A "Brooklyn Zoo" Story
Property Management
Lords of the Land
Bathed by dusk, tucked in by night, the sun retires for the day; fast alseep, sucking upon its thumb. Perched on earthen and mortar thrones, guardians of the nocturn watch under the cover of darkness for enemies and dinner. Four men make their way up to Nostalgia from Hoyt along Warren like an arrow. Silent are their steps, quick, their pace. Nearer they draw. All, one with the night. Nearer. Their stride hastens, as their commander breaks into a gallop, pulling away. The squad keeps step. Approaching Nostalgia, the leader and his second-in-command are greeted by a makeshift sign, "Closed Indefinitely". By sheer force, they enter, overpowering the establishment's deadbolt. The other men take strategic positions, one at Nostalgia's threshold and the other on a stoop adjacent to the bookstore's side. They wait, readied; alert.
Floorboards groan and whine as the pair investigate. Breaking and entering through a shattered window pane at the Nostalgia's front, light from a street lamp cascades across the lieutenant's back, illuminating a denim vest with a noir wolf and the words "BrookNaw Canines" in deep red caught between the beast's jaws. Shifting shadows demand attention but get no play. Noses to the air, the duo's nostrils flare then deflate. Repeat. On the hunt, they wade through stacks and rows of books, and other merchandise, examining everything. Movement in the basement shift the two from orange to red alert. Removing his vest, the lieutenant tosses it on a pile of books. He advances. Snarls emanate from the pair. Pupils dilate, irises fade, feral eyes manifest. Snarls give way to growls. The superior pulls back. Extending his arm in front of his second-in-command, the leader restrains him. A large rat waddles up from the cellar to their feet. Lifting his foot then dropping it, the lieutenant obliterates the rodent with a size 10 Timb. WAP! Blood splatters books and furniture.
Reconvening outside, the men disappear into the night without word and without trace. The leader and right-hand peel off, maneuvering up Court Street. The other two turn onto Wyckoff.
Ain't no rat like a dead rat... the four-legged and two-legged kind!