the sky hangs low and gray February clouds stretching flat across the horizon, the kind of road people only take when they don't want to be followed.
Speaker 1:Grayson drives with the window cracked just enough for smoke to curl out. The cigarette burns down low between his fingers, ash trembling with every bump in the road. His collar is turned up, tie loosened, shirt creased with fatigue. The radio is off. Silence keeps him company. After 30 miles the skyline is gone, just fields now, mud frozen in ridges, weeds bowing under the weight of frost.
Speaker 1:He turns down an old service road tires sinking in a soft earth, the car laboring forward until the farmhouse appears. There's a skeleton, more than a house. The roof is caved in, windows scattered, paint peeled to the bone. Once it was a family place, now it's just bones for crows. He parks, steps out, the wind cuts sharp. His coat flaps against his legs, heavy and tired legs, heavy and tired.
Speaker 1:In his hand a small Model 10. Inside IOU, the matchbook and transcript he typed himself from the tape he shouldn't have kept. He kneels in the dirt, sets the 10 down, strikes a mat, holds it between his fingers until the fire licks his skin and he drops it inside. The paper catches fast, the edge, curling inward, red ink screaming before it disappears. The matchbook follows Its warning swallowed. The transcript crumbles, the letter's melting in the ash. Grayson watches. It doesn't move. The fire burns bright for a moment, flare against the gray sky, then it gutters, dies, smoke curls upward, disappearing into the wind. He waits until nothing but embers, closes the lid, leaves the tin in the weed, doesn't bury it, doesn't look back.
Speaker 1:That night he showers with the lights off. Steam curls thick, ghosting the mirror. His head tips forward under the steam water, tracing lines of his face, flipping over his closed eyes. He braces both hands against the tile, shoulders hunched. The water runs hot but he feels cold. The mirror fogs Slowly. Letters form in the condensation Ledger, blocked letters, heavy and clear. He doesn't flinch, doesn't blink, swipes away with the heel of his palm Hard until the glass squeaks. Until the words smear to nothing, he shuts off. The water stands in the dark. The drip of the faucet echoes like the tick of a clock.
Speaker 1:Later, at the precinct, he pins Victor Ramos' photo to the board. Faces stare back at him. A gallery of ghosts, Eli now Ramos. Both pieces of himself he thought he buried. Both staring back with the same unspoken question how many more Black steps into the room behind him. Her leather jacket creaks as she shifts her weight. Her boots squeak against the tile. He doesn't turn. She looks at the board, at the faces at him. Whose neck, she asks? Grayson exhales. The sound is thin and tired. The silence answers for him. Just silence. Grayson's Monologue End of Episode 2.
Speaker 1:Some debts don't show up on paper, they show up in silence. In the same way, someone looks at you when they know what you've cost them, in the pause between words, when your trust has been broken, but pride won't let it be spoken In the way. You can't walk past a mirror without seeing the version of yourself that should have done better than staring back at you. Victor Ramos was never a friend, not in the way people use that word when they mean loyalty, or history or affection. He was a mirror. He was a version of me.
Speaker 1:I wanted to believe I could control A hustler, a talker, a man who thought leverage was the same as survival. I thought if I pulled his strings I could keep the streets cleaner, that I could direct the dirt instead of drowning in it. That was a lie, the biggest one, because you can't control dirt, you just learn how to live with the stain. When I burned the report, I told myself it was tactical a play. I wasn't dirty, I wasn't compromised. I was smart. I was making sure that the city lost one less chess piece to chaos. But here's the truth no one's clean and there is no clean. There's only degrees of dirt.
Speaker 1:We're almost like to joke that if I ever turned on him, he'd bury me with the same shovel I used to dig his hole. He thought it was funny. I laughed with him once, but he wasn't wrong. He didn't bury me though. He built me, but he wasn't wrong. He didn't bury me though he built me. Every IOU, every name, every secret, he whispered into my hand. They were bricks and I stacked them into a wall between who I was and who I wanted to be. A barrier, I told myself, was protection. But protection comes isolation, and isolation becomes the cage you build for yourself. I told myself I was using him, that he was just a pawn on my board, that I could walk away whenever I wanted. But pawns don't keep ledgers, kings do. And Ramos he kept the ledger. He wrote the debts in ink that didn't wash away.
Speaker 1:The moment I saw him in that freezer, I realized something I've been avoiding for years seeing that someone killed him and that killed a part of me. That thought negotiation was survival. That thought leverage was control. That thought silence could be bought and buried, and for a moment I felt free. But it never lasts, because when the silence comes back, when the hum dies, when the cigarette burns down, when the city finally shuts its mouth, the only thing that's left is the question how many pieces of yourself can you burn before there's nothing left but the smoke? That's what debts rarely are. Not the money, not the favor. The piece of yourself you traded away so you didn't have to face the truth. The nights you stayed silent when you should have spoken. The deals you've made not to win but to avoid losing.
Speaker 1:And here's the part you might have missed that, al, you wasn't about Ramos, it was about his debts. It was about time. It was about mine. It was my handwriting, my red ink, my old belief that I just made the words stand out enough that maybe I could convince myself they meant something. Maybe I could trick myself into believing I wasn't selling pieces of who I was. But you can't trick yourself forever. Eventually the ledger comes back and that's the real cost. You can burn every piece of paper, you can throw away every match, pretend the ledger doesn't exist, but it does. And that question that will eat you alive, whether it's whether you can erase it or not, it's whether you can live with what's written in it.
Speaker 1:Victor was dangerous because he believed the lies you told, and once so did I. Victor Ramos was a ledger man. He thought Survivor was arithmetic. You trade a name here, a secret there. Balance a book before anyone comes to collect. He lived in IOUs. Every handshake was a contract, every silence was a down payment. But he made one mistake. He thought he'd leverage. He thought leverage could outlive the man holding it.
Speaker 1:Ramos could erase anything he collected. He hoarded. He carried debts like trophies in his coat pockets, ious curled and burned, at the edges, waiting to be weaponized. He believed information made him untouchable. He believed silence could be owned. Silence isn't something you own. Silence owns you and Ron must belong to it, long before that freezer door ever closed behind him.
Speaker 1:Here's the code the cost of peace is paid in absolutes. No maybes, no margins, no ledgers waiting to be balanced. If someone holds a version of you that no longer exists, erase them. If they keep a record, burn it. If they believe they still own a piece of you that no longer exists, erase them. If they keep a record, burn it. If they believe they still own a piece of you, take it back. Peace of mind does not come from negotiation. It comes from deletion.
Speaker 1:Ramos thought he could protect me. He said his leverage would keep me safe, that he'd buy me an insurance policy, a buffer between me and the wolves. But protection bought with leverage is still extortion. He wasn't protecting me. He was holding me hostage to my own past. That's what people like him do. They cling to the fragments of who used to be waiting for the moment to sell them back to you at full price. I don't bargain with ghosts. I erase them. Understand this.
Speaker 1:When you let someone keep a piece of you, you are not free. When you let them hold your IOUs, you are already lost because they'll cash it in when you're weakest. When they do, it will cost you the debt. It will cost you everything you built to hide it. That's why Ramos had to die. Not because he lied, not because he cheated, not because he betrayed me. He had to die because he believed he still owned me. He thought the ledger made me his. But the code is clear. No one holds your ledger but you. Lesson is clear no one holds your ledger but you. Lesson is simple you cannot build a peace of mind on borrowed silence. You cannot build freedom on IOUs. If someone thinks they stole a version of you, prove them wrong. If they won't, let go, remove them. If they won't burn the ledger, burn it for them. Ramos thought he was my keeper, my memory, my shadow. But peace isn't found in being forgiven, it's found in being unreachable. And now he cannot reach me yet.
Speaker 1:You know, before I get into my outro here, you know it's when you're doing stuff like this, right, it's really easy to see how fast people can get caught up, you know, and how, in that world that they live in, that it's really a tit for tat. You know, one hand washes the other, I'll do this and you do that, but that's how sometimes things get solved and resolved. So it's always important to think about that. You know, because, as I'm talking about this, you know tonight's story wasn't about Victor Ramos. It wasn't about a hustler and got a cheap suit or a burned IOU left behind in a freezer. That was the surface.
Speaker 1:The deeper meaning, the one you might have not noticed, is what Ramos represented. He was the one who lied, not just because he ran cons or flipped names or lived off of favors. He lied because his entire life was built on the illusion that leverage is power. He believed if he collected enough secrets, enough debts, enough silence, he could protect himself. He thought leverage can make him untouchable. But leverage doesn't make you free, it makes you owned. And this is where it turns back on you, because you may not live in the underbelly of Chicago, but you have your own ledgers. You've made your own deals. Every time you've compromised who you were to avoid facing your weakness, every time you stayed silent when you should have spoken, every time you put up a promise to yourself tomorrow I'll change. Tomorrow I'll pay it back. Tomorrow I'll be better. You wrote yourself an IOU. That's the meaning behind this episode.
Speaker 1:The lies we tell ourselves don't just disappear, they collect interest. You know, think about what happened in that freezer. Yes, the body, yes, the bullet. Yes, the burned card. But the IOU, it wasn't just evidence, it was a mirror. It showed that deaths don't die just because you stop thinking about them.
Speaker 1:And here's what you really might have missed that there were two IOUs in the story. There were two Ayus in the story. The obvious one was the card that was left in Ramos' lap right, but the second one was invisible. It was the silence between Grayson and Black. That silence was his own debt. It was the cost of him hiding a piece of himself, and it was already being collected. Maybe that's the same for you.
Speaker 1:You think your compromises are private. You think that the promises you broke are only between you and yourself. But they leak. They show up in your relationships, in your work, in your habits, in your eyes. When you look in the mirror. See, silence doesn't stay hidden, it speaks.
Speaker 1:Let me bring this closer. Where in your life are you living, like Ramos? Where are you keeping a ledger, holding on to debts or bargaining with God? Right, maybe you promised yourself you'd get serious about your health or your discipline or your vision, but instead of following through, you wrote yourself an IOU. You know, tomorrow you'll start, tomorrow you'll quit, tomorrow you'll change. You know, maybe you hurt somebody, maybe you lied or you walked away or you failed them and instead of facing it, you burned it. You told yourself time would erase it. But time doesn't erase, it just actually occurs interest. Or maybe it's not about the others at all. Maybe it's about the version of you that still runs your life the manipulator, the coward, the quitter, the one who smiles to hide the shame.
Speaker 1:Diversion once kept you alive, but they're now calling the shots today. They're still calling the shots today, I really should say and if they are, what is that costing you? Here's the thing you don't get peace of mind from negotiation. You get it from deletion. You can't keep bargaining with yourself, writing IOUs you never intend to pay. You can't keep building your peace on borrowed silence, hoping no one ashes it in. At some point you have to burn the ledger. See, this episode is about the cost of not doing that. Ramos thought leverage would protect him. Instead, it trapped him, and the same will happen to you if you keep holding on to debts you should have erased years ago. So the work waiting for you now is this confront your ledger, don't just glance at it. Don't just acknowledge it, face it, burn it, delete what no longer belongs. That's how you move forward. That's how you stop being haunted by versions of yourself that no longer deserve to live.
Speaker 1:Let's go ahead. Let's get into our five reflections. So, to help you step into that work, I really want you to sit with these questions. Okay, and these are not quick questions. Think of them almost as like things to meditate on, right. Give each one time, let it press against you, okay.
Speaker 1:Reflection one who have you made deals with, not for power, but to avoid your own weakness? Right, think about the compromises you've made, because you're afraid to face yourself. Who did you pull into those compromises, right? Who are you still carrying the weight of, or who's still carrying the weight of? Right? Think about that, think about those. So that's one, Okay.
Speaker 1:Or two what part of your past is still collecting interest, even though you thought you buried it? What's the memory, what mistake or failure still shaping your decisions today? And where does the past still own you? Right, it's big, it's a big meditation, right? Number three if you burned every record of your guilt, what would still be written in your face? Paper can turn to ash, but your body doesn't forget. Look closely, what's still written in your eyes, your posture, your silence. Number four what version of you learned to survive by manipulation? And is that version still calling the shots? The hustler, the liar, the quitter, the coward? Which one is still on the chart, and what is it costing you to let them keep leading? Number five how much of your current peace is still built on someone else's silence? Be honest Is your peace really yours or does it exist only because someone else has spoken, hasn't cashed in the IOU? Has it reminded you who you used to be? Those are big ones, you know.
Speaker 1:This is such an awesome series to do and this probably in the episode four and five. You're going to understand why we're doing a second monologue before I get into mine. You'll get it'll come clear soon, if it hasn't already. I left some pretty big clues tonight, but I want to thank every single one of you for listening. I cannot tell you how much it means to me. So, as we're talking about that, I love the support you guys are giving to this series and to my show.
Speaker 1:If you want to help out, it's so simple and easy. Just leave a review right and then another thing you do is share this with somebody. Share it with a family member, share it with a friend, share it with a stranger. I literally got an email today. This is no kidding. I got an email today. A lady gets on the bus. I literally got an email today. This is no kidding. I got an email today. A lady gets on the bus. She doesn't have headphones right, but she listens to my podcast every day and she actually has a group of people. This is no kidding. She actually has a group of people who listen to this with her every day, and then they talk about these questions that I just gave. It's crazy, never thought something like that would happen, but there it is. So I want to do a shout out to you for doing that.
Speaker 1:So, guys, if you, oh, before I go, yes, there's three ways to get a hold of me too, let's not forget. First way is going to be through, actually, the description of this, of this podcast. There's a let's chat function. You click on that and you and I can have a conversation about this series, this episode, the 15 other series and the what 280 plus now episodes that are out there. Okay, and uh. Second way is gonna be through my email. My email is anthony at gentsjourneycom. And then, last but not least, you can always reach out to me on my instagram. My instagram is my gents journey. So again, guys, thank you so much for listening today and remember this you create your reality. Take care.