Jun 10, 2025 2 min read

Downtown Beirut #11

"Stories become real when enough people believe them."

Downtown Beirut #11
Image by Brian Wood and Iron Ave Studio

A serialized novella in twelve parts

The armored truck idles at the light when Animal first sees it—two blocks up Avenue C, its boxy silhouette standing out. The late afternoon sun hits its dented side panel at a slant, making the scratched Liberty Secure Systems logo glow. He’s just stepped out of a bodega, a lukewarm coffee in one hand, the other resting on his belt where the holster should be. Habit.

Then a shopping cart rolls into the street.

Not just rolling—launched. It comes barreling out from between two parked cars, one wheel wobbling wildly, flames licking up from a ball of burning newspaper and plastic shit inside. The truck’s brake lights flare as it jerks to a stop.

Two figures in dark hoodies dart out after the cart.

At first Animal thinks they’re just running out to retrieve their runaway cart, but that’s stupid. The thing is on fire. The taller one moves toward the driver’s side with an M16 leveled. The shorter one—jittery, all elbows—goes for the rear doors, a revolver glinting in his hand.

Animal’s pulse kicks. Jesus Christ.

The coffee hits the pavement before he even realizes he’s dropped it.


The taller kid, short-cropped hair, shoulders squared like he’s done this before, brings the M16 up in one fluid motion. No shouting, no theatrics. Just the quiet certainty of violence.

His partner is all twitch and flinch, fingers white against the revolver’s grip as he fires a single shot into the rear door lock. The report cracks down the avenue, scattering pigeons from a fire escape. The kid flinches at his own gunshot, then scrambles for the handle like he’s surprised it works.

Money spills when he trips. The duffel bag splits open, bricks of banded cash tumbling across the pavement. The kid’s knee hits concrete as he frantically claws at the scattering bills, his hood falling back to reveal a face much younger than Animal guessed.

Christ. They’re twenty, maybe. Younger than half the rookies at the Ninth Precinct, their stubble still patchy, their Adam’s apples bobbing with every panicked breath.

Animal’s already in pursuit.

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