On Monroe Street, Jason waits patiently for his next victim. A procession of wood workers, linemen and other inscrutable tradesmen parade by his alley, but his net is not hoisted for them. He has a certain breed of fish to catch today; aged, flopping carp. He had established his trade many years ago on Elm, forcefully taking dollar and dime from any man, woman, or dog with loose hanging currency. After many unfruitful days on Elm Street, as well as constant police intervention, the business was moved to greener pastures, to Monroe Street, where he mugs old women every day.
An ancient woman passes his corner. It strikes him odd, as the woman did not move with fleeting pace, as so many do while in the neighborhood. This woman moves throughout the detested street as if a thousand eyes were watching her and she cared not one bit. Perfect prey, perfect surroundings. He pounces.
Jason springs from his alley with his beating stick in hand, and a hungry conviction, to harass the woman into submission. He forcibly taps her knees, sending her to the ground at once. He mutters his words of business; his threats, his insults, his leverage on her money. But she responds not with her wallet, nor with her lips, but with a line of sight. Her eyes posses less fear than a king in a castle, as if her mugger had fell flat on the biggest joke in the world; and this violates him, and his eyes inflame with fear she failed to possess. And the joke produces a crowd.
Out from the tributary streets comes a militia of elders, equipped with nothing less than handbags and walking sticks. A storm brews and torments the solitary criminal. Strength came in numbers as countless old timers bludgeon the salesmen with their respective wares. His whole is bruised and broken, but still they batter on in unyielding camaraderie. His cheek fills with sour blood as business carries on late into the night.