Ciro stared contemptuously through his window at the rising sun. His hands slid over his face as his muscles groaned in their morning soreness. Lifting himself from the bed he made his way across the chilled floor to the mirror leaning precipitously on his dresser. He wasn't impressed. He got dressed quickly and judging by the position of his solar nemesis above the skyline of the city, he stepped out of his door just in time.

While Sundays may have been considered a Sabbath for most, those unfortunate enough to work for Harold Ramstein had forgotten long ago what rest meant. The old Shylock had turned the holy sabbath into collection day. The work wasn't all that strenuous, owing to the fact that those willing to borrow money at such exorbitant rates were not ones to put up a fight when confronted with a debt. He locked his door and made the lock trek downstairs and into the street. His slender frame protected from the chill by an old jacket one size too large. He quickened his step hoping to ward off the cold.

Rounding the corner he made his way to the "Bakery", the orthodox front Harry ran his sports book from.

"Hello Ciro"

Jacob, the teenager at the counter was grinning and stood upright as Ciro entered, "Business or...business?"

"Just give me the list." Ciro said flatly, rubbing his hands together to return the color to them.

The teenager shrugged and produced the paper, sliding it casually over the counter for Ciro to take. Every week Ciro had a list of collections to make for Harry. Most were easy to deal with, only once had Ciro needed to get physical with a debtor and that only after the man attempted to produce a blade and open Ciro's chest with it. In return, Ciro made a small percentage off the debts he retrieved. It wasn't honest money per se, but it was money. Ciro took a moment to look the names over...

Then his eyes widened and he looked at the boy,

"Give me a break. Renfield? Come on Jacob, give him to Smalls, Lord knows he needs the cash."

"Hey, I don't write the lists," Jacob responded raising his hands as if to wash them of the situation at hand, "you know that. I just hand them off."

Ciro blinked and then growled as he turned and exited the bakery. The first couple names were easy turnovers, one paid debt (no doubt with money from another loan) one seizure of collateral, being a fine gold timepiece, but Carson Renfield was a nut. Why Harry had even agreed to loan him money in the first place is a testament to human greed. The man had accrued nearly $10,000 in loans and betting debts and was always dreaming up new ways to dodge collectors. It wasn't the first time Ciro had tried to track him down either...

What followed was hours of grinding skullduggery to get a lead on where Carson's latest rat nest was. Finally Ciro got what he thought was a promising lead. The information led him to a dilapidated home on the outside of town. By the time Ciro arrived, he was already at a net loss for taxi fare. He pushed open the crumbling gate and stepped into the overgrown yard.

"This fucker better be waiting with a giant fucking sack of cash at the door..." Ciro steamed as he approached the door.

The whole building seemed to suffer from a bizarre tilt, causing the door to hang agape from its hinges, Ciro took a peak through the portal and gingerly stepped over the threshold. The boards creaked their disapproval at his trespass. Despite this, Ciro elected to maintain the illusion of secrecy as he crept through the building. Clearing the first floor, he proceeded up the uneven steps until he reached a long banistered landing and a long hallway. It was at this moment Ciro discerned a distinct noise from one of the adjacent rooms. Like a coin hitting the ground. Ciro took hold of the doorknob with an annoyed disposition,

"Alright Carson," He swung the door inside, "let's save each other some t--"

All at once Ciro's ears began to ring and the room erupted in a momentary flash. His eyes darted around the room until they landed on the large Carson Renfield seated on a chair in the corner, pistol trained on the door. His eyes were as wide as Ciro's, seemingly in disbelief himself in what he had just attempted. A split-second inventory and the newly splintered door frame told Ciro he was still miraculously uninjured. Carson's hands shook slightly, making the weapon waver in the air.

"Carson...?" Ciro's voice uttered in unrestrained disbelief, "did you just try to sh-"

BANG!

Another shot echoed in the enclosed space causing old plaster to rain onto Ciro's face and hair,

"What the FUCK Carson?!" Ciro began his march across the room before he heard a distinct *CLICK*

The pistol had jammed under the strain of Carson's nervous finger as he attempted another shot.

Ciro made up the distance in a couple strides and with one large sweep battered the man to the floor with his fist.

"You try to fucking SHOOT me Carson?! What the FUCK?!"

The question was rhetorical, of course, Ciro had already loomed over Carson and pelted him again and again. Fists ricocheting off his oversized jowls which created a sickening Newton's cradle with the floor of the room. The nerve of this guy.

The deadened thuds and sputters began to slow as Ciro's rage diminished over... a minute? two? Judging by the mangled face of Carson amongst his pooled blood, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. His hands hurt. He slumped against the wall and placed his palms on the wood floor. His fingers met something coolly metallic. He clutched at it and lifted it up to his eyes. Carson's pistol. He instinctively pulled the slide to relieve the jam. A bullet flopped onto the floor beside him. He pinched it between his fingers and rolled it around in front of his face. Such a small thing to be able to take away everything.

He slipped the bullet into his coat pocket, whether it would prove to be good luck or bad luck to carry the thing that nearly proved to be your end, he would have to find out on his own.

In the meantime... the pistol was worth something... it wouldn't cover ten grand but Carson wasn't going to make good on his debt in his condition. Ciro stood up, regarded Carson on the floor, put a bullet in his head and left the building to hail a cab back into the city.

He really needed a better job.