Dark: fragment 3

Downtown.
Busy intersection. Late afternoon about to give in to the evening. Vehicles whizz past by the hundred. A never-ending flow that would make you think the streets would be forever choked with oil drinking monsters that spew out smog. And yet, it all keeps moving, the traffic starting devil-knows-where, swallowed by devil-knows-what, providing the street with a constant supply of the only thing it is faithful to: chaos.
A crowd. Hundreds of people rushing from hell-knows-where rushing to hell-knows-what. A young punk in sharp business clothes and flashy, strictly cosmetic eyewear hurries arrogantly to nothing of consequence. He is speaking, no, shouting on his cellphone, not bothering to notice, much less apologize to, the old-timer he has just pushed into grabbing a nearby pole for support. A peroxide blonde, dressed in delicious red and deadly black, walks a poodle that is the envy of every male around, just because it is the only thing that she seems interested in.
He watches it all, as he always has. He stands there, near the newsstand owned by the immigrant, that also sells cigarettes, over-the-counter medication, instantly gratifying pulp in text, image, and video, along with elixirs promising instant youth perched the cutting edge of ethics and legality.
He watches it all with a kind of patience they say only the wise old ones have. The kind of patience that has built itself a quiet little country house on the edge of a cliff in a seismic zone. All it needs is a little tremor. All he needs is something to send him over the edge.
This newsstand is his vantage point into his own soul. A window of sorts, from which he can see within, as he looks without. He stands here for hours on end, soaking in all the angst that the city gives its inhabitants. He senses their longing, wallows in their lust, and absorbs like a stoic their frustrations. He feels he is their guardian angel, if an unknown, unwelcome, impotent one. This adds to the emptiness within him, and his rage swells. And yet, he does not move, nor act on it. For this rage is a self-feeding fire, and like most such fires, has the self-defeating intent of self-preservation, with only one possible end: the elimination of their host.
He barely notices this ebb and flow inside him. It’s been too long and he’s gotten used to it, after all. He just stands there, effortlessly tuning in and out of the airwaves of the city’s chaos - which is but a macrocosm of his own.
Suddenly, a spike!
He senses something out of place. Even chaos has a pattern, and this is definitely not it. He is forced out of his languor. The only external signs he gives of it is the rapid blinking of eyelids as he tries to figure out what it is, and the beads of sweat that break out on his forehead because of the concentration. He starts looking around, his face scanning the area around him for an answer, short arcs at a time, in no particular order. He notices nothing amiss in the crowds, or the automobile traffic, or the derelicts that walk aimlessly, or the purposeful groups of officer-goers.
And then he sees it.
There, across the street, barely a dozen yards across, stands a newsstand just like the one he favors. The crowds are thick as ever, but he is sure he has never seen him there before.
A hefty man. Wearing a cape of some sort. Can’t make out a face, not even outlines of features. The head, under a hat, seems to be turned in his general direction. Can’t be too sure, in this light. When in doubt, assume the worst.
He is scared. Throat parched. Heart racing. Adrenalin rushing.
Fight or flight?
He is never sure who made the call. Or even, indeed, what the call was. All he recalls is starting to walk toward the menacing silhouette.
He still can’t see any better, and yet he is sure the silhouette is looking straight at him now.
He walks at an even, cautious pace, dictated by a fine balance of anger, confusion and fear. He must know who has violated his personal space. Even if this is hell, it‘s his own private hell.