My Due

"Don't give me that shit again."

He eyed the man icily, searching up and down his face for a scratch of the truth, the real meaning behind it. Why now, of all times? It was betrayal. It was personal.

He clutched his hands in his pockets a little harder, wishing he'd felt the cool metal that usually came fitted in his speckled green coat. Damn doormen, taking away his one island in this mad world. The one way he could feel safe.

Behind him, the heat from the crowd began to condense into pinpricks of heat, of sound, drilling further and further into his neck as he knew he was being watched. They were onto him. He needed to make a move. 

His eyes lilted lazily around the immediate scene to see if anyone would be able to stop him. Left, clear, behind, no the mob frothed but none crept close enough yet to lay a hand in objection. Right - damn.

Fuck. Damn. To the right was old Gearhardt, giving him that look again. He remembered what happened last time he crossed Gearhardt. Old G was playing it cool, pretending he didn't notice him. He knew better to cause a scene, but damn well could close the curtain on one.

The man in line spun back around and glared down the acne-donning teen standing idly before him.

"Sir, this is a soup kitchen. We don't have any subs."

"Fine, fine. Just give me a damn bowl."