The flare fires skyward, only to be snatched out of the air by a fucking lizard tongue from a nearby window. Said flare-snatcher can be heard crying in pain at his phenomenally stupid choice of cuisine, right as a whole lot of familiar lowlife scum poke their heads out of the alleys and windows, cradling clubs, chains, blackjacks, and more than a few torches and two-by-fours with nails hammered into them.