He plants a heavy fist in the corner of the man’s shoulder, shoving him back into the wall. He moans lightly, his eyes tiny slits, his arms held out in defense.
“I need the fucking money. So where is it?” He brings his face in closer, saliva dripping from his lips.
“I … I don’t have it …” he whimpers, trembling.
“You don’t have it,” he sighs, shaking his head in disappointment. “He don’t have it, boys. Flesh, Bone … you know what to do.”
He slowly removes his dark gloves and with one last shake of his head, turns away. In his place stand two, great, burly shadows, silhouettes in the dark, slimy alley. From the shadows, the man hears the crack of knuckles, and his legs give out beneath him.
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