A Scamp
1: Chapter 1
A Scamp
A SCAMP
It was evening; a dark and gloomy nightfall.
The narrow streets lay bare with a sense of isolation with a blanket of mist in the air.
The silhouettes of bare tree branches stood still; the vertically angular buildings stretched against the dark sky.
The extended ray of lights from the streetlights falling on the pavement left deep impenetrable shadows in between while illuminated areas appeared 24 carat gold-like from the amber lamps.
The hum of the power lines along with some distant footsteps dominated the acoustic landscape.
At the corner of the lengthened street some parked cars sat quietly along the curbs, blending into the enveloping darkness.
Leading forward into the pavement, a ramshackled building stood untouched.
The fascia sign above it flickered with a rhythm.
The logo ‘The Vintage Society’ at the entrance pasted horizontally across the top of the pub’s facade, directly above the entrance door where four heavily dressed bouncers appeared with their feet deeply rooted on the allocated ground.
The landscape looked contrary from the nearby street as it was now filled with the hustle of pub-goers.
The bar was completely filled with the chattering of people; the disco balls played and moved along the DJ songs.
The hustle and bustle soon added as the office hours ended.
People gathered and got busy exploring each other and sipping up to their brim.
Outside the pub was quite a different environment.
Two gangs stood opposite to each other.
No weapons, no tools in their hands but every face had an unsparing and ruinous pose.
They stood facing each other, making sure that their presence is enough to leave some sort of terror in the eyes of their oppositions.
All the mobsters from both the groups looked young and vibrant except from the contrasting dresses they wore.
On one side, stood some ten-twelve people wearing all black suits and on the other side stood a count of more than thirty people with printed wild floral shirts and shorts, giving off some loud, oversized and flashy vibes which were unbuttoned halfway to the chest.
Being a despot of the group wearing which wore black suits, a tall and muscular figure wearing a fine suit of the similar kind took a step forward and shook his head once.
Instantly the group screamed unanimously, “Yeppers!” and within a fraction of second the people from the centre parted ways, making way for their leader.
Scorn, a man in his late thirties, blew-in his last sip of the cigarette and threw the other half of the cigarette onto the ground.
Crushing the cigarette butt with his left foot, Scorn looked up at the entrance of the pub.
Slowly, he approached forward with his elegant yet majestic walk and stood infront of his group with a simper look.
The pencil-moustache; thin, sharply defined strip of hair meticulously trimmed just above the upper lip was styled to project power and intimidation.
From his lower lip, thick, busy and downward sloping hairs lengthened, reaching half of his neck.
From the other side a tubby person slided out from the crowd.
Dolled up with heavy and shiny gold chains choking from his neck till his chest, with a toned stomach and short legs; wearing that uniform-coded floral shirt and pants; he genuinely looked amusing in an odd, whimsical way.
Scorn tilted his head to Opel; it seemed he gave some unknown command to Opel and instantly Opel grasped his assignment.
His lackey, Opel answered straight away with a lower tone, “Boss!
He’s the owner of this pub.
Except this one, he has three more but they aren’t appealing.
He is the underdog of Plyan but last month he was thrown out of Plyan’s umbrella due to money laundering.
Now he’s acting all mighty spreading the rumour that he and Plyan are competitors.
Hearing the name ‘Plyan’, Scorn’s left eye twitched.
Plyan was his born-enemy.
He was calculative, polished and ruthless.
He views organized crime as a corporate enterprise rather than just street-level violence.
The tension between them has been an age old familiar tale that was once the talk of the town.
Even the kids savvy what their fathers had taught them about the legendary rivalry between Scorn and Plyan.
The folk tale elasticized due to their fundamentally different rules of engagement leading to forcing the syndicate into chaotic cold wars between both the gangs.
Looking straight at his rival’s eyes who was standing face to face, Scorn challenged with an option, “Swindling your upper Boss isn’t acceptable in our world.
I wonder why that brat left you without any scratch.
Hugh!!
(Scorn sighs.) It was his business until you were in his territory.
But now that you came to my place, I won’t let a rodent contaminate my territory.
So now tell me, broken bones or this pub?”
The tubby person came to the centre of his respective group and spoke gnashing his teeth, “Wishing for something is good.
But boundaries are there to not cross it.”
Scorn gushed out a hot stream of air through his nostrils along with a smirk, “Do you know what are my boundaries, fella?”
“A gutter-shit, of course.”
As the words came out of that person’s mouth, Scorn’s men gritted their teeth and clenched their fists; ready to smash his face.
Scorn asked calmly with a coarse tone, “I change my plan.
Now I want you to be dead.”
The man’s ears twitched.
He couldn’t believe his ears.
An evil laugh echoed in the thin air.
“You piece of shit!
How dare you…..” The man clenched his fist and aimed it right towards Scorn’s face.
BOOM!
A quick, deafening deep sound popped out as a thunder, followed by a sharp echoing reverberation.
No one moved.
No one even flinched yet no one saw what just happened.
Just when a breeze of cool air went through them, everyone’s eye danced left and right, trying to analyze the situation.
TIP!
TAP!
TIP!
TAP!
TIP!
TAP!
Drops of blood accumulated onto the ground and all of a sudden everyone could recognize the victim.