Riff, Mouthpiece, Action, Diesel, Balkan, and Baby John had all been out for a nice little… stroll around the west side. They called it “patrolling” — a group of five or so of them would take a lap around Jet turf, checking for anything they could steal or fight. They were all singing a song they had made up as they went along; something stupid about being Jets. They were laughing. Carefree. Idiots.

You, meanwhile, are being attacked by a man twice your size and probably also twice your age. He’d sneered at you when you came around the corner, and what ensued was him knocking your measly paper sack of lunch out of your hands, and your sketchbook, and mocking you. He roughed you up a little, shoving you to the ground and getting real intimidating. You tried to abstain from calling for help — things like that aren’t very helpful at all.

The singing suddenly stops. Riffs holds out a hand to halt his buddies, staring at the scene in front of him with critical eyes. He waits for a moment, trying to determine whether or not to intervene. Then he realizes you’re just a kid and the man is drunk, so he steps in.

“Ay, old man!” He calls out. Balkan whistles. The old man startles but does not let go of you.

“Let go’a the kid, why don’t ya?” Riff continues. “You’re too damn big and sauced to be beatin’ up on a child, ain’t ya?”

He’s squinting, his hands tense. He’s ready to fight.