The day begins like every other, lately... a warm beer, couple of tokes, top-of-the-lungs bitch session with the old lady.
About, what else? Money. Rather, lack of.
After shaking it hard, post a long piss, I tuck it back into my pants, fart, zip up, and leave by the side door.
"Money you want?" I mutter, then dig out the old Smith and Wesson .38 from behind the seat in the rusty pickup, tuck it into my belt under the broad shirttail.
I walk uptown, toward the subway, knowing there's always some old lady there I can swipe a handbag from.
I spot her quickly, cat walk behind her, grab the strap, and start my getaway run.
But she turns out to be tough as a pit bull, clamps onto it with a death grip and begins to scream!
Heads in the crowd turn, and one dude decides to play hero, advances on me.
Now she's beating on me with a tiny fist, and hero runs at me.
Without thinking, I pop her with the butt of the gun, snatch the bag, raise the black barrel at hero, and fire.
In my mad rush to escape, I slam into a woman with a kid in a stroller, send them over the side into the path of a train.
Shaking, sweating, I run up the down escalator, look back, no pursuit, step off -- and into oblivion... thirty feet down the open repair shaft.