Chapter 9: Ginger and the Credit Cards
"Wait a minute... Ginger was Frank's aunt, right? Then why the hell has Frank been collecting her pension—for over ten years?!"
Frank's eyes went wide as the details suddenly clicked in his mind.
"Frank, what the hell have you done?" he blurted out, stunned.
His memories of being "Frank" were fuzzy and fragmented—like watching a movie on fast-forward. He'd only caught the broad strokes. Most of the details had flown by unnoticed, and only through focused effort could he start recalling specifics.
Now, it finally came to him—Ginger was his aunt.
But Ginger had been dead for over a decade!
The old "Frank" had kept her death a secret in order to continue cashing in on her pension and survivor benefits. He'd been living off her checks, blowing the money without a care—for more than ten years.
This wasn't just some petty scam. If this got exposed, it would mean serious federal prison time.
"Jesus, Frank!" he cursed aloud, running a hand down his face.
It was hard to believe that "Frank" had taken such a massive risk and treated it like no big deal. No wonder Frank himself hadn't noticed it at first while sifting through those memories—it barely registered as important in the haze of recklessness.
But thinking about it now, it made a twisted sort of sense. "Frank" had gotten away with it for so long that he probably assumed he always would.
But this Frank? He couldn't afford to be that careless.
He had kids now. A real chance at a family.
He wasn't about to lose all that—before he even got a taste of what a real family could be—just to cover for the old Frank's crimes.
With the way things currently stood between him and his children, if he ended up in prison, none of them would come to visit. And honestly, he wouldn't blame them. But he also wasn't going to sit back and take the fall for someone else's mess.
"Calm down," he muttered, gripping the check in his hand like it was burning his skin. He took a deep breath.
He had to remember exactly what happened with Ginger.
From what he could piece together from "Frank's" memories, Ginger hadn't been a model citizen either. In fact, she'd died during a drug binge with "Frank"—they were both high, but Ginger had taken it too far and overdosed.
Then "Frank" had buried her in the backyard. Literally.
He told everyone she was living in a care facility in Wisconsin.
Doing the math, if Ginger were somehow still alive, she'd be in her 90s by now.
And someone in their 90s still collecting benefits, with no signs of life, no medical records, no visits? That was bound to raise red flags. Eventually, someone was going to investigate.
Even more concerning—Frank suddenly remembered something else about Ginger. The house they were living in? It wasn't theirs. It was Ginger's.
If the truth about Ginger came out, not only would he end up in prison, but the house would be gone too. The kids would be kicked out onto the street.
The thought made Frank clutch his head in frustration. He had thought his biggest problem was dealing with a houseful of resentful kids and a life of poverty. But now this? Ginger's skeleton—literally and figuratively—was about to come crashing out of the closet.
"I've got to fix this Ginger mess first," Frank muttered.
The problem was… he had no idea how.
"Huh?" Just as his headache was reaching a peak, Frank caught something out of the corner of his eye. A crumpled envelope he'd earlier tossed aside, thinking it was junk mail.
He was pretty sure he'd seen Lip's name on it.
"Son of a—!" He tore the envelope open and read the contents. His eyes went wide in disbelief.
Panicking, he dove into the pile of discarded mail and started flipping through everything. Sure enough, he found more letters—addressed to his other kids.
They were all bills. Credit card bills.
That bastard "Frank" had taken out credit cards in the names of his own children—and maxed them out.
Anyone familiar with the U.S. banking system knows how easy it is to get a credit card. Banks practically throw them at you, begging you to borrow and spend. The process is dead simple.
"Mother—Frank! What the hell did you do?!" Frank shouted, staring at the statements, his heart sinking like a stone.
Just then, the front door creaked open.
"Frank, long time no see," said a gaunt, balding man with deep, shadowed eyes and a permanently miserable expression. He leaned into the doorway and gave Frank a tired wave.
"You're… Mister?" Frank said, squinting at the vaguely familiar face.
Mikey was one of "Frank's" old drinking buddies—classic deadbeat friend material.
In America, most financial statements get mailed out. Since "Frank" had applied for the credit cards behind the kids' backs, he obviously couldn't have them sent to their home. So he'd used Mister's address instead.
"Come on in, man. Where the hell've you been?" Mikey said, ushering him inside warmly.
Frank felt a weird mix of familiarity and discomfort stepping into Mister's place. It was his first time here—but "Frank" had clearly spent a lot of time crashing on friends' couches after getting kicked out by his own family.
Mister's place held all kinds of junk and treasures: old 19th-century color-printed books, antique Atari cartridges… Frank knew exactly where everything was hidden.
According to "Frank's" memories, he and Mikey had once even had contests with 19th-century pin-up magazines—seeing who could "last longer." Real mature bonding moments.
Compared to the other scumbags in Frank's old circle, Mikey had actually been one of the better ones.
"Got any more of my mail?" Frank asked as Mikey handed him a beer.
"Tons. I've been holding onto it for you," Mikey replied, hauling over two big black trash bags stuffed with unopened mail.
Frank dug through it and sorted out all the credit card statements.
Aside from Fiona—who was already working—and baby Liam, all the other kids had cards in their names: Lip, Ian, and even little Debbie and Carl, who weren't even ten yet.
And every single card was maxed out.
Frank did a quick tally.
The total debt?
$7,500.
"Oh my God," Frank whispered, dizzy with shock. This was a nightmare avalanche—bad news just kept rolling in.
He still hadn't figured out how to deal with Ginger's body and the pension fraud, and now he had this—massive credit card debt… under his kids' names.
And that $7,500? That was just the principal.
The interest? Credit card interest was practically legalized loan sharking. It would balloon fast.
"Frank… Frank, you're really trying to kill me here," he muttered.
The old "Frank" hadn't just screwed him—he'd screwed the kids too.