His eyes scanned the small alley. The clichΓ© and proverbial scene lay sprawled before his translucent brown orbs: steam rising from a manhole to paint the gothic scenario of a torn down, worn out neighborhood where only the strong could possibly hope to survive and thrive. His movements were timed, planned and deliberate: and he was going nowhere in a hurry tonight. The large steel door that stood open behind his small frame would not shut, this he knew. He was safe here until he no longer desired the company of the cats and the trash. Breathing and otherwise.
"We need you," came his best friend's soft, always placating voice from somewhere in the recesses of the security door. "We're ready for-"
He nodded.
"I'll, you know, wait back inside," was the answer from a man that had known him longer than he had breathed the oxygen of this earth. A good man; a loyal friend. Someone that never understand, but always sympathized. Someone who never said a cross word about anyone, and never did wrong but the worst of this world. Only right.
Movement at the far end of the alley brought his senses to acuity. A rat scurried from the oil-slicked gravel, flashing green glowing eyes and fangs that would never see the blood of anything more than its own. The taste of the air, however, foretold that Stuart Not-So-Little was not the sole inhabitant of this realm. He was not alone, and she was just feet away. Waiting.
"Do not hide," he stated, voice unflinching. "Do not hide because I can taste your perfume on my tongue."
The steam cleared and there she was, cigarette between her lips and a lascivious grin across her superficially glossed lips and rouged cheeks. "And can you smell my cigarette?"
His nostrils flared with defiance.
"Can you taste my deodorant?" she taunted, a cat-like glide bringing her closer. "Are you just a cocky pervert who looks really good in-"
"No," he growled, turning quickly and disappearing back behind the safety of the large steel door which slammed behind him.