A non-descript man of indeterminable middle age approached the Streets. There was nothing remarkable about him. He had an overgrown mop of brownish hair poking out beneath a plain brown fedora which was set on his head at a slightly odd angle like an autistic’s smile. His slight gut was held within an off-white shirt, tucked into once-tailored trousers and covered with a matching, slightly threadbare jacket and a name badge which bizarrely read “SixPoundSoulCals”. 

His eyes were not piercing. His face was not handsome and not ugly. He was neither tall nor short. He was forgettable, drab, indistinct. A cardboard cutout almost; a child’s imagination of a Gangster. That was until you looked down. Further down than that, to the floor, because on his feet were the most striking grey canvas pumps, with iridescent orange panel and heel detailing and glowing white laces. The gaze was drawn to them as inevitably as a ship to a siren’s rock. Captivating. Breathtaking. 

“I bet you're asking yourself how a man earns the name, SixPoundSoulCals, right?” The man said in a plain and dishwasher dull voice. It was hard not to ignore him but you tried. “Of course you are,” he boringly continued. “You're human, aren't you? Only natural to be curious. An inquisitive thought here, a peak behind the curtain there, even a secret kiss at camp in the dark with your best friend when nobody else is around just to see what it feels like. I understand, we've all been there, and a name like this deserves an explanation. Warrants it, some might say, and I'm happy to oblige you.” 

“But…,” he paused for effect to the rapidly departing audience, “my story is a little different. You see, my name isn't just a name like most people’s is. Oh no. It is actually more of an accurate description of who I am. Or should I say, what I am.” That was a little strange, maybe you drifted off while he was blathering. “That's right, you heard me. I said it. What I am.”

Amidst the confusion at the doofus, more people were drawn away from the nearby weather report to listen. The speaker flicked a thumb towards his face. “You thought this dumbass was wearing me, didn't you? Ha ha ha.” A gratingly tedious laugh. “Wrong. I don't know what his name is but I'm wearing him! Oh yes, I am SixPoundSoulCals…ME!” and the speaker almost doubled over, pointing towards the shoes, a big dumb grin poking out from under the brim of his hat.

“I am the first and only anthropomorphic pair of mafia shoes in history. I’ve seen it all. I’ve done it all. ‘Fit him with a pair of cement shoes’? Where do you think they got the idea? Me! I’ve been running things around here since the beginning. I let some mug try me on, thinking he’s going to be drowning in bitches when they get a sight of this dazzling tongue and then BAM, he’s mine.”

The puppet gangster straightens up and lets out a self-satisfied chuckle. “So now you know my secret, I’m just putting you all on notice. With my jaws locked around this sap, I’m back to take over the streets. There’s been a lot of whining about purging, killing good people and all of that  and general lameness at the top and I’ve decided to come out of retirement and put things right in the way that only a pair of six quid trainers can. People? Overrated. Shoes? On. The. Fucking. Money. I might be an “Earner” right now, but you thought this dope was in charge 5 minutes ago and didn’t know he was being controlled by his shoes. More fool you. It was obvious all along!! HA HA HA." 

Another irritating cackle escaped, it lasted for so long that a little bit of spit started flicking out from the corner of his mouth. Almost a minute later, still half chortling to himself, he wiped it on the back of his hand without grace, seemingly forgetting anyone was still here. After an awkward pause, the man looked up again at the few onlookers, startled. "What?! Ah, forget it! Get outta my way, I’ve got a world to take over!” And with that, SixPoundSoulCals stomped away. If it was possible for shoes to look arrogant, those two soles seemed to have a shit eating smirk plastered across them.

So...you're shoes? Now I've seen it all. Vampires, demons, Squirrel Godfathers, and now this. All the while people are too fascinated by the weather to even notice. This isn't something to sweep under the rug. You all had better be careful when you go shopping for your next set of footware. We do not know for certain that this is the only highly evolved shoes in the world.

Can I call you "SPSC" for short? I just have one question. What is stopping you from leaving behind that bum and attaching yourself to the feet of say...RedFisher? Then you would be communist shoes. I think we need to treat you as if you could potentially be anyone in Cosa Nostra, given your skill set. If you were to possess the feet of someone more significant, how would you mold our thing with your newfound influence? I'm trying not to make assumptions about who you are as a person, just because you are shoes. Who knows, having shoes lead this thing of ours might not be so bad. I'll bet we would all walk around in comfort.

Listen up, mafia shoes. I'm not sure I love that little knowing smirk on your face or your aloof attitude towards the rules and the authority figures who enforce them. You're a rascal. And you're shoes. So if you think that you can just get away with a cheeky smike and that rebel lace job because you were hot shoes in high school, you think again. Because if you think I'm going to end up with PIE on MY face this semester, you're dead wrong, shoes. Dead wrong. These Streets belong to the Burger King. 

This is the most aggressive I've ever seen BuckBurgerhouse. If I didn't know better, and I don't, I would think that maybe the SoulCals have taken over his feet. I will be keeping a close eye on you, Burger Man.