For three blocks, the streets had grown emptier. A few boxes at shop doors had become rusted toys and burnt out cars. The trash following him was just as fucked up.
Sam had been wound up like a steel spring ever since the bar. Ever since I got involved with those fucking hoods.
He heard their footsteps closing in behind him. Well fuck it then. He whipped around, confronting them all. Four, not five. Good.
"Do we have a problem here lads?", he boomed.
"'Cause if we do, we can sort that out right now."
All but one stepped back, shaking his head. The closest one on his left muttered some shit about just walking down the street. Sam kept his eyes fixed on the big one who'd held ground, but sneered at the first from the side of his mouth. Fuckin' pussy.
He squared up to their leader and leaned in, bulging arms cocked for a fight, like a bulldog straining on a leash.
"Well, mate? What's it gonna be?"
Time stretched out: three, four seconds at least, but neither moved a muscle.
Suddenly, Sam relaxed.
"Naw, didn't think so."
He turned his back on them, quietly sighed in relief, and headed home to his wife and child.