“Knuckle Duster Requiem”
The alley reeked of stale urine and shattered dreams as I spat out a molar—third one this month. “Had enough, pretty boy?” growled the Russian, his brass-knuckled fist glinting under the flickering neon. My rib screamed where his boot had connected. Behind us, the junkies placed bets with trembling hands. I grinned bloody. “Nah, just warming up.” The switchblade clicked open in my sleeve—a gift from Uncle Sam back in 'Stan. His eyes widened. Too late. The first slash sent his gold chain flying. The second made the pavement taste his vodka-breath. Classic Tuesday night.