Beggars Can't Be Choosers I have never been a fast runner. But, when you have two cops, three pit-Bulls and one enraged baker on your tail, it really inspires your inner Usain Bolt. Case in point, I legged it out of there pretty sharpish. I tore down the street, weaving my way through thousands of people all intent on getting to their own destinations. The garbled chatter and various sounds of engines starting or backfiring drowned out the screeching sirens and loud snarling that had plagued me for he past five minutes. I needed to lose my pressures. Luckily, the sprawling city of New York was a brilliant place to get lost in; if you knew were to hide that is. I gripped a loaf of bread closer to my chest, trying to conceal it underneath my weathered coat. The bread may not have looked like much, but it was the reason for all the fuss. It was also my only source of food for the next few days. 'Well,' I thought bitterly as I dodged past a frazzled women pushing a stroller, 'if you get caught, at least you'll get free food in prison.' I may have been being a little dramatic; it wasn't like this was the first time I had been chased. The first time I had to do a runner was when I punched a pervy creep at a shelter. For a fourteen year old girl, I had to admit I had a mean right hook. Unfortunately, learning to fight was one of the very sparse rang of skills you learn on the streets. That and shoplifting your next meal. Which brings me back to my current situation: I'd stolen a loaf of bread. As I darted down a side street, I felt a surge of annoyance aimed at the justice system in this city. I'd watched countless thugs beat the crap out of some poor bastard, but did they have to high-tail it out of there the moment a cop came running? No! You know why? Because not a single damn cop showed! But let a poor, skinny, shrimp of a kid dare to steal a pice of bread on sale for $15 dollars a pice and suddenly it turns into a crime worthy of calling in the Navy! I came to a jolting halt. Just my luck! A rusted fence blocked my escape route. I bit back a curse and was considering my chances of turning back when I remembered something. If this was the same fence I was thinking of then maybe...Yes! A hole was sawed in the far right corner of the fence. I gripped onto my treasured food source and crawled through the hole. Then I was off running again. I could hear the distant foot falls of the police force. I quickened my pace. "Why 'ya running, kitten?" Crowed a familiar voice. I grinned over my shoulder at one of my few friends: Jack His crooked grin widened as he jogged behind me. The people I kept my company with were defiantly a down-trodden lot, Jack being no exception. He was a stripper, a fairly frowned upon profession in the modern world, but he was quite popular at the club, meaning he had loyal clients, which resulted in him racking in the cash, so he was a valuable friend, even if he was a flirt. When I busted out of the awful orphanage I used to call home (long story, don't ask) Jack was the one that took me under his wing. He gave me my nick-name 'kitten' because Jack found me sleeping in a box labeled: Kittens- Free. He was only three years older than me, but he looked and acted like he was in his twenties. Jack was an early bloomer and, boy did he bloom. Let's just say there were a few reasons why he was popular at the club... I snapped back to the present when I heard Jacks voice: "you seem in a hurry, not in trouble are we, kitten?" "Me?" I said incredulously as we ducked by a random drunk, "trouble? Never." Jack laughed. Then he glanced over his shoulder, "I'll try head them off. You go wait at The Spot. Keep your head down and stay hidden you naughty kitten." As he fell back I yelled after him, "I owe you one!" He called back, "Come to one of my shows and we'll call it even." I snorted, " I wouldn't want to see your bony ass shimmy round a pole if I was the one getting dollars shoved down my pants!" I had just enough time to see Jack flip me the bird before he disappeared back the way we came. Still smirking, I headed towards The Spot. The Spot was really just an abandoned gas station that Jack spruced up for me so I could almost live comfortably there. I would stay at Jacks grimy apartment, but he was hardly ever there, and when he was, it was with a client. Sometimes female, sometimes not. Jack wasn't really that hung up about that type of thing if the said client was paying right. I twisted my way down some more ally's, jerked down some side roads and suddenly, I was home. The gas station was rusted and collapsing, but as I pushed open the greasy glass door, I let all the tension I'd been holding in seep out of me. I collapsed onto the ancient and dusty mattress I called a bed and rested, waiting for my panting breaths and my stiff limbs to even out before I sat back up. Finally, I pulled the brown paper bag out from my coat pocket and emptied the loaf of bread I had risked arrest for. Seeds where sprinkled on top of the only-slightly-crushed bread. I made a face. Sesame seeds. I hated sesame seeds. I sighed, ripping a chunk of bread off with my teeth, chewing viciously as I thought, somewhat sadly: 'Beggars can't be choosers...' A