It’s a cool, damp night in Philadelphia, and Mac is standing in the corner of his favorite alley. There’s an unloaded gun in the pocket of his dark jeans, and the hood of his pleather jacket is pulled up over his head, partially obscuring his face. His stomach has been rumbling for an hour, but he refuses to eat cheap burgers again this week. No, tonight he’s going to mug a rich asshole and then he’s going to eat at Guiginos like a goddamn king.
There’s high traffic of young, upper-middle class men in this area due to it being a district full of coffee shops and boutiques with insane markups. Early October sunsets have blessed him with businesses that are still open when it’s dark outside. It’s almost too easy to fish for prey this time of year; during the autumn and winter, this neighborhood is one of the most lucrative mugging spots in all of South Philadelphia. Used to be that this alley belonged to someone else but the stupid idiot traded it all away for some cocaine cut with cheap baking soda. Now this spot belongs to Mac alone, and like fuck would he ever trade it away for anything.
This particular alley is ideal because of the way it’s angled. Mac can easily profile the passers-by without being seen to see who would be his best victim. Additionally, there’s a dumpster slightly inside the alley that’s a popular spot for people to toss garbage. The cafes on either side of the alley have extremely irregular hours, so there are no shopkeepers in close proximity to see someone being pulled inside. All he has to do is wait for the right fish to swim by so that he can attack and get his lunch.
Just then, a slim man in his mid-twenties stops by the trash can to toss out a cup of coffee. He’s wearing a preppy shirt with a collar and clean khakis. His hair is neatly coiffed and curly, and he has the air of someone who definitely has a lot of money. The stupid, rich asshole only notices he’s not alone when Mac presses his gun to the back of his head and covers his mouth with his hand.
“If you scream, I will kill you,” he whispers menacingly into the man’s ear. Mac pulls him into the alley with little resistance. He walks backwards until they hit a wall, and pulls the gun away from his head. He holds it out in front of himself, and stalks around the man. He stops walking when the gun lines up between the man’s eyes.
“Give me everything you’ve got. Right now,” Mac demands. His victim’s eyes widen in what could best be called an approximation of fear. He’s seen fakers before – usually addicts who’ve heard he’s never had a kill – but this guy doesn’t look like a user. Mac cocks the gun anyway and puts his finger on the trigger for emphasis.
“Easy man,” his victim says in a shaking voice. Weirdly, it sounds more excited than scared. “How about we just talk?”
Mac steps closer, gun still pointed directly between the man’s eyes. “How about you hand over your pretty little phone and we call that a conversation.”
The man quickly rifles in his pocket, pulls out his cell, and hands it over. It’s a Blackberry in one of those wallet cases. Cash is poking out of it. Privileged little bitch. Mac shoves it in his pocket.
“That wasn’t too hard, was it,” Mac says. He taps the man’s cheek with the side of his gun. The man closes his eyes and visibly swallows. “Now hand over everything else.” The man rifles around in his pocket for his (ugh) real wallet, but Mac’s not letting him get off that easy. He puts the barrel of his gun under the man’s chin. “I said everything. Strip. Shoes first.”
The man nods quickly; Mac pulls the gun away. He opens the man’s phone case and peeks around inside it while he watches the man from his peripheral. A pink Blackberry, a few hundred dollar bills, some receipts, and an American Express card with the name ‘Jameson Taft’ inscribed on it. Rich asshole must be a relative. Mac pulls out the receipts, and pockets the phone. He crumples them in his hand.
“Open your mouth,” he says to the man who is just beginning to take off his shirt. The man complies; Mac shoves the receipts in it and smiles. The man has been a fantastic victim altogether so there’s no reason to make him have undue suffering but damn if it isn’t satisfying to make rich assholes suffer anyway.
When the man gets to his underwear, Mac pauses and considers his options. On the one hand, he could have a little fun in this alley dominating this pretty douchebag (and oh – he looks the man up and down - he is very pretty). On the other hand, Guiginos is calling his name and they close in two hours. He needs to get to the sketchy pawn shop before he gets there, and they close even earlier.
“Keep your underwear on. I’m feeling merciful tonight.”
Mac rifles through the man’s pants to steal his wallet and a pair of very nice Gucci sunglasses. He steals the shoes (Coach) and a monogrammed pen.
“You can have everything else. Make yourself decent,” he says, and begins to walk away. Behind him, he hears the wet, crunchy sound of the receipts being spat onto the ground.
“Is that really all you’re going to do to me?” the man calls down the alley. It’s an accusation, not gratefulness, and the tone makes Mac briefly pause. He turns around; the man is still in his underwear and leaning against the wall. What a fucking weirdo.
“Yeah. Be grateful I didn’t do worse, pretty boy,” he says in the hopes that he’s been misreading every signal this guy’s been throwing off all night. The man sighs.
“I’m very pretty,” he says pointedly. The man dips the tip of his fingers into his underwear’s waistband. “Isn’t that part of why you chose me tonight?” He pouts in a way that is, admittedly. . .something that Mac likes very much. However his. . .arousal is quickly overrun with incredulity about the batshit situation he has landed himself in.
“Are you trying to get mugged and dominated in an alley?” he says.
The man’s eyes roll so hard that his head rolls along with them. “Is it working?”
Mac briefly rests his face in his palm, and shakes his head. His stomach rumbles insistently.
“I don’t have time for this,” he calls, walking away once more. “Have a nice life, asshole.”
He checks the time on the gay phone. Pawn shop is open for fifteen more minutes. Mac breaks into a sprint, thinking longingly of the steak and lobster that will await him when he’s finally claimed his prizes. He doesn’t look back to see if the weirdo finally cleans himself up. His dinner reservation is only a table for one, anyway.