The Story of Marley Grann
Marley keeps his eyes on the pimp, purposely ignoring the enforcer. "I gotta' go anyway," he says, the ruse of being a junkie completely fallen to the wayside. "This conversation is making me uncomfortable. I've never had talk between three dudes with so many homoerotic fantasy references."
He starts back across the street and towards the bus stop. "Like I told your bitch... Thanks for nothing."
Although the tough stranger has the appearance of leaving casually, he remains hyper aware to any sounds around him. He figures there's a chance the enforcer with catch onto the barb Marley sent his way and try to confront him and he listens for a car door opening.
He was as ready as he could ever be. His bread and butter, as far as fist fighting was concerned, was his hands. He had done training, in his past profession, in mixed martial arts and Aikido. Enough that he could take most regular tough guys by surprise and finish them pretty quickly.
He had the disadvantage of fighting nearly naked, if it came to it, but he had to get to Beacon Hill.
Time was the only enemy that put fear into his heart as of that moment.