Behind the clock tower, in a backstreet alleyway, the covering of a manhole lifted slightly. It quickly shut tight.

“Shit,” Graffiti said under his breath. To the questioning hooligans below him, he answered while again peeking from under the covering, “There’s a couple of imps up here having a smoke-break. They’ll spot us.”

At that moment, a scarfed bat swooped down to the imps. The imps, at first sight of the bat, thought they were about to catch themselves a meal.

At once, the bat morphed into a humanoid being. A vampire. The two imps screamed and attempted to fly away, but the vampire snatched them both from the air.

Graffiti shuddered. The imps choked out pleas for mercy, but Graffiti saw s̵o̵m̵e̷t̴h̶i̸n̸g̴ different. What no one else saw.

P̶la̵s̸m̶i̸c ̷b̷l̴a̵c̷k o̷̧̮̖͎͕̓̄̚͘o̸̧̥̗̭̖̝͙̱͌̊̀z̴̠̤͍͍͓̲͆̒ed̵ d̵̝̃o̷̳͐w̸̨͉͙͚͓͎͈̳̞̼͗n the w̸a̷lls̴

p̶̧͛͝u̶̥̓d̵̝̘́ḑ̴͙̉̽l̸̹̾ę̴̡̑d̷̺̀͜ a̵l̵o̷n̷g̶ wit̷h̸́̕ t̷he i̶mp̴s' ṭ̷͍͐̚e̸͝á̶r̴̚s̴̹̋̇

b̷̢͍͔̝͈̯̗̪̰̀̋̔̋͊͒͝l̴͎̫͎̃̑̋̚͜ä̸̪̝̞͔̺́̈́̇͂̓̋͘c̸̣̱̘̗͈̪̈̀̍͛̏͋̓̋̀̚͜k̵̢̝̰͔͎̙̇̀̕͜ë̴̡̧̖̣͚̤́̍͑̓̔͠n̷̙̣͇͛͑̋̀͊͛͊̔̚͝ȩ̵̧͕͚̖̭̤̤͆̿̌͜͝͝d̵̮̰̾̓ ṭ̴̢̛͎̓̅̔͊͛̎͋̎̔́͂̂͘͜ḩ̶̱̦̬͔̤̳̲̹͇̭͐̈́͘͠͠e̷͙͈̭͓̝̬̻̥̾̋̄͂̂̉̄̈́̓͌ light ẘ̷̛͇͚̲̜̖̗̬̣̪͈̳͓́́̒̿̀̌̈͠͝i̵̫̱͇̿͂̂̒̏̑̊̎̒t̶̥̗͙̣̀̈́͝h̸̢̯̝̹̘̫̻̍̈́̈́ a̷͓̯̣̦̽͆̄̏̄̽̀͌͌̾̑̐̃͂̕̚ ̴̻͠p̶͙̮͙͇̥͎̈́̿̿͆̈́̈ͅͅư̴̱͔̝͚̰͖̻̲̖͓̮̜̩͙̏̅͐͑͌̀̎͜t̶̨̨̡̟͍̤̪̋͊̀͌r̴̢̪̫̣̂͜͜͝i̸̡͓͔̍̆́̈́̊̏̐̏̚͠d̷̟̘̖̠͎̖̤̱̍͐̌̈́͐̀̑̊͊̿̃̍̋͘̕̕ ș̷̹͕̱͉̱̗͖̪̳̳̉͊͋̈́͛̀̋́̉̋̑́̀̌̍̄͐̏̆̓̌͘͝m̸̧̛͙̰̲̦̪̙̖͙̙̻͎̙̘̒̈́̿͐̃̿́̓̊̃͘͘ó̶̢̧͉̲͚̳̯͓͑̓͊͆͆̀̈́̊͛̃̍̓͆̽̈́̃͂̄̉͑̚͠͝g̵̨̢̙͎̜͍̤̬͍̖͉̲̗͕̭̥̳̮̻̯̞̭͌̇̒͐̋̔̎̀̈́͋̑̀͘͜͜͝͠͝

Graffiti looked away. Noise told him the undead executioner did his deed.

When he looked again, there was no black oozing down the walls or messing with the lights. There was now only the living cadaver splattered in red and afterglow. Once done enjoying his small snack of imps, the vampire turned around. He looked like a teenager, with greased-back black hair, ghost-white skin, red eyes, and with pointed ears, nose, and fangs. Despite his bloody affair, he managed to keep his white sleeves and brown vest clean. Can’t say the same for his scarf, which hid the bite-mark on his neck. This wasn’t some random vampire. This was the gang’s boss. “Good ol’ Gash,” though “good” probably doesn’t refer to his moral nature.

“All clear, boys!” said Gash in his youthful yet savvy voice. He pulled out a handkerchief from his vest as his gang ambled out of the manhole.

“Good to see you, boss!” said many of the hooligans, glad to finally be with a leader they admire. Graffiti walked up, composed yet watchful. He eyed what was left of the imps, which a thug was already cleaning up on Gash’s orders. The paint imps within the crate under his arm screamed and cried.

“You could’ve just scared them away,” mumbled Graffiti.

“I could’ve just said no to your pussy protest painting,” and Gash smiled his longs fangs, still red, before wiping himself clean. “And you keep quiet!” he screamed at the paint imps. The paint mongrels mumbled nothing else for a long time. Gash replaced his used handkerchief with a comb and coolly combed back his hair. “Good to see everyone’s still here--well, almost everyone. I guess the Duo of Terror still consider themselves for hire." Graffiti shrugged. Gash gathered everyone around.

“Listen up. This door here’s to a stairwell that’ll lead us straight to the top. May be a few guards on the way, but our pal Graffiti here’ll take care of ‘em. Won’t you Graffiti?” Graffiti furrowed his brow. Gash gave him a sly smirk. “Once we’re up there, we’ll only have minutes to act. ‘Course depending on location, we shouldn’t have a problem keeping track of time.” There were a few chuckles. “When you’re done with your part, drop everything you have and zip-line down to that skyscraper over there as a quick getaway. Hope you remembered your towels. So!” He clapped his hands. “You ready to paint a clock, fellas?”

The others roared zealously and ran for the stairs, ready for anything. Graffiti clicked his tongue.

"So," Gash said to Graffiti with a nudge, "did you see it?"

"See what?"

"When I killed those imps. Did you see a Spooky Shade?" he said. He tauntingly wiggled his fingers with ghostly moans. Graffiti could only endure. Punching Gash in the face might be worthwhile to throw away a long-awaited revolt. But! After seeing the imps torn up like that, Graffiti kept his complaints to himself. Just one more night. Just one more night, he thought. After tonight, it’ll all be over. No more of Gash’s gang.