A is for Ally
At the end of the alley, Ally turned around to face the armed one-armed man.
"Give me all you money," the armed one-armed main demanded gruffly.
"Sure!" said Ally. She handed over $17 plus a small pile of change. "And please, no need to be gruff."
"That's it? I don't believe you." He cocked his gun (a 9mm SportsMart midnight special, Ally noted) and pointed it right at her head--gruffly. "The rest of it."
"That's all," said Ally cheerily and started to walk away, her designer shirt and emasculate hair gently swishing behind her.
The armed one-armed man kept his gun pointed to her head. "You gotta be rich, kid. Dressed like that."
Ally pulled something from a deep pocket in her silver-lined hoody. The armed one-arm man fixed his aim at her. But then she began munching on a carrot.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Eating a carrot. I only barter in carrots. And lettuce. Sometimes broccoli. Asparagus, but only in Spring. Want one?" She tossed him a garden-fresh organic carrot.
Warily, he set the gun down, picked up the carrot, and munched it. "Not bad," he said.
"I'm glad you like it," said Ally. "It's you last meal."
Before the unarmed one-arm man could pick up is gun, Ally broken nearly every bone in his body and left him for dead. With his penultimate breath, he picked up the gun and fired at her, but no bullet exploded no matter how many times he pulled the trigger.
Ally, exhausted, ate three more carrots on her way to work: SportsMart. On her break, she always poured the powder out of the new shipments of bullets and used it for fertilizer in her garden.