Night.

A lone, flickering streetlight loomed over a street corner. Shining just dimly enough to obscure the street signs, it did, however, illuminate the corner in all its dilapidated glory. Seated on a stoop on the corner, a man reached into his pocket and retrieved a lighter. He struck it, and used it to light the end of the cigarette that hung out of his mouth. As he slid the lighter into the pocket from whence it came, he took a look up at the streetlight, shook his head ever so slightly and took a drag. A plume of smoke escaped his mouth, rushing past his clean-shaven face. He felt his hands shaking as he returned the cigarette to his mouth, but ignored the sensation.

The man was a sight for sore eyes. His tattered jacket was more bright blue duct tape than gray polyester, and his stained-teal jeans seemed to proudly display holes, which the winds gladly nipped at. His shaking hands were wrinkled and calloused; his arms dotted with needle marks. In the face he looked to be in his late forties at the youngest, his face wrinkled, his lips chapped, his skin ashy. He muttered a profanity through his lightly clenched teeth as he heard footsteps approaching. Blinking rapidly, his eyes shot from the streetlight to over his left shoulder; the source. On impulse, his right hand drifted over his right coat pocket, where he'd been keeping a rusty nail for all of three hours. Once more, his eyes shifted from the streetlight, which seemed to flicker to the rhythm of the footsteps, and towards the abyss from which the footsteps came. In the silence of the night, each step seemed to echo on for miles. The man gulped, his body tense, as the footsteps drew ever nearer, and their source stepped into the cold aura of the streetlight.

"You got a reason for being here?"

The source of the footsteps asked, in a half interested tone.

The man rubbed his eyes and grumbled out half a sentence, before devolving into unintelligible mumbling. His eyes were fixed on the new arrival.

This new arrival was nowhere near as imposing as the man had assumed. A baseball cap worn at an angle covered most of his face, exposing only a set of lips curled into a frown, though no amount of mean mugging could cover up the fact that the arrival was considerably shorter than the man. However, he had one significant advantage: a bat. A black aluminum baseball bat, that appeared invisible whenever the streetlight flickered off.

"Did I stutter, motherfucker?"

The arrival's voice was much higher pitched than the man anticipated, something he noticed the second time he heard it.

The man cleared his throat and mumbled the same bit of gibberish, only slightly louder, before depositing the ashes of his cigarette on the stoop's handrail. The arrival clicked his tongue, before tightening his grip on the bat.

"It's gonna be like this, huh?"

The man dropped his cigarette and reached into his pocket for the nail.

"I guess it is."

He spat.

The agitated arrival shook his head and stepped further into the light, which did little to reveal much else about his physical build that the man didn't already know. He lifted the bat and nodded at the man.

"Stand up old man. It ain't no fun otherwise."

The man did as asked. He pulled the nail out and as the light flickered, he pounced. Launching himself off the stoop, he fell forward with the hand holding the nail extended, hoping to fall on his attacker. Which, he didn't accomplish, he noticed as he stumbled over his feet, inches away from where the attacker stood. Shaking his head, the attacker swung the bat right into the back of the man's knee, sweeping him off the ground. The man landed with a thud, the impact forcing the wind right out of him. The nail flew from his hand, rolling end over end down the sidewalk, before falling into a crack in the pavement.

The attacker shook his head and took aim with the bat. Each downward swing was accompanied by a barely restrained growl.

"Junkie! Fuckers! Just! Don't! Learn!"

The last swing smashed the man's head against the concrete. His right eye popped right out of the socket and laid on the bridge of his nose, while a pool of blood leaked from the back of his head. He was still. Immobile. Not a twitch. Not a breath.

Looking around, and ensuring there were no witnesses, the attacker reached into their jacket pocket and pulled out a worn, bloodstained rag. Shaking his head at the fallen body, he wiped the bat clean of the man's blood before sliding the rag back into his pocket and taking off down the sidewalk from which he emerged.

Just another night in good old Baltimore, Maryland.

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Daylight.

The first rays of sunlight poked over the horizon, and yet the day had already begun for one Elijah Washington. He sat, as he often had, in the back office of a corner store. A corner, just like any other in the city. A corner like the one where just two days prior, a vagrant by the name of Malcolm Jackson was beaten to death by a baseball bat. Circle of life. Birth, addiction, violent death. Hardly a new story, there. However, you wouldn't think that by the way the local newscasters were reacting. Reporting the police's lack of leads and urging, begging, pleading anyone who might've seen or heard anything to contact the authorities. After he'd heard all he could stomach of the desperate clawing for information, Elijah flipped off the small TV on the filing cabinet to his left and spun around in his chair to face the men who'd stepped into his office while he was preoccupied.

Two thuggish men with pissed off expressions ironed onto their faces. They took their seats on the set up folding chairs facing the big man, with arms crossed. The on the left; slightly bigger than his contemporary cleared his throat and scratched the top of his.

"And you barged into my office because?"

The bigger of the two men piped up first, almost cutting Elijah off.

"Shit's gettin' real out there, EJ."

"My name is Elijah Washington. You do realize that, right?"

"EJ, EW, whatever."

Elijah scoffed and rolled his eyes at his subordinate.

"Boy, you know what I should do for that crack?"

"Whatever you do, hear me out first. Shit is going down out there, boss. Them East Side niggas is pushin' hard. I think they want war or somethin'."

"Why wouldn't they? After all, when you got a united West Side putting out, admittedly marginally better product the first thing those assorted cliques will do is try to take some territory. Some turf. Which they'll then squabble over until three bodies are dropped on the corner they just took, and no one's buyin' over there anyway."

"Yeah, but Malik's sayin'."

"Let me talk to Malik before we come up with any actual plan for this here conundrum."

"Conundrum?"

"Yeah nigga, a fuckin' situation. A problem. Shit man, context clues."

"Yeah whatever nigga."

"Right now, I don't want you doin' anything crazy."

"These niggas want war."

"They already found one. With us. What, you think just because we ain't beefin' over turf that we aren't at war? Nah man, lemme make this real simple for you. We're sellin' our shit; they're sellin' theirs, and we're attractin' the same market so we've been at war with them. Any business that sells similar shit to a similar crowd is at war, it's just our trade is a little more hands on than the others. So yeah, no shit they want war. We want war by virtue of sellin' our shit in the same city as another crew. Right now, until I get this shit sorted with the others, I don't want you crazy mothafuckas startin' any shit. If they comin' for blood by all means feel free to do what you gotta do but don't fire the first shot."

The smaller of the pair nodded his head and pushed himself up off his chair, but the bigger one stared blankly at Elijah, with one finger on his left hand pointed up to the ceiling.

"But, what if they comin' with bats and not packin' heat?"

"It's the fuckin' principle! God damn you an ignorant ass mothafucka."

He gestured for the pair to exit his office, which they did. Though, just as the bigger of the two crossed the threshold, Elijah called out to someone standing in the narrow hallway.

"Hey B?"

He heard a verbal acknowledgment from behind the wall, and cleared his throat.

"Take the bigger one out back and give him a lesson in respect."

Elijah watched through the crack in the doorway as a large hand fell on the back of the bigger guy's neck and pulled him towards the back of the store, shaking his head dismissively. He leaned back in the chair, until the back was pinned between him and the desk, when he heard the door front door chime. He looked over his shoulder to see the smaller of the pair leaving, but also someone else coming in. He motioned for this new arrival to come into his office, a request which was followed immediately.

"You seen that junkie on the news?"

Elijah squinted his eyes and shook his head.

"Damn girl, that's how we start this? Not even a hello?"

"You seen that shit?"

"How could I miss it? Man's been on the news so much you'd think he was a martyr or somethin'. Why, did you do him like that?"

She said nothing, but tilted her head to the side and shrugged.

"And what possible reason could you have for that?"

"Wouldn't fuckin' listen. Tried to attack me."

"Tried to attack?"

"Well, dude flopped over in my general direction in a threatening manner. Shit was kinda funny to see, but still. You never know with those fiends man. One wrong move and it coulda been on the ground there. Last time I try to clean up the neighborhood, I swear."

The pair share a laugh at that last comment.

"Right, model citizen. Cleaning up the community. Better watch out, they might name a high school after you."

"Yeah, right. Jada Turner High. Got a nice ring to it, though."

"So, you just come in to brag about that?"

"Nah, just heard a bit of a street rumor."

"Which is?"

"The fuckin' fiend is Swanson's cousin."

"Swanson as in--"

"Yeah."

"Shit."

Elijah spun around in his chair, patting the desk wildly before coming up with what he was looking for; a phone.

"Whatchu bout to do?"

"Gotta make some calls."