Protest Party

Chapter 16: Protest Party

Section 1: Nobody Takes Our Alley

At the entrance of Local Alley, a female reporter stood before the camera with a microphone in hand. Behind her, a crowd had gathered, many holding handmade protest signs.

The cameraman raised three fingers.

Three.
Two.
One.

The red light came on.

“Good afternoon. We’re live at Local Alley, where residents are protesting a redevelopment plan that could completely change their neighborhood,” the reporter announced.

She glanced back at the crowd.

“Let’s hear what the locals have to say.”

The reporter headed into the alley with her cameraman and soon came upon a loud group of protesters. They were dressed almost alike—black T-shirts, ripped jeans, cigarettes hanging from their mouths—and each carried a handmade sign.

The men shouted:

“This our fuckin’ alley!”
“Get the fuck out!”
“Leave our shit alone!”

Their signs bounced above the crowd as cigarette smoke drifted between them.

At the center stood Canelo, balanced on four upside-down beer crates. A cigarette hung from his mouth as he raised his sign and shouted.

“Yo! This our alley! Ain’t nobody takin’ this shit from us!”

The men raised their signs and roared, “HELL NO!”

Canelo punched a fist into the air.

“Whose fuckin’ alley is this?”
“OURS!”
“Who gonna take this shit?”
“NOBODY!”
“Can’t hear you motherfuckers! WHO?”
“NOBODY!”

The reporter recognized him and turned toward the camera.

“For those familiar with Local Alley, these men are some of its more… intimidating residents. Yet today, they’re surprisingly disciplined and organized.”

Another thunderous “NOBODY!” erupted behind her.

“And now, let’s speak with the man nearly everyone here fears—the one and only Lord Canelo.”

As the reporter approached, the men made way for her. Canelo stood proudly on his beer crates, holding his protest sign above his head.

Only now, with the camera close enough, could the words be clearly seen:

GET OUT OF OUR ALLEY!
PROTECT OUR CHILDHOOD!

The entire sign was upside down.

Canelo didn’t seem to notice.

The reporter raised her microphone. “Lord Canelo, could we ask you a few questions?”

Canelo stopped chanting and looked down at her.

“What?” he snapped.

The reporter continued, “We’re live right now, and we’d like to ask—”

“Yo, get outta my face before I break your kneecaps,” Canelo interrupted.

The reporter froze. After a few seconds, she lowered her microphone and turned toward the camera.

“Well… let’s hear from some other protesters,” she said.

Without another word, she walked away, the cameraman following behind.

Section 2: Here for the Free Food

A little farther down the alley, the reporter spotted an enormous man standing beside a food table.

He towered over almost everyone around him, wearing a filthy T-shirt and ragged shorts with a couple of dried chunks of feces stuck to them.

But Tom was far too busy eating to care.

He took enormous bites from a hamburger, his cheeks stuffed full. Before finishing it, he grabbed a second burger and bit into that one too, then leaned over to suck several mouthfuls of Coke through a straw.

The reporter turned toward the camera.

“Here we have another enthusiastic protester. Although… his enthusiasm seems to be focused on something else. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

She approached Tom with her microphone.

“Sir, what are your thoughts on today’s protest?” she asked.

Tom stopped chewing and looked at her, both cheeks bulging with food.

“Protest?”

He chewed twice more.

“I dunno nothin’ ’bout no protest. I heard there was free food.”

The reporter looked puzzled.

“So you’re not actually here to protest?”

Tom shook his head.

“Nah. Just here for the free food.”

He leaned over, sucked the last of his Coke through the straw, then let out a massive belch directly in front of the camera.

“BUUUURP!”

Tom rubbed his stomach with a satisfied smile and went straight back to his hamburger.

The reporter stared at him for a moment before turning toward the camera.

“Well… enthusiasm at its finest. Just perhaps not for the protest.”

She gave a small nod and moved on with her cameraman.

Suddenly—

BANG!

A loud crash echoed across the alley.

The reporter turned toward the sound.

A man wearing a Chinese flag as a cape had one leg buried knee-deep in a brick wall. He gripped his thigh with both hands, twisting his body from side to side as he struggled to pull himself free.

The reporter immediately waved for her cameraman to follow and hurried over.

Section 3: Our Local Hero

“And here we have our local hero, Sean,” the reporter said to the camera as they approached. “Although how he ended up in this unusual position is something we should probably ask him ourselves.”

She raised her microphone toward him.

“Sean, what happened here?”

“Oh, shit…” Sean planted his free foot firmly against the ground and gave his trapped leg another hard pull.

“Some punk was up to no good. We got into a fight, and somehow I ended up kicking myself straight into this damn wall.”

He clenched his teeth and pulled again, but his leg refused to budge.

“I see,” the reporter said. “Well, Sean, as someone who has become a local hero after serving three years in prison—”

Sean’s head snapped toward her.

“HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! Who served time? Who went to prison? Did you go to prison? Did your mother go to prison?”

“I was only referring to—” the reporter began.

“You say that shit again and I’ll sue you for defamation! You hear me? DEFAMATION!” Sean shouted, jabbing a finger toward her.

The reporter stared at him, caught off guard by his outburst. She was about to continue when Sean’s expression suddenly changed.

His eyes widened, and he burst out laughing.

“AH—HAHAHAHA! NO! No, no! HAHAHAHA! STOP!”

His entire body jerked against the wall as he desperately tried to pull his leg free.

“HAHAHA! Somebody—HAHAHA! Somebody inside the wall took off my shoe and sock! AH, NO! They’re tickling my foot! HAHAHAHA! STOP!”

The reporter slowly lowered her microphone and exchanged a puzzled look with her cameraman before turning toward the camera.

“Well… it appears our local hero may be experiencing some kind of mental breakdown. We’ll give him some time to calm down and speak with the other protesters.”

She motioned for her crew to follow and walked away, leaving Sean’s helpless laughter and desperate cries echoing down the alley.

Section 4: The Interview That Never Happened

As the reporter and her crew continued down the alley, Benson stood a short distance ahead, silently rehearsing the cool speech he had prepared for the camera.

Then he noticed the reporter coming his way.

His eyes locked onto her face before slowly drifting downward, settling on her cleavage—and the two little “bunnies” gently bouncing beneath her blouse as she walked.

A creepy smile spread across Benson’s face.

“Heh heh… I’m gonna score me a chick today,” he muttered to himself.

As the reporter drew closer, Benson straightened his back and tried to look cool, though his heart was pounding with excitement.

All right. I’m totally ready.
Yeah… come at me, babe.
Closer…

Benson lifted his chin, preparing to deliver his carefully rehearsed opening line.

The reporter glanced at him, then immediately turned toward her cameraman.

“That watermelon-haired guy looks a little creepy. Let’s move on to the next one.”

The crew walked straight past him.

Benson remained frozen, his mouth still half-open with the opening line that never got a chance to come out.

The excitement drained from his eyes. His shoulders sagged, his creepy grin collapsed into a lifeless frown, and his whole body seemed to shrink inside his clothes.

He slowly turned his head and watched the reporter and her crew disappear into the crowd.

Then he raised one hand halfway toward them, his face crumpling like a crybaby.

“Hey… come back… You haven’t interviewed me yet…” Benson murmured in a voice barely louder than an ant’s whisper.

Section 5: All the Kids Are Here

From somewhere inside the crowd, an old face poked out between two protesters.

It was Mr. Shek, the mole on his cheek still carrying its single long strand of hair.

His wandering eyes moved through the crowd until they landed on Benson.

“No doubt about it. I’d never forget that loser face even if I went senile,” he muttered.

Mr. Shek looked farther down the alley.

“Hmm. That’s Tom… Canelo…”

He nodded slowly.

“All the kids are here.”

He leaned left and right, searching between the heads around him.

“Hmm… but where’s Richard the Dick? Don’t see him anywhere.”

Mr. Shek shook his head in disappointment.

“Probably screwing around somewhere, playing those stupid local-hero games again. Can’t that boy just get himself a real job and do some honest work for once?”

A young woman appeared behind him and grabbed his arm.

“Hey, Grandpa. We have to go. You’re already way late for your dementia medicine,” his granddaughter said.

Mr. Shek slowly turned toward her, his face suddenly serious.

“Where am I…?”

He paused, staring into her eyes.

“Who am I…?”

Another long pause.

“And why the hell do I feel so damn good here?”

His granddaughter didn’t even bother to react. She tightened her grip on his arm and dragged him away through the crowd.

Section 6: The Professional Beggar

The reporter continued through the crowd until she spotted a man sitting calmly beside a wall.

His name was Lawson. He wore an outdated railroad worker uniform from the 1950s, and his rough, heavily wrinkled skin made him look like one of the alley’s elderly residents.

The reporter approached with her microphone.

“Excuse me, old-timer, what are your thoughts on today’s protest?” she asked.

Lawson blinked and frowned.

“What are you talking about? I’m only 18 years old.”

The reporter froze.

“Oh! I—I’m so sorry! Just a slip of the tongue!” she apologized with a nervous laugh.

“Anyway… could you tell us why you’re here?”

“I come here every day,” Lawson replied. “This is where I work. Of course I don’t want it turned into some casino.”

“Work?” The reporter glanced around. “But I don’t see any shops or offices here.”

“I’m a professional beggar,” Lawson answered calmly.

The reporter gave him a puzzled look.

“A professional beggar? Really? That’s a new one, old-ti—uh…”

She caught herself halfway through the word.

Without another word, Lawson reached under his coat and pulled out an old ceramic rice bowl with a small chip along its rim.

The moment he placed it on the ground, the bowl began to glow with a warm golden light.

The reporter’s expression changed. Her eyes softened as a deep compassion suddenly filled her heart.

Without hesitation, she opened her purse and pulled out all her cash. Then she slipped the diamond engagement ring from her finger and gently placed it into the bowl as well.

She looked Lawson sincerely in the eyes.

“You deserve it. People like you… you’re the soul of this city.”

Lawson simply nodded.

As the golden glow faded, the reporter smiled, absolutely convinced she had done something meaningful.

“Well… take care, old—”

She caught herself again, but it was too late. The rest of the word slipped out anyway.

“—timer. Stay safe, alright?”

She walked away with her crew, feeling strangely proud of herself.

Lawson quietly slipped the bowl back inside his coat, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes as if nothing unusual had happened.

Section 7: Eyes Above the Protest

High above the noise of the protest, on the rooftop of a five-story building, a slim figure stood silently on the railing.

It was Brian.

Beside him stood another man, whose eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s.

“Hey, man! You here to check out the girls from up here too?” the stranger asked with a grin. “This is a great angle! With these hawk eyes of mine, I can see right down their necklines, like my eyes are practically inches away from their cleavage!”

He glanced at Brian.

Does this guy have hawk eyes too? Nah. Probably just a normal dude.

Brian paid him no attention. His eyes shimmered faintly with a golden light as he gazed down at the crowd, calmly observing everything happening below.

A few minutes later, Brian turned and walked away.

The stranger watched him leave with an arrogant smirk.

“Just another normal dude. Guys like that don’t stand a chance in this city. You gotta have a special ability, just like me.”

He turned around, lost his footing on the railing, and fell straight off the five-story building.

SPLAT!

Blood and chunks of flesh scattered across the pavement. He died instantly.

Within seconds, a pack of stray dogs rushed over and began feasting on his remains.

So much for his special ability.

Later that evening, Brian entered a pitch-black office.

A shadowy figure sat behind a large desk in an executive chair, legs crossed, his back facing the door.

Brian stopped before the desk.

“Boss, I went to the protest site today,” he reported. “They’re all weaklings. Not a single one stood out in strength. But… I could tell they really love that alley. They’re deeply attached to it.”

The man in the chair leaned back slightly.

“Oh, I see.”

Later that night, a breaking news alert flashed across the television screen.

The same female reporter appeared on camera.

“This just in. The Humble Organization has suddenly decided to cancel its plan to build a large-scale casino in Local Alley. The project has been officially scrapped,” she announced.

Local Alley would remain exactly as it was.