A suited man, endowed with the luxuries of first-class life, strolls down a dimly lit sidewalk, his Italian leather shoes clicking against the pavement with each stride. The suited man, being a prime kingpin in a series of more than questionable businesses, swaggered down the street; his wallet swells, bulging with filthy money; filthy money attained in filthy ways. His black hair, slicked back, is accented with long, silver streaks. His cares are few, besides what to order at his favorite Italian restaurant with the newest of his long line of women. He adored the restaurant due to its buffet style serving, allowing him to entirely indulge his plump and round stomach. “Ravioli or mozzarella sticks tonight?” he whimsically mutters to himself. A brief glance at his Rolex alerts him of his lateness, and his pace hastens; as does the clicking of his shoes. He’s becoming anxious; each step is more brisk than the last. “This woman is special. I mustn't decay a second impression!” he declares aloud.  Had the suited man been less absorbed with his unsatisfying wealth and countless women, he would've noticed a man trailing him; a dark man, with dark intentions.  The suited man, reciting the excuse for his tardiness under his breath, comes close to a running stride when the thuds of heavy footsteps finally penetrate his superficial concerns. He sluggishly cranes his head to the rear to investigate, expecting a fellow walker or a late man hurrying to a date, just like him. Instead he’s met with the black barrel of a battered revolver, inches from his nose. Behind the handgun stands an enormous, starving wolf; his burning red eyes stare straight through the suited man’s, and his golden-tipped tongue traces the perimeter of his lips, nearly tasting the wealth lingering in the crisp night air. With the quick flick of his tree trunk like arm, the hooded man jams the cold, steel barrel between the suited man’s pearly teeth, ruthlessly smashing multiple front teeth inwards. The suited man realizes in this moment, that his wealth, his women, and his vast power mean nothing with a cold, steel barrel jammed between his gnarled, bloodied teeth. He can’t believe that after the years of running a lucrative, yet vicious racketeering operation, his wealth would die with him by the hand of an equally greed stricken man. He shrivels on the ground; droplets of blood fly from his lips as he squeals inaudible pleas of mercy, his busted teeth still encircling the barrel. He jerks his wallet and keys from the front pocket of his coat, placing them at the feet of the hooded man, as if he were offering measly gifts to appeal a wrathful god; he had become the victim, the prey. “You can’t be allowed to live.” The hooded man growled menacingly. His voice sounded poisonous, like the serpent’s in the Garden of Eden. “You know my voice, and gazed upon my eyes. If I allow you to escape, I might as well shove this revolver down my own throat.” The words roll of the tips of his forked tongue; dripping with malevolence. His hand tightens on the cold steel, slowly squeezing the trigger, the hammer cocking; the suited man reluctantly realizes the consequences of his acquiescence. The last thing to exit the suited man’s mouth is a futile cry for mercy, and the last to enter is blazing steel, ripping his vertebrae between the skull and upper back. His body immediately falls limp and collapses to the ground, like a rag-doll that a child finishes toying with. The hooded man retrieves his new belongings off the “martyr” as he likes to call them, and dashes into the dark, into the cool night, never to be reprehended for this atrocity. Steadily leaking from the base of his skill, crimson liquid saturates the man’s pressed, white suit, and blood pools beneath his careless head. His glossed eyes are wide open; they gaze infinitely skyward into the dim streetlamp’s bulb. Miles away, the hooded man scrubs his hands, and his hungry, red eyes scream “just a little more.” No more how full they become, he insists his pockets lie empty.