Behind Rosie's

Behind Rosie's Bar, Lenny sucked on a cigarette, then stifled a choking cough. Troy eyed Lenny, suspecting that his buddy really didn't know how to smoke. John, too self-absorbed to notice anything his friends were doing, pointed his finger into the shadows of the alley.

"Boys, I think we found ourselves some fun," said John.

John's two companions looked towards the edge of the shadows in time to see an older man, twice their age, jog out of the unlit alley. He wore loose faded jeans and western cut boots, and a white t-shirt under a faded red flannel shirt. He stopped right under the single bulb on the far side of the alley, only ten yards from John and his friends.

The older man seemed to be out of breath, and when he stopped, he leaned over, put his hands on his knees, and panted heavily. Sweat dripped from his face.

"I don't think he could outrun even Lenny," said Troy, slipping off the trashcan and onto his feet.

"Hey, I run fast," said Lenny, lying to himself and his friends.

"Sure you do," said John absently. "This old man, though, he isn't going anywhere."

The three young men slowly walked to their positions, surrounding the older man. The older man turned slightly, so that he could see the the other three, but he stole glances down the alley, back the way he came.

"No help will come from there," said John. "You are running from something. Maybe you are just afraid of the dark, but there is no where to go, now."

"Are we going to break something, tonight?" asked Lenny, as if it was his job to help John narrate the evening.

"I think we are, Lenny," said John, "I think we are."

The older man glanced down the alley once more, then rose up, arching his back slightly with a muffled pop. He tilted his head to one side and another audible pop sounded.

"Getting old sucks," said the lone man.

Before John could reply, something big and dark leapt from the shadows, from somewhere high, as if it had been clinging to the brick wall. It passed Lenny so closely that he flinched and backed into a pile of trashbags.

Troy yelped and ran. His gut told him the rules of nature were being broken, and it was time for him to leave.

John just stared numbly at the struggle before him.

The older man stepped into the things charge, grabbling a spindly apendage with one hand, and placing the other hand on the things shoulder area. It was as big as a man, but built like the cross between a praying mantis and a cockroach. It moved in sudden jerky spurts, blurring, then stopping, rock steady, then blurring.

The older man avoided some quick strikes, then flipped the thing on its back, cracking the head on the ground. Most of the body went immediately limp. The limbs twitched and spasmed.

"I can make this quick," said the older man, "Or we can be here all night."

The thing chittered excitedly.

"Just tell me who sent you," said the older man. He drew a large hunting knife from a sheath on his back under his shirt.

The thing chittered, then was silent.

The older man drove the blade into the forehead of the thing and twisted. There was a sickening sound, then a crack. Black ooze seeped out of the broken carapace of the head. It evaporated quickly, leaving an oily stain on the pavement.

The older man looked up at John, then at Lenny. "Don't touch it. The ichor is toxic. Don't worry, though. The body will crumble to dust by morning."

The older man wiped his blade clean with a rag found in the trash, then resheathed it. He walked away into the night without a sound.