@starbeaten
The back exit of this derelict gym was heady from such a weight of sounds and smells, it was offensive on the senses more delicate than his. Still, up front it was even worse, where the chaos of betting clamor hounding bookies for their winnings was rampant-- illegal cash exchanging hands and some choice words, depending on how fortunate their night had played out.
The losers of the illicit brawls were paraded out the front door, stumbling half-naked and assaulted a second time by the New York air. The weather just did not get the memo it was supposed to be converted from winter to spring, it was hell for everyone. But their bitterness of defeat was only worn by some, others were more accustomed to loss, while their iron tears splotched their mugs and the concrete with red. Lined up across the lockers for a photo op for their fans, the backdrop were the beaten remains abandoned when the building was condemned. Chanting and hollering, some took to uploading the shots to their respective social medias, boasting a night of violent filled entertainment. Even the losers were admired for survival alone.
But B.D. had no interest in losers.
Busting through the opposite side door, a secluded path that lead directly into the narrow alley betwixt two buildings, came the winner of this night. Knowing of his presence or not wouldn’t be his concern, but just across the way, leant against the chilled brick wall, was an imposing figure bathed in the dim rays of an overhead streetlight from several yards off. Smoke poured out and up from parted lips, crawling up the ghostly visage of the anticipator who had been kept in wait.
Wet gravel crunched when it was slid beneath his boot, his lackadaisical posture slightly shifted to gain attention but not warrant anxiety. The hand that was not balancing his precious smoke was extended, an olive branch from the reaper in the form of an opened pack of cigarettes. “You smoke? I would afta all that.”
