Not Anymore

A sharp torrent of coughs tore through the alley as a young man in a black suit sprinted through the narrow passage, his breath ragged and uneven. He clutched a paper bag in one hand, two coffees balanced precariously in the other, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim with each frantic step. "Oh, what is that smell?" he hissed, his nose wrinkling as the acrid stench of m*******a hit him like a physical blow, thick and choking in the confined space. As he approached the last stretch of the alley, his ears perked up. Shuffling of feet. Loud, unrhythmic footsteps sounded from behind him; he didn't slow down as he kept his eyes on the open street just a few steps away. "Hey!" a growly voice like gravel called out. He gradually slowed down, though hesitation kept him from stopping completely. The gravelly voice rang out again, this time tinged with anger and rudeness. Reluctantly, he halted and turned to look. Just a few paces away stood a man, or rather, a shadow of a man. He was a bum, clad in dirty, brown, greasy clothes that hung loosely from his thin frame. A pipe dangled precariously from his lips, thick, acrid smoke wafting into the cool, crisp air. The man's eyes were bloodshot, almost devoid of life, and they swayed in their sockets as he teetered unsteadily, clearly under the influence. The young man couldn't help but frown as he assessed this disheveled figure. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice cautious and tense. The bum let out a raspy laugh, throwing his hand toward the crumbling wall beside him for support, a wild gesture that almost sent him off balance. "I like your coat," he said, a crooked smile revealing a set of uneven teeth beneath the haze of smoke. Unease crept in. "I'm afraid I can't give you that, buddy," the young man replied, carefully choosing his words to keep the encounter from slipping into something more uncomfortable. "Don't call me buddy; I am not your buddy," the smoking man yelled. Chris, the man in question, shrugged. "I can give you some dough," he suggested. The man sneered as his mouth opened, exposing completely black teeth like coal. "I said I like your coat." "Listen, I'm in a hurry; I have to go. Catch you some other time," Chris said and made a motion to turn around. "Stop right there." The man's voice rang out as he tucked away the pipe and took a step forward, his red eyes shining with anger. Chris raised an eyebrow. "What do you want, man? I told you I can't give you my coat," he said, frustrated. "I now want your pants too," the man growled. Chris chuckled, clearly amused. "Look here, buddy, I wanted to give you some money so you could go and buy… ahh! God, whatever that is, but…" He shook his head. "You are not getting a cent from me," he finished and stared at the other man defiantly. The man stopped, and for a moment there, the almost fatigued expression from earlier vanished; he seemed to take the challenge seriously. He laughed. "Oh, is that so?" His voice was clearer and more stern. "Humph!" Chris huffed as he glared at him. "Guys?" the man growled, and from the shadows, a group of five other people emerged. Chris's heart sank. "What? He had backup?" Chris couldn't believe it. "Now what, hotshot?" the man mocked defiantly, glaring at Chris. Chris shook his head; he was running out of time, and if he stayed here even longer, he would be in a whole lot of trouble. "Look guys, we can talk about this," he tried, but the now sober guy wouldn't buy it. "Weren't acting tough just now; what happened?" he asked as his friends broke out into sarcastically mocking laughter. Chris sighed. The five men now hovered all around him. He looked at the two cups of coffee, and another frustrated sigh escaped his throat. "Okay. You can have the coat," he conceded. "Hmmmm? We're getting somewhere?" the man said. Chris frowned, sensing the hidden meaning in his voice. "Didn't… you want it?" he asked, clearly knowing well what the man would say next. "Oh me, nah, I changed my mind." Chris's heart sank. "What do you want then?" he called out, frustration and fury burning inside him. The man swirled around like a magician preparing to deliver an unforgettable performance. Chris could feel the unease as he watched him move. Each gesture was deliberate, almost theatrical, yet there was something unsettling about it. His instincts screamed at him to back away, but his feet felt rooted to the ground. The flicker of a smile danced across the man's face, as if he thrived on the tension in the air. Chris swallowed hard, his heart racing, not knowing what to expect next. "THAT!" He pointed at the two coffees in Chris's hand. Chris's eyes widened as he earnestly shook his head. "No… not that. These are my boss's; she would kill me if I didn't bring them," he said. But even before his words faded, the man had snatched them away. He mockingly stared at Chris as he tossed one to one of his friends. "Not the coffee," Chris yelled. "Puuh! This tastes like s**t, what do you put in it? Poison?" the man cried out as he threw the coffee at the wall, the cup breaking as coffee flew everywhere. "Oh no!" Chris yelled. "Oh sorry, it slipped," the man said with a mocking smile. Chris was fuming. "You… you don't know what you've done," he said and pulled out his phone. "You think you are a gangster? Well let me let you in on something, buddy. I know people, a few real gangsters, not you first-timers. I swear I am going to make you regret this. Ever heard of Yakub?" he said as he dialed on his phone. When he mentioned that name, the men hesitated, and they anxiously looked at each other. "You know Yakub?" one asked hesitantly. "Humph!" Chris smirked bitterly. "Just you wait." He raised the phone to his ear and listened. "What if he seriously knows the king of the underworld?" one man asked anxiously. The first man laughed and waved their worries off. "He is just bluffing, does this guy look like a gangster to you? Uh?" he asked. No one responded. Just as they had finished their arguing, Chris dropped the phone; he had finished speaking. "Who did you call? Your mother?" the man said and laughed as he beckoned for the others to join in; they just anxiously laughed along. "No, but you should definitely call yours," Chris said. "You…" the man pointed at him with a shaking finger. Chris shrugged. "I didn't want it to get to this, but you asked for it. Five minutes," he gestured with his palm. "Five minutes what?" the first man asked. "Just wait and see," he said and crossed his arms. The men looked at each other before one asked cautiously, "What if the kid is right? Should we run?" No one said anything, but from their body postures, it seemed they had been pretty convinced by Chris's acting. "Three," Chris said, a comfortable smile tugging on his face as he tried to mask the churning emotion inside him. "Maybe he is right; I'm going, we can't offend the king and live to see the next day," one said and bolted toward the opposite side. "Wait!" the first man called out, but his voice was swallowed by the distance as the other four moved without hesitation. Left behind, he shot a begrudging glare at Chris, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Just you wait—we're not finished here!" With that, he turned sharply, ready to chase after his companions. The truth was he was more than just agitated; he was seriously high. As he lunged forward, his coordination betrayed him. He stumbled awkwardly, tripping over his own feet in a spectacular fashion. In a moment of pure miscalculation, he tackled himself, crashing down headfirst. His face plunged into the pile of garbage that had collected at the side of the path, the foul stench engulfing him. "Damn it!" he cursed, muffled by the refuse, as he struggled to extricate himself from the mess. Bits of refuse clung to his clothes, and he could feel the sticky remnants of yesterday's lunch seeping into his skin. Chris stood a few paces away, pressing a hand against his mouth to stifle the laughter bubbling up inside him. The comedic absurdity of the situation was almost too much to handle. "Bastard!" the man cried, finally managing to push himself upright, his pride as bruised as his knees. He limped away, leaving a trail of disheveled garbage behind him, his face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and anger as he shot one last glare in Chris's direction. It would be a long, humbling walk home for him, and Chris couldn't shake the grin off his face as he watched him retreat, the sound of his muttered curses fading into the distance. "Arrgh! f*****g piece of s**t," he mumbled, shaking his head begrudgingly as he scooped up the paper bag and walked in the other direction. What he didn't know, though, was that as soon as the men had left him there, fleeing in fear of the king's fury, they had stumbled upon another group—this one comprised of the king's men, loyal and ruthless. Their fate was worse than he could have ever imagined. The call Chris made wasn't to some low-level friend playing gangster—it was to the real king. The one who ruled the underworld with blood and iron. And the king's men were already moving. In the darkened alley behind him, the six who'd fled found themselves cornered. The city sounds died away, replaced by the methodical echo of boots on stone—heavy, deliberate, closing in. They'd thought they were clever. They'd thought they'd escaped. They were wrong. The king's enforcers were relentless. If Chris had stayed even a moment longer, he would have heard it—the screaming. The pleading. The sickening c***k of bone and the wet sounds of brutality as six men who'd made the mistake of threatening the wrong person were beaten within an inch of their lives. Their wails echoed through the alleys, a message to anyone foolish enough to cross the king. Chris walked away, oblivious to the c*****e unfolding in his wake. He had no idea what his single phone call had just unleashed.