Gang Warfare

If one had to divide my neighbourhood up into those groups who wield power, this could easily be done. See, my side of the street is run by a little group we’ll call the “Jets,” while the land across the street, where transit shack is, belongs to the “Sharks.”
And it's fiercely competitive. I mean, there’s nothing more than a street dividing those rabid beasts, and the meridian in the middle is like international waters--it belongs to whoever gets there first. And these guys were born on the street: lanky, broad shoulders, sharp eyes. They just take what they want--no begging for them.
So the other night, I’m walking from the ticket booth toward the transit shelter when I see three or four Jets, lounging on the meridian in their dark, dirty fur coats. They’re sneering, practically snarling in the direction of the four Sharks across the way. The Sharks throw their heads back, pacing uneasily, one eye on the enemy at all times. I reach the transit shelter, but continue to watch. It’s got that feeling of something that’s just gonna happen, you know?

And I’m right--suddenly I see the leader of the Sharks lunge past me and onto the meridian. He’s moving so fast he’s little more than a blur but I KNOW it’s him, because of his sandy fur coat, the tail lost in a fight long ago. Behind the leader follows his gang, just as fast, just as ferocious, teeth bared, wanting what is theirs. There is grappling, snarling, white teeth sinking into flesh, and inhuman yowls. From my distance I think I see blood in the snow.

And then it’s over, just as quickly as it began. A whimper or two and the Jets cross the traffic back to their turf, into the thick birch, out of sight. The Sharks stand panting in the territory that is now theirs. Proud and standing tall. For tonight.

This will all happen again, soon enough.

The ones who live at the metro station have it so posh compared to this; people feeding them, warm doorways. If I were a stray dog, that's where I'd be. Wouldn't want to lose a tail.