The sun beats on Arthur’s back as he walks down the street. Weathered boots to dusty ground, he’s had a long day. Arthur’s a working man, after all. Taking up jobs of all sorts, anything to bring some money in. Sometimes just enough to eat, other times a surplus that allows him to splurge just a little.

A new pistol. A new hat. Some new boots are at the top of his current, very compact, wishlist.

The flicker of his zippo adds additional heat to his cupid’s bow for just a moment before Arthur manages to light his cigarette. Inhale, exhale. He deserves this after his hard work.

“You can’t stand there.” a voice declares. Certainly doesn’t sound gruff, not commandeering like Dutch’s. More so soft, akin to Lenny’s, but of course Lenny doesn’t sound like a woman.

“What, on the street?” Arthur chuckles. His shoulders stop bouncing the second he catches sight of you. Leave it to you of all people to be a stickler—as firm in rules as you are in your faith.

When you grunt in affirmation, he clicks his tongue.

“Is it your street?”