Date: 8/4/02

Regan Avenue East, Downtown

Red brick buildings rise, some of them crumbling from disrepair and
disuse, others patched together by repairs. Graffiti covers some of the
walls near street level, some rude, most crude, but the occasional drawing
is meant for a lighter-hearted reaction. The graffiti becomes a colorful,
almost gaudy mural at the western end of the district, an announcement of
the Regan Hope Project's presence. Trash litters the majority of the
gutters, from Harbor Park in the east across to just before the Regan Hope
Project's domain, where the trash is less prevalent and the buildings less
run-down. Small shops with apartments in the floors above them span a
block here and corners there: delis, second-hand clothes, textiles, small
restaurants, a grocery store. Sandwiched between the buildings are
weed-choked empty lots.


Apocalypse slouches along the street with a Spongebob Squarepants backpack
hanging off her shoulders, hands in pockets.

Whistling briskly, Tim strides down Regan Avenue, an uncommon little
spring to his step. He looks pretty much like he always looks -- mean,
ugly, ready to fight -- but that whistling means something's on his mind.
Maybe it's something really happy. While he walks, he also twirls a dark
metal object like it's half a nunchaka.

Apocalypse catches sight of Tim from down the block and gives him a
full-armed wave worthy of flagging down a cab. She also hollars, utterly
unself-consciously, "Yo, Tim-MAH!"

It's a crowbar, of all things, and it looks like he /does/ think it's a
nunchaka missing its dance-partner. After a bit more twirling, he fwangs
it against a lamp-post; it produces a god-awful clang and one scurrying
old woman. "Hey, Ms. Apocalype Jones," he says once he draws near, the
words like they're straight out of some blaxploitation flick, heavy with
inflection. "How you be?" The crowbar gets one more quick twirl, then he
tucks it under his left arm.

"I be smooth, I be fine, I be scorin' ninety-nine," Apocalypse raps back
with an easy grin. "How's it with you, home slice?"

Little Tim grins, flashing a few missing and chipped teeth. "It's all
good, sister. Look, I got a little business to do - you know, neighborhood
stuff. Wanna tag along, be my Tonto?" He can't leave that crowbar alone;
now he's banging it into his palm, over and over.

If anything, the Fang brightens. "Count me in, kemo sabe. One f'all an'
all f'fuckin' one. I got'cher back, yeah-bob."

Little Tim nods. "Cool-cool. Walk with me," he says and then just starts
going, giving Apocalypse one good elbow in the ribs as he moves. "Hey, you
been up to the Rialto yet? Kaz show you 'round?"

Apocalypse responds with a good-natured punch at the Gnawer's arm. "Nah.
Las' I heard, place had been death-trapped for the gibbery uglies." She
falls into step with him easily. "Ain't had a look-see."

Little Tim shrugs. "Shit. Could be. An' here's me crashin' there last few
nights," he says. "You want dumbass lessons, get 'em here, cheap." After a
few strides he adds, "Well, 's pretty fuckin' cool. Used to rigged up for
movies, an' me an' Max an' Bern would totally veg there once 'r twice a
week. Lemme show you when we done here." He seems to know just where he's
headed, though he doesn't comment on it.

"Shit, man," says Apocalypse. "If y'ain't been fucked up ta little
Tim-blobs, I'm guessin' they took down the mousetraps. What kinda movies?"

Little Tim shrugs again. "Usual shit. A few months old. A few dudes could
sort of lift 'em from a theatre every once in a while, and Max paid for
'em. One of the guys got a new job, other got fired, so ffft," he says,
waggling the crowbar a little. "No more new movies. Right here." He turns
down a narrower side street, moving like a dog that's busted loose from
its chain - constant, seemingly aimless, but always headed /somewhere/.

Apocalypse seems more than happy to follow her grubby companion. "Ah, that
sucks, yo. Back home, brother of one'a this bunch I used ta hang with was
a fuckin' guard atta theatre an' used ta let us in backdoor alla time."
She grins broadly. "Place used ta show _Rocky Horror_ every fuckin'
Wednesday at midnight, did th' whole shee-banger."

Little Tim snorts a little dry laughter and says, "That _Rocky Horror_
stuff's a little faggy for me, but hey, sounds fun. Better 'n gettin' your
teeth knocked in, know what I mean?" There's that grin and those
worse-for-the-wear teeth again. "Right again." This time, it's almost an
alley that they turn down.

Apocalypse aims another cheery punch at the Gnawer's arm, grinning fit to
split her face. "Hey, my Columbia getup las' year Halloween fuckin'
brought down the fuckin' _house_. 'Specially wit' B.N.E.'s big brother
playin' Eddie." She gives a little tappy two-step, then flip-flops after
Tim into the alley.

Little Tim cocks his head, gives Apocalypse a curious but ignorant glance,
then says, "Right on, sister. Come on, Three Dollar Bill oughta be right
up here." Through the alley, past graffiti for the Latin Kings - Tim
points it out as the dominant local gang around here - and out onto a
narrow dead end, near the dead part.

"Bitchin'," says Apocalypse, shoving her hands into her pockets as she
saunters along.

"OK, before we get there, let me tell you a few things about what I'm
doin'... " Tim starts, then trails off, thinking. "You ever do this kind
of thing back home? Drano run?"

Apocalypse cocks her head slightly to one side. "Mebbe under a different
name. What's involved?"

Little Tim gives the crowbar a twirl, then leans on it jauntily, like a
can. "Drano. Get in there and flush out some shit that's clogging the
pipes, you know? This guy, Three Dollar - I hear he's pushing some rock,
so he gets cleaned. Yeah?"

Apocalypse ah-hahs! "Yeah. Jus' called it garbage disposal wit' the bunch
I ran wit'."

"Cool. Same thing only different, huh?" Tim laughs at his stupid little
joke, then starts moving again, this time headed right for one of the
tenements up the street. About halfway there he stops, turns toward
Apocalypse, then asks, "You want this one? I mean, I c'n talk, you can
rock, right? Only if you know, you think you c'n handle it and all." The
crowbar is held out halfway toward the Fang.

"I can swing 'em wit' the best of 'em," Apoc says, all confidence. She
holds a palm out, ready for the crowbar to get slapped into it.

Little Tim does, nicely enough, and it makes a satisfying thump as it
settles in. "My-my-my-my kind of a girl," he sing-songs, smirking now.
"This way. 10013, apartment 3. Round back there." He points toward a pass
through from the street to a kind of courtyard between buildings.

Apocalypse gives the crowbar a jaunty twirl. "Rock on, Amadeus. Let's do
this shit." The pale-haired, skinny Silver Fang makes for an unusual
enforcer, but she's gleefully eager at the prospect of getting down and
dirty, and the gleam in her strangely-colored eyes is just this side of
mad.

Little Tim laughs, a little raucously but oh-so-Timmily, and leads the
way, going past the first stoop of building 10013, and around back. Here
there's another stoop, with a rickety black iron handrail, leading to a
plain red door marked APT 3. Seated on the first few steps of the stoop
are two young men - maybe sixteen, seventeen - and when the first sees
Tim, he says, quickly, "Aw, shit, hey Timmy," then hits his friend's knee.
They're both gone before the two Garou reach them, hurrying off to the
other end of the courtyard. Tim smirks, then mounts the stairs to rap on
the door.

Apocalypse glances after the two teenagers, then elbows the Gnawer in the
ribs. "They know you good, man," the Fang says approvingly. As she climbs,
she taps the end of the crowbar into her free palm, apparantly enjoying
the meaty thunk of metal against flesh.

Little Tim says, "I work hard, honey," his gaze drifting over his shoulder
to make sure the two are, indeed, exeunt. There's the sound of movement
inside, but the door doesn't open. As Tim raps again, faster this time, a
voice inside says, "Yeah? What's up?" then the doorknob turns and the door
opens, snapping against the end of the chain. "Whaaaaat?" the voice says
again as two bleary eyes come into view. They're dark and a little
intriguing, though set in a narrow, goatish face, and when they see who's
there they widen in alarm. "Uh, h-hey, Tim, what's happenin'?" He tries to
shut the door, but Tim's boot is already jammed there. He leans back a
little, leaving an opening for his partner to do something.

Apocalypse just grins at the man over Tim's shoulder, all gleaming white
teeth and gleaming manic stare, a beak-nosed, flat-chested punk-rock bitch
who actually _licks_ the hook end of the crowbar. Then she says, "Hi!"

"Aw, Tim, what's this, man, huh?" the guy is pleading, still trying to
shut the door through Tim's foot. "What /is/ this? I ain't done nothin'
this time. Ask anybody." The Gnawer pitches his head to one side, snorts,
then says, "Not what I heard, Bill. You open that door, we can talk about
what I heard and what you think, OK? Deal, boss?" Though he's asking, it's
not really a question. Three Dollar Bill takes a minute to assess the
situation, his dark eyes flickering like candles in a wind: Tim's foot,
Tim, Apocalypse, the chain, Tim, the courtyard, Apocalypse. Finally, he
sags a bit and moves to unhook the chain. The second it's off its latch,
Tim shoves at the door with two hands, knocking Bill back into the room.
He falls, and Tim steps aside for Apocalypse to go in first.

Apocalypse, like the proper Fang she is, charges into the room with the
makeshift weapon raised, quickly scanning for any lurking reinforcements.
One flip-flop geos flying off as she whirls, dancingly, the crowbar
swinging out through the air only inches from Bill's head.

Billy actually squeals - girlish and /very/ strange coming from him,
seeing as he looks the part of a southside menace: scarred face, the right
amount of muscle, arms and neck brimming with tattoos. Hes genuinely
scared of these two kids, though. Hands up, eyes half-closed, he says,
"Nothin', Timmy, nothin', didn't do /nothin'/. Not this time. Maybe
before, but you know, you got me, ha, in my eye, right? But not now,
not... Aw, man!" It all comes out in a burst, as if his words were similar
to a release of his bowels. "Ask anyone. Ask that fuckin' /cop/ Robinson,
man, he knows!" Tim shakes his head, lets Apocalypse have a little room,
and then he says, to the girl, "Work him."

"Roger-roger," chirps Apocalypse, just like one of those robots in the new
Star Wars movies. And, still grinning that broad manic grin of hers, she
kicks off the other flip-flop and goes lunging barefooted at Billy-boy,
the crowbar whistling through the air at the man's midsection. She
confines most of her blows to the man's torso. And it apparantly doesn't
matter a damn bit to her what sharp-and-nasties might be lurking around on
that floor to cut open her bare soles.

To his credit, Bill keeps a pretty clean living room (though the dim a
cluttered kitchen and /really/ messy bedroom can be seen) - no sharps
here. He grunts as the crowbar hits him, then lets out a shriek that he
tries to bite off when the bar smashes the hand he used to try and ward
off one of the blows. As he whimpers, Tim steps up beside Apocalypse.
"Bill, Bill, Bill," he says. "I heard you was trying to push some of your
rock again. Yeah? That right?" As Bill gasps, "No, /no/, man, no," Tim
says, "Do him some more," and steps back.

Apocalypse continues to put on a display of Clockwork Orange glee as she
dances around the man. She aims the metal bar at his back, his legs, his
groin if he's not protecting it adequately. No one wearing the visage of
Spongebob should be so violent.

Bill's not doing so well. He's resorted to just covering his head, rolling
into a half a fetal ball and whimpering, "No, man, no-no-no," over and
over again. "Just say you did it, Bill, and we'll be outta here. Just say,
'Yeah, timmy, I'm stupid and I fucked up. I won't push nothin' but a shit
in your neighborhood.' /C'mon/ Bill, say it." Bill's no's stop, and he
babbles something incoherent, before spitting, "Yeah... fucked up... 'm
/stupid/, OK?" Tim steps back, smirks a bit, then says, "Once more, Ms.
Apocalypse, and then our work is done."

"You got it, boss," says the Fang, and _whack_, down goes the crowbar. She
twirls it again, then saunters across the floor to reclaim her plastic,
sparkly footwear.

Little Tim nods, still grinning, then says, "That ain't so hard, Bill.
Remember us next time, OK?" He grabs a tissue box off an end table and
tosses it at Bill, who's in tears now, still sputtering, "No, no, no,"
like a broken electric toy. Without another word, Tim steps back out the
front door.

Apocalypse wiggles fingers at Bill, chirping, "Toodles," at him before
heading out after Timmy.

Little Tim eases the door shut behind them, then heaves a big sigh and
skips down the stairs of the stoop. "That was fun, huh? I /love/ this part
'f the job, y'know?"

"Roughin' up th' scum? Yeah. Easy shit, no joke, but always a hoot. Moreso
when they, ya know, put up a fuckin' fight." Apocalypse uses the crowbar
to scratch an itch on her back underneath the bookbag. "That dude, gotta
spine like'a worm."

"I got him but /good/ last time," Tim says. "Prob'ly had somethin' to do
with it. Besides," he adds, "I think we was tellin' the truth."

Apocalypse arches a pierced brow. "Yeah? Huh."

Little Tim pushes out his lower lip as he leads them back the way they
came. "Yeah, I'd put some fat cash on it, the way he stuck to the story.
People like him, though, they deserve /whatever/ I decide to give 'em.
That shit won't fly when I'm on the clock, you with me?"

Apocalypse shrugs a shoulder casually. "Yer th' boss, homes. Sometimes
these fuckers need a fuckin' reminder not ta backslide anyways."

"Not him. Not anymore," Tim poses. After a few paces in silence, he says,
"You did good, kid. I like your style, all... " and then proceeds to
bounce around, swinging an imaginary crowbar in caricature of Apocalypse.
"Fuckin' /right/. Hey, you want a burger? 'S on me this time."

Apocalypse grins toothily. "I'm there, Mr. Tims. Lead on!"