The payoff was every Sunday at noon. Foxy McGillacutty was to meet Constable Oceros in the back alley of Weasel street, behind the busy Chinese restaurant, The Golden Chopstick. Smelling the sweet smells of beef chop suey, sweet and sour pork, and black bean chicken, Foxy smoked another cigarette and waited, flicking his bushy, red tail impatiently. The crooked, rhino cop was late again and Foxy was a busy man; he had lots of important crimes to do! Who did this guy think he was, anyways? Flicking his dead, cancer-stick onto the ground, he lit another smoothly, illuminating his pointed, foxy face in the dark, filthy, back alley.
Footsteps. The obnoxious smell of a cigar. Low, tuneless whistling. The loud, trudging footsteps paused momentarily, before drifting back down the smelly alley towards Foxy. The sounds bounced off of the blind corner of the brick lined alley, getting louder as they reverberated up the tall walls and escaped into the air.
He was a big one. Thick and powerful, built like a bus, the rhinoceros smoothed his black, London policeman's uniform, adjusted his helmet, and tapped his heavy nightstick to it, as a sort of mock salute. Foxy hated him, but he needed his protection for his gang, The Dingodiles.
"Yer late, Oceros!" Foxy McGillacutty hissed. "What were ya doin,' getting yer horn polished?"
"So what if I wuz," he glared back, rubbing his shiny rhino horn, with his huge, thick sausage fingers. "Where's me money?"
"Here, in the bloody bag, as always," he growled, tossing a bulging back at the crooked cop. Just as he caught the payoff, shrill, police whistled filled the air, along with the smell of kung pow chicken . . . the jig was up!