[ WP ] You are a professional pickpocket . You 've just picked someones pocket only to discover that the thing you have stolen is truly horrifying .

**A little long, sorry all. My thanks to those who have the patience to read it! ** 
 
 A man's got ta eat. 
 
 That's what my pop used to say after he'd finish a score. `` A man's got ta eat, Joey. And you ai n't a man yet, which means a man's got ta feed his kid. Two hungry mouths -- it's as good a reason as you're gon na get.'' 
 
 He believed it, too. I saw it in his eyes: no regret, no remorse. My father firmly believed that mugging folks was the *right* thing to do. It was the only choice. To his defense, he fed me for a good twelve years before he stuck a knife at the wrong person and got a hollow-point to the dome in return. After that, I was on my own. I took over the family business; it was the only choice. That's what I tell myself anyway. I do n't quite believe it yet. 
 
 Pick pocketing in the city is easy money if you're quick. In my prime, I scored enough on a given day from brush passes on the subways and the streets to rent a room at the Fairfax Motel on 3rd street. It's no palace, but it had everything I needed. A bed, a toilet, and some privacy to clear my head. Smack was n't cheap either, but after a few good days of work I earned a few hours of heaven. It's a life. 
 
 A few months ago I was pushed out of the downtown streets by the local gangs... they do n't want any competition on their `` turf''. Whatever. Live and let live, I say. So I moved my operations east, to Chinatown. They've got their own gangs but they do n't care about anyone as lowly as a pickpocket. Plus, with gentrification and yuppies moving into `` hip'' new neighborhoods it's a veritable goldmine. I should've thanked those bandana-wearin' assholes. I'd found my El Dorado. 
 
 One night though, everything changed. I'd had a particularly good day -- over half a grand in a single day's take -- and wanted to celebrate. I headed over to Sal's corner to see what kind of clarity he could offer. I wanted the pricey stuff. I'd earned it. 
 
 `` Yeah, I got a new shipment in. Better than the `` X'' brand. But it's $ 600 a pop.'' 
 
 *Six hundred*?! I had to have it. But I was a little short on funds. Oh well, one more brush pass and the good stuff would be mine. Easy enough. I told Sal to wait, and that I'd be back shortly. He gave me a sad look and then shrugged. Whatever, I was n't an addict. Sometimes you just have to celebrate. 
 
 It was late for a Tuesday night, and there were n't a lot of marks. I headed northward, past my usual spots. The grocery, the bodega, the high end condos. Nothing, not a soul in sight. I decided to try something new. I'd head west. It was further in the heart of Chinatown but I figured I might get lucky. 
 
 After countless twists and turns through the stinking back alleyways, I'd had enough. Yikes. These folk will eat anything. Chickens hung from strings outside. Pigs' heads teeming with maggots littered the dumpsters. I think I even caught sight of a few snakes. Boa constrictor type things, like I was in a fuckin' jungle. 
 
 I was about to turn back when I heard a jingle from a nearby doorway and saw a figure emerge. It was an older man, leaning heavily on what looked like an ivory cane. His free hand clutched his trench coat even though it was warm for a November night. He hobbled slowly down into the dimly lit alley. Bingo. 
 
 Now, I promised myself when I was younger that I would never become a mugger. My father taught me one last good lesson about how dangerous muggings are. But something called out to me that night. I thought it was the smack. *Maybe just one*, I said to myself, *he's just an old man*. I wish now that I had n't broken my promise. That night, I found something waiting for me that was much worse than a hollowpoint. 
 
 `` Move and you're dead!'' I shoved the old Chinese man up against the brick wall. Sticking my knife in his face, I waved it slowly back and forth, making sure the dim light of the alley glinted off the polished steel. 
 
 `` Where's your wallet?!'' I demanded. `` What pocket?'' 
 
 He whimpered, eyes flickering between me and the knife. 
 
 `` Your wallet!'' 
 
 He coughed and whimpered something in Chinese. I could only make out one word. *Gui Wu*. He kept repeating it. It was n't what I was looking for. 
 
 I clocked him over the head with the butt of the knife and he slumped to the ground. I searched his pockets. No wallet, cash, or spare change. Damn. Only a small manila parcel, wrapped tightly in twine. 
 
 I cursed to myself. 
 
 Suddenly, the old man sat bolt upright. Startled, I backpedaled a few steps, holding my knife up. The color had gone completely from the man's face. *I should n't have hit him that hard*, I thought to myself *I could have killed the guy. * 
 
 The man coughed and then turned his head slowly toward me. His eyes dropped, eyeing the package in my hand. A strange look crossed his face. The corner of his mouth twitched into an odd smile. Then, as suddenly as he had sat up, his head drooped and he collapsed to the ground. 
 
 `` Shit.'' I said out loud to myself. I inched closer. *Fuck*. He was dead. 
 
 I returned to the Fairfax that night. The mood to celebrate had left me, seeing as how I had just committed murder. I cursed to myself. *I did n't even hit him that hard! *. *I should have known better than to mug an old man. * *Fucker just keeled over. He was probably dead in a week anyway. * 
 
 I do n't know how long I sat there on the edge of my bed, staring at the fuzzy TV picture that cast a harsh blue glow over the dark room. Somewhere in the middle of my trance of self-pity, I heard a sound. A thump. 
 
 I shivered suddenly, shaking myself back into consciousness. 
 
 Another thump. 
 
 I turned and looked over at my side table. Next to my knife, a spent beer bottle, and a couple syringes sat the old man's manila package. *Just my imagination. I got ta get some slee-* 
 
 **Thump**. 
 
 My heart fell though my chest. The package had just jumped. 
 
 *What in the hell... * 
 
 I walked slowly over to the side table, my heart pounding. *Am I seeing things? * 
 
 The package jumped again, and this time landed on its side. 
 
 To this day, I still do n't know why I did what I did. Call it curiosity. Idiocy. Fate. I opened the package. 
 
 I untied the twine bow and tore the manila wrapping off. Inside the wrapping was a small dark wood box, intricately carved. There was some wear around the clasps, but it felt old. It felt powerful. Hands shaking, I undid each of the four solid iron clasps. 
 
 The lid popped open on its own. 
 
 Even in the glow of the TV I could see all of its hideousness. It was a large, wriggling worm, flesh colored and spotted with dark red blotches. It was coiled tightly within the box. The stench was atrocious; a fetid aroma that took me instantly back to the alleyways of Chinatown. The smell of rotting meat. 
 
 The worm wriggled and reared its head. It had jaws, pincers that surrounded its toothy mouth. It had no eyes. Just the same, it knew I was there. 
 
 With a shuddering squelch, it leapt out of the box and sunk its sharp mandibles into my lip. I screamed out in fright and pain, backpedaling and tripping over the bed. I reached to grab and tear it off my face, but I was too slow. The worm unclenched its pincers, and then slithered into my mouth, biting and tearing its way to my throat. I ca n't describe to you the sensation of something burrowing into you. I pray that you never find out. It was only the start of my hell. 
 
 That night I fought for control. I fought hard, managing to put a bullet in the chamber of my.357. It stopped me from pulling the trigger, though. It had won, it assured me. It had won, and I had to accept it. It was powerful. And it was hungry. 
 
 I still work the streets of Chinatown. At night, I skulk past my usual haunts: the grocery, the bodega, the high end condos. I still scan the streets and alleyways for potential marks, shadowing their steps until the perfect moment. Only now, I'm in for it a little more than pick pocketing. The cravings for clarity have faded away like a distant memory. No more smack. The cravings for fresh meat, however... 
 
 What can I say? A man's got ta eat. Two hungry mouths is as good a reason as any. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

