"Contradictory, aren't you?" Kelvin stated, his voice laced with suspicion as he eyed the trio before him. "You claim to sell snacks, but you look more like thugs looking for someone to extort. Sorry, but this isn't a marketing center, and I won't permit any sales while I'm on duty."
   Mrs. Julie appeared from the back room. "What's all the commotion, Kelvin?"
   "These fellas wandered in, claiming they're here to promote snacks," Kelvin explained, a dismissive wave of his hand accompanying his words. "Don't worry, I've got it handled."
   Mrs. Julie chuckled softly. "I guess this place looks like the right place to sell your snacks, huh?"
   One of the men, looking somewhat chastised, spoke up. "We apologize if we caused an offense, but where else might we try marketing our goods?"
   Kelvin pondered for a moment, then a hint of something akin to helpfulness flickered in his eyes. "Hmm, maybe the building closer to the cafeteria down the street. You might have luck around five in the evening."
   Mrs. Julie, now standing beside Kelvin gently slapped her palm on the counter. "Alright, you've got your tip. Now, please be on your way."
   The men, muttering apologies, shuffled out. Kelvin and Julie resumed their tasks, the brief interruption fading back into the hum of their business.
****
The hands on the clock above Mr. Brock's head ticked past 5:45 PM. He left the building he was guarding and walked to his watchman post at Eagle Eye, a weary sigh escaping his lips. Dusk was bleeding across the city, casting long shadows.
   It was his duty, as always, to question anyone unfamiliar or unregistered who passed by. But tonight was different. A flood of new faces materialized, an almost unnatural tide of humanity flowing through the streets, hustling from building to building like merchants in a bustling marketplace.
   He sat back in his office, the entrance to the building, a silent observer. *What a waste of my talents,* he thought.
   *So many people dealing drugs right under our noses,* Mr. Brock mused, his expression hardening. *No matter how tight the security, they always find a way. Is there even a point in fighting it?* The seeds of cynicism, nurtured by years on the force, bloomed anew.
   Hours crawled by, the surge of activity gradually receding. The street emptied, returning to its usual state of desolate quiet.
   Then, a black Mercedes Benz, gleaming in the dim light, slid to a stop in front of the watchman's office. It idled there for a tense few seconds before abruptly pulling away.
   Mr. Brock found himself settled into the front passenger seat, the luxurious leather cool against his skin. The backseats were conspicuously empty.
   The driver, his face partially concealed by a black handkerchief emblazoned with "18th Street," emanated an unnerving aura of professional efficiency.
   "If I may ask," Mr. Brock began, breaking the silence, "why just one driver? I thought you guys came in twos or threes."
   "The fewer people who know of your connection to us, the less chance of exposure," the driver replied, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
   "In other words…?" Mr. Brock prompted, sensing there was more to the explanation.
   "I'm your personal driver. Call me whenever you need to visit the hideout. You can call me Grandwalker," the driver stated, handing over a slip of paper. "That's my number."
   Mr. Brock scoffed. "First of all, I doubt I'll need to visit the hideout anytime soon. And second, what's with the name? You drive, but you're 'Grandwalker'? 'Grand-driver' has a much better ring to it if you ask me, doesn't it?" he asked sarcastically.
   "No thanks. Grandwalker is fine," Grandwalker replied, slamming on the brakes. The sudden stop sent Mr. Brock lurching forward.
   "Hey, what was that for?" Mr. Brock demanded, adjusting his jacket.
   "We're here."
   "Here?" Mr. Brock glanced around, taking in their surroundings. They were in a desolate section of town, a large shipping container, painted with a crude "18th Street" tag, dominating the scene. Trash littered the street, the air thick with the smell of decay.
   "Hm," Mr. Brock commented, stepping out of the car. "Your hideout is a container in an abandoned street? Talk about a beggar gang."
   "Same thing I said when I first arrived," Grandwalker replied, unperturbed. They walked toward the container.
   Grandwalker unlocked the container door, and the two of them stepped inside. The interior walls were a chaotic tapestry of graffiti, layer upon layer of spray-painted tags and symbols.
   At the far end of the container was another door. Grandwalker gestured for Mr. Brock to open it.
   Mr. Brock approached the door, his hand hovering over the handle. He inhaled deeply, steeling himself for what lay beyond, and then pushed it open.
   A wave of sound – a thumping, bass-heavy beat – crashed against him.
   He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim, pulsating light. He was in a place that resembled a nightclub more than a gang hideout. People filled the space, Bad guys dancing care-freely as the DJ did his thing, others milling around. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of cheap liquor. Women in bikinis and barely-there dresses swayed to the music, their laughter echoing off the walls.
   In the corners of the room, another group, a different breed entirely, sat ensconced in their own world. Heavily tattooed and radiating an aura of hardened intensity, they nursed drinks and enjoyed the company of women who seemed to defer to them. These were warriors, not dancers.
   Mr. Brock turned to Grandwalker, a mixture of astonishment and disbelief on his face. "This is the 18th Street gang hideout?"
   "The one the boss assigned us. There are thousands of other hideouts, which is why we won't go down easily," Grandwalker boasted, a hint of pride in his voice as he swayed to the music.
   "Big talk for a minion," Mr. Brock retorted, a sardonic smile playing on his lips.
   "Maybe I'm a minion, but there are only three rankings in here. First are those are minions, then those guys sitting at the corners are the candidate to be the boss and the boss is the highest."
   "And what's my rank?"
   "Right now, you are part of the second rankings. Let me warn you, if you succeed the throne in here, you might just get your self killed. You only joined the gang a couple of days ago while those guys have been here for a couple of years," Grandwalker stated in a serious tone.
   "The boss needs me to go higher and it's only right if he makes me the next boss and now you're asking me to reject the offer when it comes," Mr. Brock said, picking up a cup of wine from a tray. "Not happening."
   "For as long as I've known the boss, he's always fair to us, meaning, if he rise because of you, he would definitely make you the boss," Grandwalker said as be picked up a cup of wine too. "But what do you need the title for? It's definitely not worth your life."
   "You're worrying too much about me, I'm going to lead the gang and do my job. That's the only way the 18th street gang can function while I'm on guard. Letting another boss do as he sees fit when I'm the one cleaning up the mess, isn't the way this should roll," Mr. Brock stated, staring. "Who's the boss and where's he?"
   "He's upstairs, wanna see him?" Grandwalker asked.
   "Yeah, mind taking me to him?"
   "Ain't possible, only the candidate for the next boss can see him and that's you. You've helped the gang grow so much in the short span you joined, you are worth seeing him."
   "What about a gate pass, will the doorman let me in?"
   "You ask too much of questions but I guess you don't know how famous batman is."
   "Who's batman?"
   "Of course it's you," Grandwalker said, chuckling at Mr. Brock. "Batman, the night watcher."
   "Is that a joke?"
   "Alright check this out." Grandwalker said, as he made his way to the DJ.
   He collected the mic and looked at everybody.
   "Hello everyone, I have a surprise for you." Grandwalker said, pointing at Mr. Brock as he shouted. "It's batman the night watcher!"
   Screamings filled everywhere as they saw Mr. Brock who was just standing there, confused at what to do.
.....
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