VV stands back, proudly admiring her
handiwork. The wall she stands opposite is now emblazoned with her purple
trademark tag, indicating that the crime committed within the building was her
doing, and hers alone. She envisages a pin-board, covered with photographs of
the very same tag taken from walls all across this God-forsaken city.
She exhales excitedly as she hears sirens, and begins to
grin.
A tramp behind her in the alleyway coughs and asks:
‘What’s W, then?'
‘It’s not W, it’s VV, you cretin.’
‘Looks like a W from where I’m sitting.’
‘You’re sitting on damp cardboard and rat shit. Plus you’ve
probably got cataracts.’
‘My vision’s perfectly fine and it’s an old rug. Either way,
no need to be such a cunt about it.’
‘Don’t call me a cunt.’ Growls VV, fingering the handle of
her blade as the sirens grow ever louder...
