Sunlit beams on melanin–deprived skin, burn a rusty colour onto my person as a proof to their merdiem ingenuity. At times like this I cannot help but lament the depleting ozone layer, had I donated to that sketchy to-all-appearances lady's good cause at the Town fair, perhaps something would've been different?

  The afternoon heat of late October could hardly penetrate through the shadowy looms that envelope hunker's alley. The crime centre of Mayville, and one daringly close the police station.

  Not many would feel secure calling such a place home, but it was exactly that to me up until a few years ago. As my black leather wellingtons trod against the paved cement, every step was met with grime and soot.

  The natives of hunker's alley can be characteristically divided into two hierarchies: the semain-like yet inwardly senile, this first category can only do as much as to intimidate and make up numbers in street fights. The second though, are the bona fide underground 'hunkers'. My erstwhile kin.

  Historically, they were a bunch of goons who organised loots and sometimes–only sometimes–planned assassinations, their name came from their immaculate 'hunkering' or hiding which rendered the authorities unable to find them. Today though, the name persists purely as a formality. Mayville is an unimportant place with few disturbances that hardly warrant calling the cops.

  During my time as Blackfrost, our business rarely concerned people from this vicinity. This place–as all other insignificant places do–served as a hideout and an information center for bigger coups who donot have direct business with this city.

  When I refer to the quietude of Mayville, I should make myself clear lest there be any misconceptions. For reference, the murder of the Huangs has alreasy headlined the local newspapers–and I fear–will continue to do so for atleast another week.

  But that scant period can barely compare to the long years worth of dinner time conversations, that it shall continue to spark for the next few generations. One would not like to see such a place discomfited by disquieting perturbations

  I drew the cyan Manchester United cap lower down my hairline while walking with one hand in nestled in my left pocket. I could feel the sinister gazes of the alley occupants, the distance between us never reaching beyond one meter, because hunker's alley is–well, an alley, and a very narrow one at that.

  Not having crossed half the path I felt a death grip on my shoulder, from the point of contact I could fathom bulk of the arm and an estimate of the strength it possessed.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  A rogue voice exploded near my ear.

  'Not so fast young lady'

  He paused with emphasis waiting for my reaction. A reaction that–unfortunately for him–found him writhing on the cemented concrete as my pocketed hand shot out to grip his, twisting it backwards at an obtuse angle.

  'Surely not the abler one of my hands' I exclaimed in a low voice, massaging my left shoulder.

  Slowly lowering my eyes, my sight met with that of the one beneath me, the look of enraged disbelief plastered across the bearded profile. He had yet to haul himself up–not so much from pain as from humiliated rage.

  Deciding he was not worth any more of my time I spun on my heel and continued down the path, eyes glued to the ground.

  'Stop right there' bellowed the impertinent voice, turns out that wasn't enough.

  Aggressive advancements resounded on all four sides. The semian had called forth his companions. Too bad for them though, I don't play around with monkeys.

  Turning once again, this time facing the man, 'What?!' I growled in a not–so–low voice, I never received an answer though and my words were scarcely audible beyond the stainless steel muzzle–pointed at his forehead – which encompassed all his heedful consciousness.

  The advancing footfalls stopped too.

  Head raised, one arm taut as the other lazily traced the inner walls of my pockets as a single braid dangled loosely by my shoulder– a sight which brought back frightening recollections in the ones who have been around for some time.

  'That's black frost' someone blurted. Apprehension spread within the squads of ruffians. Quite a few had gathered in hopes of entertaining themselves, one by one all started slipping away.

  The man from earlier though, didnot get the hint, he was likely a newcomer, and like all newcomers, coveted a desperate dash through the ranks. Here in the rogue undergrounds, the only way to do that is to topple the ones at the higher levels. Its not like I censure him for that, but ambition without power is a suicidal descent.

  'Hahh, you can't actually shoot with that toy missy, but you're a skilled one, I'll let you go if...let's see, if you beg me' he jeered, without betraying any evident fear. I couldn't help perplexing whether he was seeking death or just absurdly foolish.

  I loosely pulled the trigger. A short blast articulated as accelerating hot iron grazed past the man's earlobe to hit a dilapidated pole some distance behind him. Within a fraction of a second, fright and successive relief visualised on his face and then .

  The bullet had hit the pole at quite the place, its mid portion bore marks of damage, possibly from a gang fight thus the rest of its height was barely holding on to the point where a single bullet is all it took for it to topple. And down it came on the man's shoulder, his knees buckled as he fell under his weight. A loud clang reverberated as the pole hit the ground, and along with it the man's frame.

  Nobody hastened to pick him up–his buckled knees shivered violently against the scalding concrete. Such is the fate of the defeated.

  The rest of my stroll was comparatively leisurely, other backstreet ruffians kept their distance. Out here in the dirtiest corners of the civilized world, those that are weak dare not utter a single sound. A heated brawl is the height of their abilities. To a low level goon, firing a gun is akin to proclaiming themselves. Often seen as a challenge or an atrocity by stronger gangsters. Someone who can stand the consequences of doing so is naturally feared by those who cannot.

  ...........

  Hunker's alley met a dead end infront of a dilapidated newsroom. The fluorescent ensign hung loosely beneath the grey eaves, occasionally sparking to life with 'Gauffer's weekly'. Vacant had weeks turned into months as the company went out of business, it was then that the new chairman decided to start anew with a new name in a different location, thus renting thus building to–whoever they could find— me. That was five years ago.

  Five years have waned by since that ghastly, god–forsaken young adult founded Mayville's information society. Back then her only wish was to not be scorned by her elder self, to live like any other. Guilty conscience buried within layers of obscenely blissful, novitiate ignorance.