I can feel the night chill hanging about my cheeks and neck. There's no mistaking that New-york air. My eyes feel like frosted glass, but I wait anyway. I can wait forever you see, because I learned long ago that patiance is a virtue. There really aren't enough virtuous people left, but I surely am one of them. My legs are cramped from squatting behind this dumpster, the stench of the alley around me is thick and oily. I can feel it resting on me like a layer of tar over my clothes. My face is covered and my hands are gloved, but I can still feel the cold seeping in. Shadows pass by the entrance to my secluded spot, and none of them match the ones I'm waiting for. Not that there's any reason I should be waiting for them, just that I had to pick someone. You have to start somewhere, and where better than here in the belly of the beast. Every friday night they go out, and every friday night they come back in a drunken cloud of anger and stupidity. She can't help but speak her mind, and he can't help but try and stop her. He pulls her into the alley, this alley, and he reminds her of the difference in their size. He shows her exactly why she should "respect" him and "Shut her mouth!" Every week, it's the same, and I love routines. They make it so much easier to predict movements and, of course, to respond accordingly. Every friday, it's the same, the first sound is the clipping of their shoes, which somehow preceeds their yelling voices. Loud and clear: "Tap-Tap-Tap" for the little lady, "Clump-scrape-Clump" for her charming friend. Next are the slurred and unbearable swears spewing forth from his throat like spores cast away from a mushroom which has grown tired of their company. His coarse sermon is under-cut by the squeaking protests of the poor maiden which he has grasped his arm about. He has once again found the mental capcity to bring her to a secluded place before demonstrating his will over her. She, however, is just now realising where they are headed. This late at night, no one bothers them. They're just another bickering couple and, after all, this is New-york. Now come the first sights. The street-light casts the elongated shadow of a freakish being that seems to be conjoined in many areas. As they near the front of this alley, my alley, I can watch the erratic way her head swings about as he pulls her along. He has had to pull her from down the block to get to the right alley, and I'm sure he is sweating from the effort by now. It won't be much longer now, in fact, I can see the first riffle of her dress flaping at the alley's entrance. He always stops at the entrance. A pause before the inevitable, crashing storm. He stops and he whispers. The whispers soon turn to growls and then to yelling as he finally shoves her through. Her dress is a dark blue color, whith sparkling glitter shining all over it. The top is low cut, revealing an ample chest with just a hint of freckle. Her skin is pale and her hair is a warm brunette color that clashes with her environment so awfully, that it's beautiful. Her captor enters quickly behind her, starting off with a quick slap that ends her chattering voice. Fat tears begin to streak down her face as her left cheek puffs and reddens. His leather jacket matches his greasy look perfectly, complementing his dyed black hair and his tight black jeans. He matches the badboy look so well. Every girl's type. God's gift to women. He strikes her again, this time a mean back-hand that drives her deeper into the alley. She steps back further, trying to avoid his blows. She's just past the front of the dumpster when he grabs her shoulders. He shakes her so violently, I can hear her teeth clacking together. A hard push sends her flying past the dumpster, and past me, into a pile of trash layed up against the fence that marks the end of this alley. She doesn't seem to notice me, either too drunk or too scared to see. She only has eyes for him, and one of those eyes is now swelling where the second strike hit her. At least her nose isn't bleeding yet. I might have leapt too soon if I saw that, but her nose is fine for now. He marches past me and corners her like a cat to a mouse. His lips are pulled back in a snarl that I can only imagine a dog or some other carnal creature wearing. His fists are bawled up, and he means to really go to work on her tonight. He's past me and I can actually smell the sweat he produced, as I suspected, earlier. It makes me wrinkle my nose, and I have the strong realisation that his presence has acctually made this alley more pungeant and abrasive. I wait until he's almost on her, and her tears are really pouring down her face. If I were a painter or a photographer, I would have done anything to capture that image forever. The face of someone who is truely out of options. Someone who has backed themselves into a corner and is now unsure of their ability to survive the current situation. He is yelling into her face now, leaning in deep to get there. I stand up slowly, and he grabs her by the hair; pulling her quickly and, no doubt, painfully to her feet. Her arms curl protectivly around her chest and eyes are shut tightly with her face turned away. I glide forward as quietly as I can, and get directly behind him. In this cold air, the heat rising off of him is almost visible. His rage has made him a human-radiator. He shouts for her to look at him. Perhaps he wants to see her face to get an estimate of the damge he's caused. Maybe he likes the look in her eyes as much as I do. Whatever the reason, he shouts again and she turns slowly, her eyes open and she sees him in his full fury. She sees him and she is afraid. She sees him and she sees past him. Like a shadow come to life, I loom just over his shoulder. A scarf covers my mouth and nose, but my eyes are clearly visible. Whatever it is that she gleans from them, it's enough to frighten her badly. She screams outloud and the sudden noise throws him off balance. He steps back, right into me. He starts to turn, and I shove him with all my strength into the ally wall. He is either too drunk or too surprised to stop it, and he slams face first into the bricks. He grunts in pain and turns to see me. I let him. Once he has seen what he can of my face, I strike out with my fist. The brass coverings I have looped around each of my fingers makes a dull contact with his cheekbone, probably bending it out of shape. More likely breaking it beyond repair. His face caves in on that side and he is driven quickly to the ground. I'm on him just as fast, attacking again and again with my right fist, the only one that bears brass knuckles. Blood sprays from his nose and lips. He barely has the strength to try pushing me away. I can feel his stamina literally draining from him as his desperate efforts become more and more fruitless. I have his blood coated over my fist and fore-arm, thick and syrupy. I have a few drops splashed on my face, and chest, but only little stains. My scarf is covering the grin that has inched it's way over my face, and I'm thankful for that. I'm a little ashamed that I enjoy my work, but it's better that I do it and enjoy it than if I passed on it due to a faint heart. He is barely concious now, with a good number of his teeth missing. A few are scattered around his head like a lazy halo, but there is not a doubt in my mind that he swallowed his fair share of them. I am just starting to get up, satisfied with this bit of work, and I catch a whiff of lavender and cinnimon. It's a strange combination that I always associate with department stores and shoppig malls. In this case it is cheap, store-bought perfume. Although the fragrence is common, the addition of female phermones gives it an attractive edge. My grin shrinks to small smile as I turn to see the source of the scent. She is standing and shaking, and I start to get up. I'm already preparing the speech I'll tell her about choosing the correct boyfriend, and remembering the number of the home for battered women that I had memorized. I scarcely begin to open my mouth when a sharp pain hits my lower back. At first I am certain it is from standing so suddenly after crouching for so long, but the pain doesn't subside, and I reach behind myself. I have apparently sprouted a small metal object from my lower back, or more appropriately, I discovred a wedgeing tool lodged in my lower lumbar. A knife, no more than four inches long, lodged firmly into me. With my left hand holding my new-found appendage, I spin wildly around, expecting to find one of his friends or some hapless bystander who thought they were doing right. Instead I see the slightly puffy face of a young woman in a dark blue dress. Her brunette hair hangs over her eyes, but her hands are digging in her bra. I try to stand up and I find the pain is too excruciating. I end up sitting down quickly, and groaning out loud. Her hand finally reveals what it has been searching energetically for in her victorias secret extra pocket, and I see a tiny, very stylish cell-phone. She starts to walk out of the alley and I hear the first part of her conversation. She tells the officer that her boyfriend was being mugged and she stabbed the attacker, and could they please send an officer right away. The operator asks her somthing and she assured her she doesn't know, but that it looked like "he" was still breathing. Whether it was me or him, it didn't matter.  The police were involved now, and the game was over. I stand up, this time fighting through the pain and pull the knife from my back. Adrenaline helps me climb the alley fence silently and escape the alley on the other side. I hold my hand over the bleeding hole and limp home. A small trek when one lives on the streets. A few alleyways down and my tiny, haphazard shanty, built of cardboard and newspaper. Home is where the heart is only works for the movies. For me, home is where the heat is, and this is where I stay. I stuff a bit of newspaper into my seeping wound, which isn't as bad as it could have been. I lean back against my corrugated walls and take in the familiar smells of my home. Mold. mildew. alley trash. Cat piss. Home sweet home. I close my eyes and let dreams come back. My fist finally loosens and my brass knuckles drop off. The disgusting slob's blood is starting to jelly and coagulate. It becomes sticky and dry in places. I see a flash of blue, dark blue with sparkling glitter. I feel some of the blood flaking off. I see the way the fabric hugs a tight, well kept form. I feel the pain in my back and the sting of the bruise in the palm of my hand.      I see beautiful brunette hair flowing in the wind. I feel the tears spilling from my eyes like hot led from an overfilled cauldron. I see her standing before me, then vanishing without a trace to rejoin her life. I hope she remembers me. I hope they all do.