10.

10.

Trent beats our prediction, stumbling for three more minutes—and five blocks—before he drops to his knees, energy spent. He twists around, to better greet his creeping doom, and raises his hands. “Listen,” he says. “I know . . .  I know I messed up . . . ”

That’s the understatement of the year. Bill was nobody’s idea of a competent professional (his tombstone will probably say “Nobody Misses This Asshole”) but he never turned a standard-issue shakedown into a very public butchering. You might excuse dear Trent by saying it’s his first time, but there are no learning curves in real life. We know this better than most.  

The lady raises the knife over her head, muttering something lost in the honking and growling of cars. Traffic is stalled in both directions, drivers leaning out their open windows to scream at her (“Bitch, couldn’t you kill him on the fuckin’ sidewalk?”), but nobody makes a move to intervene. If she swings at Trent, perhaps we c