The Godfather of Sending The Crap Back To Where It Came

It's always dark. 

Dank. 

Dreary. 

Whatever depressing word you want to call it would perfectly describe the streets now. The creaking neon signs are the only colour against the monochrome filters. Dim hues project onto rain-soaked walls. Flickering distortions reflect in puddles. Even the Night-Dames and Street Pimps, with their wads of cash, are long gone. There's no music anymore, no atmosphere to pull the punters. It's bleak and quiet and nothing else. 

I tip my hat at the thing scurrying from the alley. Can't even make out what it is. Mutation? Perhaps. Experiment? More than likely.

It pisses me off. 

The way things are. 

They came and we didn't even notice. We gave up thinking a long time ago.

Well I ain't giving up shit.

Not now. 

Not ever. 

I've got a story to get out and it's gonna be a doozy, quite possibly my last. A wake-up call to the brain-washed. A call to arms, if the lethargic can muster the resolve.

I might even be seen as the Godfather of 'sending the crap back to where it came'. 

I like that. I might use it as my headline. 

I smile to myself taking a drag of an invisible cigarette. Tobacco ran dry months ago, but a man can pretend. Besides, it helps me think.

Being a reporter gets you far in life. Shadows are your friends, plus no one interacts with the lonely dude cradling a whiskey at the end of a bar. 

Listening.

Scratching the lead against a ripped napkin.

They want to remain anonymous, I want to expose them. It's gonna be one hell of a morning edition.

Written for microcosms prompt: journalist/city street/sci-fi with a little bit of film noir inspiration.