The following short story is fiction.  It is a retelling of a Grimm Fairy Tale.  It was selected from a list of Grimm Fairy Tales with a random number generator.  You can find the original story here.  The original picture below I found on creative commons.  You can find it here.

The rain came sudden and was all consuming, like a building demolished with TNT.  Then, as quickly as it had began, it was over.  Hunter had never actually seen a building collapse, not in person, but he’d seen it happen in the movies.    He breathed deep and let the clean, wet air fill his nose.  It felt good.  Rain was his favorite weather.

Fed Hill Park was quiet at two in the morning.  No kids on the swings.  No owners wondering if they should let their dogs off the leash.  Just Hunter and remnants of the rain.   Hunter leaned back on the bench, stretching his arms across the top.  His t-shirt immediately soaked through an clung to his skin.  The cold cloth sent a chill up his spin, but he refused to shiver.

Drumming his fingers on the bench in a spastic rhythm , he looked out over the city and imagined what it would be like to be in charge.  Hunter had no aspirations for political office.  He had no dreams of becoming the mayor or governor or anything of that sort.  It all looked like to much work.   But there was a hunger in his gut for respect.  He wanted to be a man people whispered about when he came down the street.  He wanted the waitresses to jump to when he walked into one of the fancy coffee shops on Cross Street.  He wanted them to bring him his usual before he had a chance to ask.  Hunter liked the idea of people knowing what “his usual” was.  The thought made him smile.

He just needed to find his thing.  He needed something that would make him famous, something that would separate him from the herd, something that would spread his name.  He couldn’t rap, sing, or play an instrument so a hip-hop career was out.   He wasn’t any good in school, so the title “doctor” probably wasn’t in his future.  And his fifteen-year-old frame was less than ordinary, unimpressive at best, so sports were out.  He’d once seen a pastor driving a Bentley and briefly considered pursuing a career in religion, but church put him to sleep.  Hunter rubbed his eyes with his palms.  It would come to him.  He was sure he would simply stumble into it.  He knew in his soul fate had big plans for him.  He just wished they’d hurry it up a little.

Hunter leaned his head back to catch rain drops from the trees over head. Sliding his neck from left to right, he snatched the drops in his mouth as they fell.  Then he noticed it.  Behind him, on the other side of the park, there was a sharp blue glow.  Hunter swiveled on the bench.   He crouched behind it and, using it as a shield, peered over the top of the wood slats to investigate.  On the other side of the park Hunter saw the bright burn of three cell phones, each held by a man sitting on the cusp of the hill.  They were facing away from him.

Hunter rushed forward, using the playground equipment as cover.  He crouched low and listened.  They were talking, but were still to far off for him to make out the specifics of their conversation.  He looked at the fifty yards between them.  He’d be in the open.  There wasn’t anything to hide behind.  He drummed his fingers gently on the plastic slide before him, wondering if it was worth it.  But what else did he have to do?  Slowly, he crept forward, walking lightly, hoping not to make a sound.

He was only ten yards away now.  He quietly lay down on his belly in the wet grass.  The three men were arguing with each other.  Something about a house across the street.  One of them was contending they should simply kick in the front door.  Another was demanding they “be smart about the whole thing.”

“What we need,” the biggest one said, “is someone to test it for us.  We need some punk to go and let us in.”

The middle one leaned backward on his left hand.  Turning his torso toward where Hunter was hiding, he yelled, “Yo, kid.  Come here.”

Hunter didn’t move, hoping they were talking about someone else.

“Yo, you.  Stupid kid in rolling around the grass,” the middle one yelled again.  Hunter could hear the other two laughing.  ”Come over here or I’ll come over there and get you.  And you don’t want me to come over there.”

Hunter stood and brushed himself off, trying to regain his dignity.  He walked over as if there were nothing unusual about a fifteen-year-old laying in the grass at Federal Hill Park at two in the morning.    The two men sitting on the right and left were in full hysterics by the time Hunter arrived.  They shoved at each other with glee of toddlers as they laughed.  Hunter’s head ached with rage.  He hated it when people laughed at him.

“Don’t make me call you a third time,” one in the middle said.  ”Get over here and stand in front of us.  Present yourself.”

Hunter continued his current pace, pretending as if he was coming of his own choosing rather than in response to a summons.  Finally, standing in front of the three men, Hunter looked them each in the eyes.  He wanted to look away.  His eyes longed to stare at his shoes, but Hunter denied them their desire.  He looked the three in the eye, without fear.

Hunter knew them all.  He had seen them in his travels through the city.  The one on the right was a high up in the Broadway Street gang.  He wore a black t-shirt, black running pants, and blue sneakers.  Only two of his tattoos were visible: the Roman numerals XVIII filled his neck, and the numbers 666 were over his right eye.

The one on the left leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.  He loosely gripped a sleek, black pistol in his right hand, and stroked it with his left.  He wore simple blue jeans and a white undershirt.   He had the look of a man who enjoyed regular prison work outs.  Hunter had seen him on the East Side and knew he was important in the Black Family gang.

The one in the middle was Hunter’s cousin, Nate, or “Nate Dog” as his crew called him.  Nate was in an over-sized, red, baseball jersey with the letters DAMU across the front where numbers should be.

All three were future giants in their gangs.  Hunter thought it strange to see them together.

“Oh crap,” Nate laughed.  ”Little Hunter?”  Nate looked his younger cousin up and down.  ”Auntie Nan know your out here past your bed time?”  The other two laughed.  Hunter held firm, unbending.

“You know this kid?” the one on the left said.

“He’s hard, yo,” the one on the right added.  ”You think you’re tough lookin’ me in the eye, yo,” he said menacingly to Hunter.  ”I’ll pluck’em right out of your head.”

“Can he do it?” the one on the left said, looking Hunter up and down.

“Yeah,” Nate said with a smile.  ”He’ll do just fine.”

The one on the left stood and brushed his pants off.  ”Here’s how this is going to work,” he said to Hunter.  ”See that house over there?” he said pointing with his gun to a row-home behind Hunter.  It was less a question and more a command.  Hunter turned to look at the house the man was pointing at.  It was a four story, red brick, row home with marble steps a fancy looking front door.

“Yeah,” Hunter said with apathy, still angry he was caught in the grass.  ”I see it.”

The gang-banger tucked his gun into his pants and continued, “We want in that house, but we don’t know what’s in there.  So here’s what we’re going to do.  I’m going to throw you over the back fence.  If you get eaten by dogs, or arrested, or shot, then we’re gonna leave.  But if you can figure out how to let us in…”

“Then I won’t cut your ears off for trying to listen to conversations you shouldn’t listen to,” the Hispanic man on the right said, standing.

“Why do you want inside?” Hunter asked.

“Shut up, boy!  That’s none of your business,” Nate said harshly.

“How are you three together and not shooting at each other?” Hunter said turning back toward Nate.

Before he could see it coming, Hunter was answered with a back hand across his cheek.  The impact knocked the wind out of him and lifted him off his feet.  Hunter rolled down the hill.  Nate was fast.  Before Hunter regained is breath, Nate ran and loomed over him.  Nate bent down, bringing his lips close to Hunter’s ear.  ”Ask another question,” Nate whispered, “and watch what else I do.”

The blood in Hunter’s mouth was salty and warm.  He swallowed as he rose to his feet.  He brushed the mud off his pants and said, “Fine.  Let’s do it.”

“That’s a good boy,” Nate said as the other two laughed.

To be continued.