Whittling

And one was a man.

He had waited too long for the sign. He knew that now. He had let himself become distracted. Let the idle time whittle away his attention. With a sense of relief and eyes fixed firmly on the nightscape's horizon the man managed to strain out a weak smile.

"Look Joe, the damn fool likes it," the voice, cracking in the fashion of teenage boys too cowardly to have yet bed a woman.

With a harsh grunt and glare of hatred, the dock muscle called Joe let fly another fist, this one caught the man square in the jaw, almost knocking the man loose from the two boys holding his arms, "Like hell he likes it." Two more harsh jabs into the man's gut followed.

With the man now drawn fully back into his dilemma he could only begin to speak out some defense before Joe backhanded him again. Then with a sadistic relish even greater than he normally reserved for his own boys the thug called Joe grabbed up a handful of his victim's hair and slammed the man's face into his knee. Only the last minute wrenching of his kneck kept the target of Joe's anger from having his nose and jaw shattered like cheap glass.

Not ready for the reality they had signed on for, the two teens dropped the man into a heap on the ground. Beer money wasn't worth this. And the whore promised wasn't really much to look at. Both of them had reached these same conclusion within a breath of one another. Still gaping at their momentary boss, they let their mouths hang open as Joe kicked the stranger three times hard into the gut and ribs.

Turning his attention to the boys the man called Joe spoke softly to them, like a father to his indignant sons, "Got a problem boys?"

The unvoiced challenge was too much for the duo. They turned and fled into the night, in too big a hurry to escape their could-be attacker to pay attention what alleys they ran down. As their shadows vanished down the forgotten streets of a city in too big to care about the passing of foolish boys; Joe shrugged at his good fortune. More cash and chickies for him.

Sparing his victim only a momentary smirk Joe spit in the fallen man's face, "Mike, you spun the wheel, now you pay the rake. The man always gets his pound of flesh." After a long pause Joe reached the slow conclusion that his victim wasn't worth another kick. He stalked out of the alleyway, it was time to find some liquor. He decided needed some of that holiday cheer after all.

Mike was silent as he saw Joe fade out of sight.

Nerves tried to protest as he slowly rose to his feet.

Feeling what he thought were cracked ribs and too many bruises to worry with at this point, he wiped the spit and blood from his mouth. Only his thoughts kept the chill fog of the docks from sapping his strength, Your right Joe, I spun the wheel, so did you, wait and see who ante's up that pound at the last table.

Mike knew the boys weren't long for this world, not that the thought of two less toadies in the really bothered him. It was the holidays after all, and people had to pay their debts.

That's why he came to the city. It was time for him to collect a little of his own.

As he lurched into the heart of the city his muscles started working themselves out, the pain lessened, aches began to fade. He had purpose. Somewhere soon choirs would be singing and smiling children would be walking with candles and telling tall tales about dead jews that got back up or some shit like that.

Mike knew better though. He knew the real score.

A gunshot rang out against the stark silence of the late night, its distant echo calling to him. It was his first present of the year.

Mike knew which direction he had to go.