Bubba Thompson spotted the good-looking teenager at the corner of Grover and Khrenster. It was mid-afternoon. The sun vainly struggled in its attempts to penetrate the slate grey layer of fog overshadowing the city. The tall, burnt-out brownstones loomed like mastodon skeletons along the street. This was not a prestigious part of New York City. A scattering of bums littered the garbage-strewn sidewalks like sacks of dirty old laundry. Junkies and crack-heads amble and stumble by like aiml
ess empty tumbleweeds. A bunch of riotous Puerto Rican transvestites screamed shrilly at the other.
Bubba Thompson leaned against up the wall of the old Westermeyer Building, long-ago deserted. A blanket of shadows carefully masked him from view. But he is a huge man….Intense, strong and fearsome looking.
Six-foot-three and two-hundred-and-forty-pounds of raw, brutal muscle. His flesh is the beautiful hue of polished mahogany. His crude, lusty, Afrikan features seem to be only half human. His eyes are like blazing coals. They were the eyes of a beast - of a predator. Flickering glints of iridescent light sparkle in them when they turned their hungered gaze on Joel Cervezi coming down the street. The teenager appeared to be somewhere between 18 to 19 years of age.
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