It's a shabby little street, gutters filled with old leaves and remnants of slush from a several-day-old snowfall. It must be late in the evening--the grocery store across the street is the only place still open. The lights inside illuminate picked-over shelves of dry goods, half-filled bins of shabby-looking vegetables, and an elderly man behind the counter, who is currently staring, terrified, at the pistol being shoved in his face.

"Please! Don't shoot! I've got a family!"

"I got no intention o' shootin', so long as you open up the register now."