Part I: Trick For Treats

Life in the riches can be cruel, but life on the streets will be your undoing.

THE WICKEDLY

by

Louis M. Warde

Pt: I

Trick For Treats

         The streets, no such place ever was found to hold equally a balance of uncertainty and danger. It is this place where the wicked pray on the weak and they are free to do so. The law turns no eyes to those cast out from the social graces. Most invisible though are those who have fallen from the ecstasy of a higher societal power. So often the meager and helpless find their mortality on the cold wet ground praying to whatever deity they could remember to save them from their exile. Truly such times are the cruelest of nightmares haunting their every waking moment.

         For a young boy, the constant evasion of unfriendlies - other paupers who had found their survival by preying on the weaker in the crowd, had become his way of survival. Years had already passed since he had come to suffer a life on the streets and shadows. He'd seen that others like him developed routines and patterns. Those who were capable of surrendering themselves to their misfortune and found humility could even make friends with what they called sympies; sympathizers that did what they could to give food for those who needed it. Consequently he discovered that it was often they who could reach out to sympies that were quickly met by the stronger, more belligerent creatures of the dark. Those that refused to surrender their sustenance to such delinquents were never heard from again. A quick learner, he'd also discovered ways to survive without the need to be observed. Of the most important survival tactics out in the cold, discretion was the greatest. Anyone he'd ever seen that openly begged or paraded about the streets making their waywardness and suffering a large affair didn't last, and he had resolved that if he was to live long enough to escape the streets, he must do so without being seen.

         As the sun grew tired and tucked itself in for the night, amber rays of light pierced the clouds casting strange shadows against the shops and structures of the city. It was the time of evening when the sympies were giving out what food they could to the groveling and the mules. Around the corners of the shops, waiting eagerly out of sight, unfriendlies prepared filthy rags in which to swathe their share of sustenance. Even this though was not entirely as it seemed. The feasting times were not so coordinated and operated by a series of gentleman and ladies, functioning like the great misleading of a finely crafted governing body. What one saw upon the surface was only that of the marrying efforts of prudent guile and impetuosity. The truth was a much more grotesque scene, as was witnessed through the eyes of the young boy more often than one of any age would be willing to see. It was a time for those on the streets to hunt.

         Like wolves and vultures mingling together to form a desperate scrimmage of supremacy they gathered to take claim of the foods folded neatly in pestilent cloths, always waiting to strike until their prey was far from the view of the sympies. They may been uncouth and violent but many of them were once normal citizens, and as such they knew that if a sympy thought for a moment that someone they personally gave food to died in the streets, they would never give so generously to the illish again. One such group, which the young boy spotted, followed an unfriendly who'd just taken his share of spoils from the mule he employed each evening. The gang curbed their appetite little more than long enough for the seemingly fortunate unfriendly to be outside of a sympies earshot. At such point the diversity of options invariably dwindled to an unpleasant juggle betwixt three choices. One of which was the thought of fleeing as fast as possible with food slung over shoulder, hoping to escape with more than just their life on the plate. Another would be to realize the foolishness of being the stick to which a tasty morsel is affixed by a string, leading a pack of starving beasts on a long and exasperatingly perilous chase which nearly always ends with a soundly slumbering hound, content with its newly filled belly; to which your only option in such revelation is to drop the bag of tasty treats and depart into the ever growing shadows as night draws closer to lay low and avoid becoming the meal they so desire. And lastly remains option three, the less reputable of the choices " to sacrifice your food and, on your knees, beg for mercy and give yourself up as a future mule. In such cases the survival of this individual would depend wholly on their ability to become humble enough to reach out to a sympy for food. Many times, option three ended disastrously.

         He followed in the darkness out of sight as the group of unfriendlies followed their prey through the alleys to an abandoned building that, judging by the sign decaying over the entrance, was once a hotel. Dirt hung in the air like a cloud making the amber glow of twilight seem almost tangible in the decrepit former domicile for the vagrant. While they stalked the lone victor, so too did the boy stalk them.

         “N-now?” Whispered one in the crowed, drool slipping from his lips.

         “Shut it Stutts, Boss didn't give the word so we wait.” muttered another.

         “Both of you quit your yammering. If any of you touches the food before I say so, I swear on my grandads grave I'll kill ya, ya hear?” Murmured the obvious leader at the front of the group.

         The oblivious unfriendly dropped to the dirt, plopping the bag rife with goodies on the ground in front of him. In an instant, the word was given and the motley crew surrounded their prey. The boy watched as they stood twitching with hunger. Their boss pacing to and fro no doubt deciding what to do about the now pleading unfriendly.

        “Stutts!”

         “Yeah, B-boss?” replied a rather pathetic looking pipsqueak. He was clearly shorter and weaker than the others, but none would be foolish enough to overlook that there would certainly be a reason for their keeping him around.

         “Wrap the food and toss it in the corner, Constable, you keep an eye on it.” Shouted their leader.

        You got it, boss” growled Constable. He was a massive man with a massive beard and a broad chest. Having acquired his name from his previous profession as a Constable, he found his way to the bottom after his corruption was exposed. Truly though, he was feared throughout the streets.

Stutts and Constable did as they were instructed, leaving the bag to lay tightly tied and guarded in the far corner of the room. All the while their boss paced, listening to the frantic pleading from the unfriendly pawing at the thugs that surrounded him, eager to hear some reason to keep him alive. The boy watched on patiently knowing that the moment to move was nigh. He'd followed this particular group of unfriendlies before and knew their habits well.

        Merely a moment longer in waiting he saw as the boss issued his order for the immediate dismissal of their unlucky prey. It was at this moment that the boy could work. These thugs had a passion unlike most others on the street for the bloody fights. Always getting carried away he thought as he slipped from shadow to shadow until he was above the bag in the rafters of the building. For any other this would have been an impossible task as the rafters would surely have given out under the strain of any additional lode, but the boy was young and thin, against the rafters his weight counted for naught.

         Lowering a rope that he wore around his waist with a hook for the buckle, his actions were ghostly. Only once did a single beam of light glint from the dirt covered hook. As easily as he climbed, he hooked the bag and hoisted it up to himself leaving nothing but an empty space for the Constable to proudly protect. Quickly and still ever so quietly, the boy made his escape from the building just as the ruffians were finishing their task. No doubt they had worked up a hardy appetite and were by now slobbering with anticipation of the nourishing to come. But such excitement was fleeting. The young boy heard the shouts and screams of surprise and rage in the distance as he stashed the majority of the food, then to the heart of town. A few snacks in hand he went to work on his plan to liberate himself from the bonds of poverty, unaware that he was soon to face his destiny.

If you liked this writing, please look for the next installment on Sunday, July 14th, 2013

Author's Note

This is the first installment of a small series of short stories following a young boy on his journey to escape the slums.

Reviews

[Nikkiela]

This is really interesting so far :D I really like the tone of the story. I especially love this sentence: "As the sun grew tired and tucked itself in for the night, amber rays of light pierced the clouds casting strange shadows against the shops and structures of the city." It really creates a nice vivid image in my imagination.

[L.M.Warde]

Thank you very much!