The Girl in the Alley?

It was a quiet night. In a deserted alley, a series of high-pitched, agonizing screams echoed off the walls—sharp, desperate, unmistakably female. Mixed in with the cries were muffled English words: “No! Stop! Please—STOP!”

A man happened to be walking by. As soon as he heard it, he stopped. From the sound of it, someone—some poor woman—was being assaulted. Maybe even raped. The kind of scream that made your stomach turn. He hesitated… then curiosity got the better of him. He crept closer and peeked into the alley.

There were four gangsters standing around someone. Someone curled up on the ground, clearly the victim. From this distance, he was sure—it had to be a woman. He started to back away, muttering, “Not my business…” But just as he turned to leave, something caught his eye. The victim lifted his head.

Wait… his head?

It wasn’t a woman at all—it was a short dude, maybe five foot two, wearing pajamas. He had a ridiculous watermelon-shaped haircut and a terrified look frozen on his face. Just then, one of the gangsters smashed a punch straight into his gut. The man let out another piercing scream—even higher than the last one. “AIIIIEEEEEEEE!!”

The bystander froze, then blinked. “…My god,” he muttered. “How the hell can a grown man make a sound like that?” He shivered slightly. “…That’s disgusting.” And with that, he turned around and casually walked back home like nothing ever happened.

Canelo’s New Recruits

They were just kids—four teenage punks, freshly kicked out of high school for being too much trouble and too little brain. Now, instead of growing up, they signed up under Canelo and got thrown into the mugging business like it was some kind of summer internship. This was their first job. Their first mugging. And it was a mess.

Everything about them screamed amateur: the way they moved, the way they threatened, even the way they counted money—like they’d never held more than lunch change in their lives. They surrounded Benson, expecting a fat wallet, maybe even a little resistance. What they got was a single, wrinkled five-dollar bill.

All four of them just stared at it. The disappointment was instant. One of them snatched the bill and held it up like it was a bad joke. “What the hell is this?” he snapped. “Five bucks? A third grader’s richer than you. This can’t even buy a pack of smokes. You wasting our time, man. Wasting the mugging business’s time.”

The others didn’t laugh. They didn’t say a word. Their stares turned cold. To them, this wasn’t just about money anymore—it was about respect. And right now, Benson was pissing on the name of their crew. They stepped in closer, ready to deliver a lesson.