All Due Respect Issue #1 by Mike Miner, Chris F. Holm, Todd Robinson, Renee Asher Pickup, Paul D. Brazill, Travis Richardson, Walter Conley

was a stamped-tin ashtray overflowing with butts and a six-pack with five in the rings. The sixth can was on the floor. Dad picked it up and drank, slurping at the rim.
    “I like what you’ve done with the place,” Isaac said.
    “Huh?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Sit down if you want,” Dad said, pointing at a chair that was buried under trash. “Knock that shit on the floor.”
    The couch was cleaner, so Isaac sat there, causing his father to slide away.
    “Mind if I skiv a beer?” Isaac asked.
    “Be my guest…”
    “Isaac.”
    “I know your goddamn name.”
    “What is it?”
    “Fuck you, kid.” The old man laughed. “So, what do you want? You need something? Money? ’Cause if that’s what you’re after, you came to the wrong place.”
    “Nah,” Isaac said. “I just came by to see how you were. Toss one down.”
    “Well, that’s okay, then.”
    “Okay, then.”
    “Smoke?”
    “Don’t mind if I do,” Isaac said.
    Isaac lit his smoke and took a drink. The beer was nasty. Even if it had been chilled, it would have been tough to swallow.
    “You got anything stronger?” he asked. “I’m having kind of a bad day.”
    “I’m having kind of a bad life, kid. How’s vodka? I got vodka.”
    “That’ll work.”
    Dad trudged to the kitchen, knocked something over, swore, then came in with a bottle and two plastic cups. He sat and poured, filling the cups like it was spring water.
    “Thanks, Dad.”
    Neither of them said much. Dad raised his cup, smirking in Isaac’s direction when the TV show amused him. Isaac egged him on, guzzling the vodka so Dad would have to keep up. The alcohol didn’t faze Isaac now—he could’ve aced a field sobriety test on a highwire. But it KO’d his drunk father. Twenty minutes in, Dad closed his eyes, fell back on the couch with his face toward the ceiling, dumped his cup on his lap. His mouth dropped open. He began to snore.
    Isaac said, “I watched a great show about chalk today.”
    No response.
    “Cheers,” Isaac said, standing and splashing his own drink on his father’s chest.
    He found Dad’s car keys in a bowl on top of the refrigerator. Under the key ring was a wad of moist cash, twenty-seven bucks, which he also stole.
    The gun was in the apartment’s only bedroom, at the back of Dad’s sock and underwear drawer. It was a big, heavy revolver, a .38. And it was loaded. Isaac recalled Mom fighting with Dad when he brought it home, giving no explanation for why he needed it.
    Next to the pistol was a thin stack of photographs cinched with a rubber band, the photos curved inward. Isaac paged through without removing the band. They were shots of Isaac, Mom, and Edith, old Kodak prints marked with dates. He put them back, slammed the drawer shut and walked to the door, aiming the gun at his father’s head as he passed him, then tucked the .38 at his waist and stepped out into the night.

    The car was a piece of shit, a Dodge Colt from early 90s, with blown shocks and a mushy transmission. The heater spewed cool air. It did, however, have tinted windows. Dad wouldn’t have tinted them. The previous owner must have done it. At any rate, Isaac was grateful.
    He topped the tank at the first gas station he saw. Leaving the gun in the car, under the driver’s seat, he went inside to pay, buying a large black coffee, a bag of Fritos, and a knit cap. Isaac put on the cap and removed his jacket when he got back in. He turned on the factory stereo. The FM band didn’t work. Listening to an AM talk-show about high school football to mask the noise of the car, he left the station and headed downtown.
    He drove by Tommy’s usual haunts: Bridey’s All-Night, Thames Street Billiards, Washington Park, the Shamrock Café. Tommy was nowhere to be found. His car, a two-tone Lexus, wasn’t at his house on Church Street. Isaac went to Earl’s. He parked at an empty lot where a storage facility used to stand, a short drive from Earl’s in the opposite direction from the