Why do you live?
It was a question spoken so casually, as if to joke around, but it was these same questions that tormented Kramps every day. Not a day passed without him asking himself this question.
Why do you live? What was the purpose of his existence? Why was someone like him born in such a terrible condition? Why was he abandoned by his mother, only to be raised by the streets?
Kramps lay still on the hard, rough floor. His lower lip busted, his face adorned with bruises of different shapes and sizes. His frail-looking body just lay there helplessly, with no strength to even get up, covered with ragged pieces of clothes, one of the few he successfully stole without getting caught.
'It turns out luck wasn't on my side today...' He slowly turned his body, moving his face away from the puddle of drying blood—obviously his own—'...What did I do wrong this time?'
Kramps was left in thought, the hours passing by without him noticing—or simply bothering to care—not that he had a home to go to where curfew was in place. The streets were his home, and the night—his most active time of the day.
"I swear I'm going to make you pay," he said out loud, the person only known to him and him alone.
Slowly, he got up from the floor, his legs weakly trying to support him. He brushed off the dirt on his ragged shirt and slowly began walking toward the nearest bar—the one place he truly felt alive. Krampus was an eccentric gambler, always putting the little income he got in, hoping to reap in plenty.
But that wasn't why he was going there right now, well... partly. A special someone, as he liked to call him, would be there, a half key to the success of his revenge. He walked slowly, his feet dragging across the cold floor, carefully treading the snowy path to the most active place of the night ever since the start of the winter season.
Kramps walked past a clothing shop, his reflection copying his every move. He stopped just in front of it as if he sensed someone following him. As a matter of fact, no one was following him—just his plain old reflection.
"I could've sworn I saw it look at me," Kramps muttered under his breath, chilly huffs escaping his nostrils. His eyes narrowed at the reflection of himself, his instincts telling him something wasn't right.
"Maybe I got hit too hard in the head," Kramps sighed as he resumed walking down the lonely pavement, not looking back for a second. What he missed, though, was that his reflection didn't follow after him as it should, but instead smirked, with an evil glint in its eyes, following his movement.
***
Kramps stood in front of a large building, its entrance just as large, with the neon glowing sign showing: FALLEN BANE.
One would've thought that with this type of building there would be top security, but just because it was the most active bar during the winter didn't mean that it was the most active in the country. For folks like Kramps living in the outskirts, there would be no one trying to guard an all-nighter bar for a measly pay.
Kramps' side of town was already known for violence during the day—worse at night—so no one in their right minds would work here, not that people came to the outskirts to job hunt; the reverse was the case, actually.
'Here goes nothing.' He sighed, looking at the doorknob intently, its golden knob glinting as if to spite him that it had more worth than Kramps himself. He just shuddered and turned the doorknob.
"Ah!"
He squinted as the many disco lights assaulted his vision, leaving him momentarily blind. Raising his arm to shield his eyes, he scanned through the plush chairs and many drunken folks around the bar, trying to spot out the guy he came looking for.
"Hey Kramps, my man!"
Kramps' gaze moved toward the voice that sounded like a teen. A man looking no more than five feet tall, waving his hands from a table suited for four. His appearance would be what one could call a pimp: purple coat embriodering his body, with yellow linen, and a big gold chain dangling from his neck—obviously the gold was fake.
He dragged his feet towards his table like he had the whole time in the world. There was a bulging vein visible on the pimp's forehead, but as if to calm himself, he took the occasional sips of his drinks.
"Hey Shawl, how are you doing?"
"I'm cool, talk about you…" Shawl's eyes scanned Kramps from head to toe as if to evaluate his physique, "... You've seen better days."
Kramps lightly chuckled, his face turning serious the next second. Shawl, seeing this, instantly knew what that meant.
"What do you need me for this time?"
"Remember that Christmas store at the end of West Side Street?"
"Yes, what about it?"
"I got caught trying to rob them earlier today," Kramps sighed, "So I plan on–"
He was suddenly cut off by the sound of suppressed laughter coming from none other than Shawl.
"What's so funny?" Kramps' eyes narrowed. Shawl raised his hands in defense, the pimp's rings clinking in an annoying manner.
"Ah nothing! It's just…funny how you had the balls to target the most secure toy store here in the outskirts…the funniest part–it's a toy store!"
Shawl erupted into another fit of laughter, this time no longer holding it, not caring for the reaction of his supposed friend.
After a good five minutes, Kramps finally cut in,
"So could we get into the main business of the evening?" He gestured towards the table behind them.
"Alright Krampus." Shawl smirked as he took a seat next to Kramps.
"Krampus? Since when did that start?" Kramps' eyes narrowed.
"Aw c'mon…I just lost interest in the other one and decided to call you by your actual name instead."
Kramps gaze burned through Shawl, "Never call me that again."
Shawl just casually waved his hands in a dismissive way, almost looking like he was showing off his many fake gold rings.
"Alright boss."
"Now to business."
***
"What?!"
Shawl's voice could have busted through the roof if not that the bar music was louder than his.
"There's no way we are going to rob that toy store!"
Kramps looked at him with mocking eyes, "I thought that it was just a toy store, joker."
"Oi Kramps, you crazy or something?"Shawl asked, his head practically steaming.
"Not only do you want to rob the store, but also kill its manager!"
"Yeah and so? Don't we usually kill dudes for money?"
"It's not like that this time! Look, I know I may have joked about it earlier, but that store is the real deal, a no-go area of you don't want to die!"
Kramps rolled his eyes,"Gee Shawl…you had to lay out the obvious possibilities."
"I'm not kidding Kramps…if you wish to go on with this, then count me out." Shawl then picked up a half full glass of margarita and stood up.
"If you want to die, you could die alone cuz I won't be joining you." He finished as he walked away.
"What a joke." Kramps poured himself a glass of the almost empty bottle of margarita. His eyes followed Shawl until he was out of sight.
'I should just kill you first.'
"Who said that?"
His gaze unconsciously dropped to the polished glass table.
"What the…!!"