McKenzie knew he's die soon. You could see it in his stooped head, haunched shoulders and hunted eyes. Beady pupils darted furitively left and right as his trembling hand nursed a new cancer stick's flame to life. Air hissed out inward through clenched teeth as he sucked down a drag, savouring every puff as though it were his last. They were coming.

His clattering footfalls quickened as he entered a forlorn side-alley, the smattered mounds of heaped chewing gum and flattened cigarette butts charting his progress. 'I might be able to escape', he thought, 'if I could just get away from 42nd street. Maybe I could escape, maybe I could avoid them altogether and slip over the border...' The disembodied click of a gun being cocked reverbeated down the alleyway. Maybe not.

"Well, well, well," a gravelly voice wafted down from the murky catwalks and gantries that adorned the alley's towering walls," if it isn't the late, great McKenzie Smith,"

Ice streamed through the McKenzie's veins: the Medusa herself couldn't have frozen him as effectively as that ashen, plodding voice. For a moment, a heavy silence draped the air.

"I don't usually make housecalls," his voice continued," but when my boys get sold out by a..." there was a pause as McKenzie's tormenter searched for the right word,"... shmuck like you, I'm willing to make an exception."

Clang. Clang. Clang. The metallic ringing of footsteps jolted McKenzie, who jumped with every one of them.

"It seems, Mister Smith, that we have a problem," the footsteps continued their leisurely descent, each sound a new beating of the executioner's drum. McKenzie wanted to bolt, to flee as fast as he could: every shrieking rational voice inside his sweat-dripping skull told him to. But he stayed.

"I, it wasn't my fault, Don Giovanni! It was, it was Marco: he was the one who sq--"

"I don't give a damn, capeesh?" the Don's voice snapped irritably. There was a moment as the voice composed itself, "However, it concerns me that your collective mistake makes me, as ruler of this entire fucking city, look like I'm an amateur. And I hate amateurs,". The Don emerged from the lurking darkness.

Standing astride the catwalk that loomed above McKenzie, the Don professionally scrutinised his ornamental pistol with a critical eye.
"It's a small gun," he mused to noone in particular. The Don raised it at McKenzie,"a small gun for a small man. It's... fitting."
McKenzie went to take a step back, as though a mere footstep would save him. A wry smile faintly touched the Don's lips, "I'm not going to let you harbour any illusions that you can escape McKenzie Smith: you can run, but you'll just die tired,".

Under the burning gaze of the Don's deadened eyes, McKenzie felt tired. Tired of it all. He'd always been pushed around, told to stand in line just like everybody else. He'd always been afraid. McKenzie's eyes casually drifted across the entire scene: the ocean-blue sky, the pallid, worn skyscrapers and the hungry, steel-grey gun. He'd always been afraid. Not any more.

His left hand absently rummaged into in his pocket, burrowing past the spare gambling receipts and crumpled dollar bills. It emerged with a faded and battered cigarette carton. McKenzie peered inside: a single bent smoke remained.

McKenzie's hand, no longer quivering, placed the cigarette in his lips and lit it. He inhaled noisily, taking his time. After a moment he released the smoke, gently. They stood their for a moment, the sun soaking into McKenzie's aged skin. The cigarette was nearly finished.

"I could run, Don Giovanni," a faint smile tugged at the corner of McKenzie's mouth," but then I wouldn't get a chance to tell you what an arrogant bastard you are. Shmuck."

The Don's eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. The he raised the pistol.

: McKenzie lifted a finger to stall him for a second," One more thing, Godfather,".

The Don's finger hovered over the trigger," Yes, Mister McKenzie? One final last request?"

McKenzie straightened up, lifted his chin in defiance. He opened his dandruff-flecked waist-coat to reveal a jungle of wires and surveillance equipment that snaked around his chest. Sirens echoed in the distance, shrieking for blood.

McKenzie nodded,"Yeh," he said," one final request: you send me a postcard from the penitentiary. Capeesh?"

The Don's normally icey gaze bulged livid with fiery wrath. Then he fired. Of course McKenzie didn't hear the ear-splitting cracks of the thunder that announced his death: he was McKenzie, aged seven, playing in the park. He was McKenzie, aged sixteen, kissing his first girlfriend. He was McKenzie, aged 65, slipping on the vest of wires and recording bugs. He was McKenzie, and he was free.