On the Shores of Miami

1. Neighbourhood of the Problematic

The daily routine has never once changed, in all 21 years of my life. I get up at 6, take a decrepit bus to some semblance of a school where I would sit quietly and study; anyone who looked too long received glares, and on the occasion beat up the overenthusiastic bully who tried to get too cocky. When the day was over, I'd take the same decrepit bus back to the worst part of town, where thefts were the norm and nobody stopped to cheer or break up a gangfight, back to an old house with a prostitute mother on drugs and an abusive alcoholic father.

Today was no different, with the only exception that I'd woken up on the wrong side of the bed. My mood was so bad, in fact, that I didn't even feel the hum of the eager excitement that came with a good fight. The three thugs approaching me were obviously new. As they neared closer, I suppressed a scoff.

One approached me from the bent traffic light, twirling a crowbar in his hands like a cheerleader's baton. Another emerged from the shadows from the abandoned sundry shop on the other side of the road swinging a rusty chain. The third member's footsteps scuffed on the dusty floor of the road, cracking his knuckles loudly in what he probably thought was an intimidating sound.

Unconsciously, my thumb folded across each of my fingers in turn, the crack echoing throughout the deserted street. It didn't stop them though. Each step they took was fierce and forced, and the expressions on their rough features indicated they probably thought this was going to be an easy pick.

All of them were bald, I noted, stopping abruptly to slowly back up against the wall of the closest building so they could only attack from one side. The sudden change in direction confused them, and slowed their approach even more. I desperately wanted to laugh. These pitbulls with their try-hard tattooed arms were all bark and no bite.

With my arms on my hips and my thumbs against my back, I began to edge out the knife I had stuffed down the back of my jeans. Once it had come free, I held it in my hands just as they stopped short of stepping on my worn Converse.

"You're a pretty thing, aren't you," the one holding the crowbar said, reaching out with his makeshift weapon to tap me lightly across the cheek. The cold bite burned. "Be a shame to hurt you."

"So clear out the fucking pockets," another snarled, lacing his fingers together and pushing them outwards for yet another crack. Was it possible to crack your knuckles that many times in the span of two minutes?

I raised an eyebrow, clearly quite unimpressed as I folded my arms across my chest. The black case of reinforced plastic holding the blade was hidden in the folds of my denim jacket, my thumb resting lightly on the exposed surface, just waiting for the time to flick it out.

The middle thug with the chain wrapped around his arm, spread his legs and stepped up to me with a sinister grin on his face. "Well, sweet cheeks," he murmured, his forefinger running from my eye to my lips before his hand cupped my cheek and tilted my head up to look at him. My expression remained impassive and I didn't even flinch. "What would it be? Cash, cock, or both?"

"You need balls for both," I answered mildly, and brought my knee up hard. With a loud howl, he threw his head back and danced away, hands over where it felt like the sun exploded in his pants. A direct hit, I thought with satisfaction.

His outraged ringmaster quickly brought the sharp, curved end of the crowbar to my face. 21 years of quick reflexes kicked in at that precise moment. My thumb flicked out the blade and I flung out my arm, the flat surface connecting against the metal rod with a loud clang that sent both out arms rattling with the vibrations.

I recovered first. Another movement of my wrist made the knife twitch ever so slightly, and the crowbar left his grip to come to my hand. Looks of horror crossed the other two's features, and they slowly began to back away from me as I swung the long piece of metal around. The one whose balls ached was already scrambling away as fast as he could on his knees and one hand. The last, who had been planning to use his calloused fists, wisely followed with all the precaution necessary.