Lighthouse

Hurling abuse at his mother, Standard fled down the darkening street. The plaza at the bottom was grey concrete, syringes, weeds, a windows-barred newsagent and a cheap supermarket. A sapling fluttered pointlessly in the cold wind. Standard screamed into one of the benches, skinning his shin and cursing murder. From a corner of shadows a bottle came flying and smashed on the wall behind his head. He ducked down behind the bench and pulled out his piece. Rolling over he fired three shots into the blackness, grunted with satisfaction as he heard a squeal of pain and rolled back into cover. In the orange light of the solitary street lamp he examined his bleeding shin; it would need seeing to. He turned, took a long look through the slat of the bench then stood up and walked over to find William dead in the corner. He'd taken one in the leg and two through the chest. Standard kicked the body this way and that, trying to get more light on it to admire his handiwork. He threw his head back and roared, felt the power searing through his blood.
He was the last chav standing.