Protest Party

Section 1: Nobody Takes Our Alley

At the entrance of Local Alley, the female reporter stood before the camera with a microphone in hand. Behind her, a crowd had already begun to gather, many holding handwritten protest signs.

The cameraman raised three fingers.

Three.

Two.

One.

The red light came on.

“Good afternoon. We’re reporting live from Local Alley, where residents have gathered today to protest a proposed redevelopment plan for the neighborhood. Many of them say the project could completely change the community they’ve called home for years.”

She glanced back at the growing crowd, then turned to the camera again.

“The protest will begin shortly. Let’s speak with some of the local residents and hear what they have to say.”

With that, she headed into the alley, the camera and the rest of her crew following close behind.

The reporter made her way deeper into the alley and soon came upon a particularly 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 of a different size.

“This our fuckin’ alley!”

“Get the fuck out!”

“Leave our shit alone!”

The signs bounced above the crowd in surprising unison as cigarette smoke drifted between them.

At the center stood Canelo, balanced on four upside-down beer crates pushed together into a makeshift platform. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth as he raised his sign and shouted over the crowd.

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

The men immediately raised their signs.

“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 slowed as she recognized him.

Canelo took another drag from his cigarette and lifted his sign even higher while the men around him continued chanting in perfect rhythm.

She turned toward the camera.

“For those familiar with Local Alley, you may recognize some of these men as the neighborhood’s more… intimidating faces. But today, they appear to have come together as a surprisingly disciplined and well-organized group.”

Another thunderous “NOBODY!” erupted behind her.

“And now, we’re going to speak with a man feared by nearly everyone in Local Alley—the one and only Lord Canelo.”

The reporter headed toward him with her microphone.

As she approached, the men around Canelo made way for her. Canelo remained on his four upside-down beer crates, cigarette in his mouth and a large protest sign held proudly 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.

“Lord Canelo?”

The reporter raised her microphone toward him.

Canelo was still leading the chant.

“WHO GONNA TAKE OUR SHIT?”

“NOBODY!”

“Lord Canelo, could we ask you a few questions?”

Canelo finally stopped.

He slowly turned his head and looked down at the reporter beside his beer-crate platform, the cigarette still hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“What?”

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

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

The reporter froze with the microphone still raised.

A few seconds passed.

Then she slowly lowered it and turned back toward the camera.

“Well… let’s speak with some of the other protesters and hear their perspectives.”

Without another word, she turned and walked away from Canelo, the cameraman following close behind.

Section 2: Here for the Free Food

A little farther down the alley, the reporter spotted an enormous man standing beside one of the food tables.

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

But Tom didn’t seem concerned.

He was far too busy eating.

He took enormous bites from a hamburger, his cheeks already stuffed full. Before he had even finished it, his other hand reached for a second burger.

He bit into that one too, then leaned over and noisily sucked several mouthfuls of Coke through a straw before immediately going back to the first.

The reporter watched him for a moment, then turned toward the camera.

“Here we have another extremely enthusiastic protester. Although… his enthusiasm appears to be focused on something slightly different from everyone else’s.”

Behind her, Tom shoved another bite into his already packed mouth.

“Let’s go hear what he has to say.”

She approached him with the microphone.

“Sir, could you tell us your thoughts on today’s protest?”

Tom stopped chewing for a second 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.”

He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and took another enormous bite from his hamburger.

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

Tom shook his head while chewing.

“Nah. I’m here just for the free food.”

He leaned over, sucked loudly from his Coke until the straw rattled against the bottom of the cup, 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, the cameraman following behind her.

The reporter had barely taken a few steps when a loud—

BANG!

—echoed from across the alley.

She 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 and pulled backward, twisting his body from side to side as he struggled to free himself.

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

Section 3: Our Local Hero

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

She raised the 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 nodded.

“Well, Sean, while we have you here, we’d also like to hear your thoughts on today’s protest. As someone who has become something of a local hero after previously serving three years in prison—”

Sean’s head snapped toward her.

“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—”

“You say that shit again and I’ll sue you for defamation! You hear me? DEFAMATION!”

Sean jabbed a finger toward her, momentarily forgetting that his other leg was still buried in the wall.

The reporter stared at him, visibly caught off guard by the sudden outburst.

She took a cautious step forward, about to continue the interview, when Sean’s expression suddenly changed.

His eyes widened.

Then 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 trapped leg free, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

“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 the rest of the crew.

Then she turned toward the camera.

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

She motioned for the crew to follow and walked away.

Behind them, Sean’s helpless laughter and desperate cries continued echoing down the alley, growing fainter only as the crew moved farther away.

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.”

The reporter drew closer.

Benson straightened his back and tried to look cool, though his heart was pounding harder with every step she took toward him.

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.

She immediately turned toward the 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 in place, his mouth still half-open with the opening line that never got a chance to come out.

The excitement drained from his eyes until they looked almost hollow. His shoulders slowly sagged on both sides, 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.

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.”

Mr. Shek looked farther down the alley.

“Hmm. That’s Tom… Canelo…”

He nodded slowly.

“All the kids are here.”

He swept his eyes across the crowd again, leaning left and right to search between the heads around him.

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

After thinking for a moment, he 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.”

Mr. Shek slowly turned toward his granddaughter.

His face became completely serious as he stared sharply into her eyes.

“Where am I…?”

He paused.

Then he gave her a slow, puzzled look.

“Who am I…?”

Another long pause.

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

His granddaughter didn’t even react anymore.

She tightened her grip on his arm and dragged him away through the crowd while Mr. Shek disappeared among the protesters.

Section 5: The Professional Beggar

The reporter continued through the crowd until she came across a man sitting calmly near a wall.

His name was Lawson.

He wore an outdated railroad worker uniform that looked like something straight out of the 1950s, and his rough, heavily wrinkled skin made him look like one of the alley’s elderly residents.

She approached with the microphone.

“Excuse me, old-timer, can I ask you a quick question? What are your thoughts on today’s protest?”

Lawson blinked, furrowed his brow, and leaned slightly forward.

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

The reporter froze.

“Oh! I—I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean anything by it… just a slip of the tongue!”

She gave a quick, nervous laugh and adjusted the microphone.

“Anyway… could you share why you’re here?”

“I come here every day,” Lawson said. “This is where I work. So 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. What do you mean by work?”

“I’m a professional beggar.”

The reporter gave him a puzzled look and laughed.

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

She caught herself halfway through the word and winced slightly.

Still perfectly calm, 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 down in front of him, however, the bowl began to glow faintly with a warm golden light.

The reporter’s entire expression shifted.

Her eyes softened, and her lips parted slightly as a deep, genuine compassion suddenly rose in her chest.

Without hesitation, she opened her purse and began pulling out all the cash she had.

Then, without even blinking, she slipped the diamond engagement ring from her finger and gently placed it into the bowl as well.

She looked Lawson directly in the eyes with complete sincerity.

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

Lawson simply nodded.

As the golden glow faded, the reporter took a breath and smiled, not confused or dazed in the slightest, but absolutely convinced that she had just done something meaningful and right.

“Well… take care, old—”

She caught herself again, but the word had already begun to escape.

“—timer. Stay safe, alright?”

She turned and walked away with her crew, feeling strangely proud of what she’d done.

Lawson quietly slipped the chipped bowl back inside his coat, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes as if none of it had surprised him at all.

Section 6: Eyes Above the Protest

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

He wore a black tank top and a pair of Nike shorts, his lean frame motionless against the evening sky.

His eyes glowed faintly with a golden shimmer as he looked down at the crowd below, calmly observing everything that had happened at the protest.

The wind fluttered his shirt slightly, but he remained still.

Watching.

Analyzing.

Later that evening, the same man walked into a pitch-black office.

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

The man in the black tank top stopped a short distance from the desk.

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

The man in the chair leaned back slowly.

“Oh, I see.”

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

The same female reporter appeared on camera, looking surprised but composed.

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

Local Alley would remain exactly as it was.