Concrete and Ashes
Marcus chose a third option. He tossed the bottle. It didn’t hit Stitch; it shattered against the Cadillac’s fender. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet alley. In the frozen second of shock, Marcus pulled the hoodie from his waist and wrapped it around his left fist.
Marcus saw a chessboard. He counted the cash. Four hundred and twenty dollars.
He put two hundred in an envelope for his mom’s electric bill. He put one hundred in his pocket for groceries. The remaining one hundred and twenty he folded into a tight square and tucked under a loose brick. That was the "rainy day" fund. For bail. For a lawyer. For a bus ticket out if the heat got too high.
He wasn't a kingpin. He wasn't a hero. He was just a hoodlum. A product of broken sidewalks and shattered promises. But as the smoke curled up into the smoggy sky, he made a promise to the concrete below: One day, I’m walking away from this board. But tonight? Tonight, I own the street.