The old man took off his porkpie hat and held it against his chest.  “Thank you for listening,” he said, his voice relaxing with relief.  “The police won’t do anything, no matter how often I call.  That’s to be expected, I guess—the cops never come ‘round to the old market district.  I don’t know what happened.  It was so nice when I was growing up back in the… never mind.<br/><br/>“They’re the Devil Dogs… Devil’s Angels?  Devil Guardians?  Blood Dogs?  Blood Hounds?  Must be the Blood Hounds.   I can never remember the names of all these stupid gangs.  So many of them popping up recently.  But, yeah, that’s their name they’re a big group of rowdy little punks.  They hang out in the old alleyways, doing their drugs and god knows what else in the darkness.<br/><br/>“Anyway, a few of them came in about a month ago, acting all businesslike but still looking like dog wretch, and demanded some protection money.  Protection money?  From shits like that?  Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous.  The mob used to do things like that, but they were cheaper and more trustworthy.  So, I said no the first time and they broke my goddamn window.  They come back a week later, and I pay them, and they still break another window.  I asked them what they hell they were thinking, but they just laughed.  Punks.<br/><br/>“Now, I’m on the verge of just offing them myself.  There’s no way I’d win a fight, but I can just drop a grenade into one of their little alley hideouts and paste a few of them to the wall. But I really, really don’t want to resort to that; I’ve been a nice person since the war, and I don’t think Saint Peter would much appreciate vigilantism.  So, can you teach them a lesson?   They don’t look that strong, even.  My store is two miles southeast, at the corner of Gregory and eleventh.  Please, you have to help me."<br/>