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Deep in the Heart of the Alley

by Richter Rozich

I didn't start out as a sports correspondent. When I was going through college, I had aspirations of being a serious political journalist, and even wrote for a mildly popular blog back when those were a thing. It wasn't until my senior year that I realized what a rich field there was in sports journalism. In many ways we can learn more about the world around us through our athletes. They come from all walks of life, from all over the world, and present us with a chance to step outside our comfort zones and see from a perspective we might not otherwise.

So when my editor called me in with a "special assignment," I was thrilled. That usually meant a plane ticket and another opportunity to expand my horizons. The old parrot, though, seemed less enthused.

"You follow MMA at all?" he asked me.

Truth be told, "combat sports" was the one wing (if you'll pardon the pun) of athletics that never sat especially well with me. A sport, in my mind, is a health competition, and setting out to legitimately hurt someone else always struck me as barbaric. Like we're still unable to let go of our feral roots. I recalled stories from history class where prisoners were dragged into arenas or traveling sideshows and forced to fight, sometimes to the death, just for the entertainment of whooping crowds. Adding a pawful of rules and regulations doesn't make it legitimate.

But, never one to shy away from a chance, I skated around the question. "It's not my focus, but I'm a quick study, boss."

The old bird squawked a raspy laugh. "Yeah, yeah. Well, we got one that you might be perfect for."

I was expecting a file folder, school records, that kind of thing. Instead, my editor pulled his phone out, tapped on it a bit, then slid it across his desk at me.

It was a video someone had posted with the title "Alfie Knockout Highlights." If there was anything that could turn me away from doing a mixed martial arts story, it was this. I have, of course, seen plenty of AFC fights over the years, and as brutish as they can be at least there are officials at the ready to break up the action. Even in the case of a knockout, a referee will rush in to stop the fight and prevent further damage.

That wasn't what I saw here. There was no arena, there were no referees or medical professionals nearby. Instead, it was a five minute video of bare-knuckle street boxing. It was ugly. It was violent. The brief clips showed an especially brutish looking brown rat, who I took to be the "Alfie" of the title, knocking out his opponents (mostly rats, though an occasional canine did show up) while everyone around him yelled and cheered the spectacle on. It was how I imagined those old gladitorial fights would have gone, only somehow less respectable.

"Uhm..." I started, looking at a close-up of a beaten rat lying on the ground, his unconscious snores making me shiver. "I'm not sure I understand..."

My editor leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, well. Check out the view count on that little home movie. Read some of the comments."

So I did. Over five million views, and it had only gone up a week ago. Down below the video frame was a whole slew of comments arguing about whether or not Alfie could fight professionally, some saying he'd be champion in a month and others that he'd never make it in a "legitimate" fight.

"Don't tell me the AFC is..."

"Gonna sign this thug and put him in a pay-per-view soon as they can while he's still a 'celebrity'? Yep. Nailed it."

I laughed, but wasn't feeling especially humorous. "Okay, so you want me to... have a nice puff piece with him? Make him seem all presentable? Or are we playing into the image here?"

There was a pause that put me on edge. My editor leaned forward again, elbows on his desk. "All right, see, that's the thing. Okay, so, the AFC wants this guy, but... no one really knows how to get hold of him."

It was right about then that this whole "special assignment" was feeling like something of a time bomb. "I... how? We've got him on video, we know where he lives, right?"

Another squawked laugh. "Yeah, but you know how those rats are. They're all holed up in a corner of Liverpool and they don't like talking to outsiders. He doesn't have an email address, the phone number on file is apparently a goddamn pay phone, he isn't on any social media. The AFC doesn't know how to make contact and the last few reporters that went in to do a story on him pretty much got run out on a rail."

Everything began to fall into place. "And you want a mouse to do it..."

"...because a mouse has a better chance of getting a story and not a knife in his ribs."

I sighed, but laughed. Of course. And here I thought my stellar work made me the obvious choice for an important assignment.

"Well all right, but if I don't make it back, you owe my wife a gift basket at least."

He snorted. "Yeah yeah. I emailed your flight info, and there's some more reading material for you. And Rich?"

I paused at the door. "Yes, sir?"

"I mean this. If you think you're in a bad spot, just get the fuck out. You know how rats can be, especially when you're on their turf. If you need to bail, just make sure you do some asking around. Who knows, maybe a story about failing to find the elusive Alphonse Norwich IV would make a good curiosity piece."

It was true. And he knew that if there was one thing I loved, it was a mystery. A British thug beating people up on camera wasn't an ideal assignment, but a viral sensation that doesn't want to be found was something else. After all, you'd think someone getting millions of views on their videos would be trying to capitalize on it, but I did a quick little scan through his file. No social media whatsoever. No Twitter, no Instagram, not even an email address. Wherever he was, Alfie seemed to be keen on keeping himself away from prying eyes.

I gave him the biggest grin I could. "I'll be fine, boss. Honest. Just gotta dirty myself up, paint my teeth yellow, skip a few baths, I'll blend right in. Time to go rat hunting."

Normally I'm a good flyer. One or two drinks, headphones in with a podcast, and I could circumnavigate the globe without even needing to get up to use the bathroom. This time, I was unable to get to sleep. The file my editor gave me was pretty threadbare, but had enough to get a vague picture on who this Alphonse Norwich IV was, aside from having the most mismatched name for his appearance of anyone I'd ever met. A couple school photos showed an unnerving transition from normal looking young rat into, well, the viral sensation he became. An article about a corner store his father opened. An overly-sensationalist write-up about "Rat Alley" in Liverpool, complete with the kind of exaggerated stories of gang violence that exist only to make suburban parents panic and clip GPS trackers on their kids. I went over it again and again, trying to pull as much out of each little video clip and article blurb as possible.

Before I knew it, we'd landed. A cab ride to my hotel and it was time to get ready. Usually, getting dressed to go meet up with a prospective signee to a sports league meant suit and tie, combed hair, just generally looking my best and most professional. From what I'd been reading about Alfie's stomping grounds, that seemed like a bad idea. I had to blend in as best as I could.

My wife, after letting me know every single possible objection she had to me going on this trip at all, helped me pick out an outfit that seemed to match what we were seeing in the videos and pictures. I picked up a pair of stressed jeans, boots, a t-shirt with a band logo on it and a vest to go over that. I was still in suit, just a different kind of suit. Dress for the occasion, right? Decked out in my new garb, I took a few minutes to pose in front of the mirror and admire my rebellious look before sending a few pictures back home.

A minute later she texted back: "you look like you're about to yell at your parents that they don't understand you and then ask to spend the night at your friend's."

Perfect. Just the boost I needed.

My cabbie into "Rat Alley" was an old badger who looked like he could barely see over the steering wheel, but he was nice enough, with an accent that reminded me of the old stereotypical chimney sweep, unrefined but incredibly cheery and polite.

"Uh, Toxteth," I responded, reading off of a slip of paper I'd scribbled on.

He whistled. "Rough spot, that. Right, off we go."

As I said, I've been to several areas of England, but this was my first foray into Liverpool. The name brings to mind The Beatles and the British Invasion, but the reality is far grimmer. A recent study of the poorest communities in England discovered five of the "top" ten were in Liverpool, plagued by inter-species tension and high crime rates. As we started driving deeper into the city, I began to question my earlier assumptions. Passing up bulldozed buildings and boarded up remnants of corner shops, abandoned buildings an unmaintained streets, I felt rather like I was on a safari heading into a dense jungle.

I was snapped out of my reverie by the driver. "So, whereabouts exactly you heading, guv?" It felt like he was playing up the accent and lingo for my benefit, but it was charming nonetheless. I gave him the address we had on file and he turned his head, one gray eyebrow lifted.

"That's headin' into the Alley. What ya doin' out that way?"

The way he said it didn't exactly fill me with confidence.

I told him, briefly, and we got to talking sports, life, and other small talk while we wound our way through Liverpool. I rather liked the old badger. He seemed eager to chat and at least pretended to care about whatever I was telling him. He gave me a rundown of "Rat Alley," a strip of real estate closer to the seaside with an especially dense rat population. Obviously communities with a species focus was nothing unusual, but the way he told it, the Alley actively pushed non-rats out, with a gang of sorts called the Biter Boys leading the charge.

When we eventually stopped, I looked out the cab window and noticed we weren't at a house or apartment building, but near a park. He assured me this was the proper address, which left me worried that I'd written it down incorrectly, and told me to hurry up and get out. He said he didn't want to hang around too long.

After I paid my fare, leaving a moderately generous tip, the old badger gave me one last piece of advice. "You're in Biter country, mate. If I's you, I'd tuck me wallet in me sock. Just to be safe," and off he went.

The park looked like it had been set up with some care a long time ago, but had been left to its own devices since then. A large central area with concrete paths for walkers and joggers, overgrown grass in between, with benches around the perimeter, two ramshackle "goals" set up. Across the streets on all sides were what looked like public housing with the occasional small shop or pub breaking up the monotony. I stood there, feeling massively overdressed in my business suit and freshly-shined loafers, wondering what to do now. Eventually I sat on a bench, watching the late-evening park crowd milling about, and called up my editor to tell him that the "address" I'd been given was either wrong or BS. He repeated what he had on file, which matched what I'd told the cab driver, and suggested I start asking around. I had no idea what I was looking for, and I couldn't just ask everyone I ran into, so what I needed was a starting point at least.

A pub. Perfect.

The door was propped open, and with the sun setting there was some crowd inside. Maybe they'd know something about the elusive Alphonse.

I took a deep breath and walked in like I belonged there, and took a spot at the end of the bar. To my left was a thin rat with slicked back hair and a dusty denim jacket with various patches on it. I nodded at him.

"Evenin'."

His only response was a dry snort, and he went back to his drink.

It took a moment before the bartender noticed me, but once we caught each others' gaze I definitely had his attention. He was a rather portly old rat with thinning hair tied back in a ponytail and a lopsided walk that made me feel almost guilty for making him take the journey over to my end of the bar.

"I don't think we got th' kinna drinks you're lookin' for, mate," he said, husky voice matching the rest of him. It didn't sound judgmental. Just honest.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: The Alley accent was impossibly thick, the transcription here is a best effort at getting it across]

"Hah, well good thing I'm not lookin' for a drink!" I replied, hoping to keep my voice friendly. Friendly, but confident.

That earned a flat gaze from the old rat. "Well 'en, what ARE y' lookin' for, eh?"

"Well, I was wondering if you might help me find someone. Alphonse Norwich? The Fourth? I hear he lives around here, maybe he's a customer? Do you uh, do you work here every night?"

The old bartender glanced at the rat to my right, who gave another snort and a shake of the head. He waved me to lean in closer while he did the same. Part of me was expecting him to ask me if I knew the password.

"Now look, son. I ain't gonna insult ya by sayin' I don't know Alfie. So don't you insult me by tellin' me you think you're the first one t' come 'round 'ere lookin' for 'im, eh?"

I swallowed. "Of course not, I was just..."

He cut me off. "Right. Now y' seem like a nice enough lad, but if Alfie 'ad any interest in doin' interviews, it woulda 'appened by now, don't y' think?"

I waited, unsure if he wanted an answer. "No, I... I get that," I told him.

The silence hung thick between us. It was time to make a sale.

"Look, there are some important people back in the States that would be very interested in talking with Alfie. People who might be willing to offer him quite a lot of money."

That silence remained a few moments longer, with the old rat sizing me up. Seeing if I was being honest. Finally, he broke eye contact and looked at my "friend" to my right again, who gave a non-committal shrug back.

"Well, lad. If you're willin' to chance it... Alfie's 'ere most nights, so 'e should be here once it's dark with a bunch o' his Biter Boys." The way he said that name stood out. Like he didn't enjoy the way it felt in his mouth.

He continued. "If y' not tellin' stories, and ya think y' can get 'im to talk to ya, feel free t' hang 'round and wait for 'im to show. I'm assumin' I won't need to point 'im out to ya."

I laughed, with some forced confidence, and told him I'd seen a few videos.

He wasn't terribly amused, and took the other rat's glass to refill it from a nearby unlabeled tap. "Aye, course y'ave. Might suggest gettin' a drink."

"Why?"

Now he was amused, chuckling in a way that got his belly bobbing. "Well, 'e might be more inclined to 'ave a chat with ya if ya got a drink in ya paws so ya don't look like a fuckin' undercover copper, eh? Don't take 'is th' wrong way but ya look so wound up ya might pop, but good on ya for at least dressin' th' part."

And here I thought I'd done a better job of being casual.

Despite his earlier warnings, the bar had a pretty good selection, and I'm not exactly a fancy drinker, so I just asked for a house beer. That seemed to put me on better footing with the bartender, and it was a damn fine beer to boot. For the moment, I was perfectly all right with not causing a fuss or attracting any attention, so I relocated to the other end of the bar. Much easier to watch the rats coming and going from there, anyway.

So there's something about British beer I neglected to take into account: It's a good bit stronger than its American counterparts, especially when it's coming out of an unlabeled tap in a dive bar in a corner of Liverpool full of rats who just want to get wild. In the few hours I spent waiting for Mr Norwich the Fourth to make his appearance, I managed to put a couple pints into my belly and by the time the sun began to set I was definitely not going to be passing a field sobriety test. At the same time, I was trying to get in the good graces of a punk rat who got into street fights, so why not take Al's advice and loosen up?

I was pondering how much longer I could reasonably sit there before deciding the night was a bust when suddenly a loud slam rattled my ears at the front door of the bar. Right on cue, Alphonse Norwich the Fourth burst in with a few friends, looking like they'd had a few drinks before arriving. The group was roughly a dozen strong, with one or two that I was fairly certain had been on the receiving end of Alfie's punches in some of the videos I'd seen. They stormed in the way you imagine a rock star does on his way into an exclusive nightclub, with the big rat whistling through his teeth to get the tender's attention.

"Oi! Al me ol' mate! Round f' me an' the boys, eh?"

I glanced over at Al, catching the old rat snorting and rolling his eyes.

"Oh aye, 'appy to, Alfie! Izzis one goin' on ya tab, too?"

Alfie smiled ear to ear. "Ahhhh, ya know me so well!"

The crew passed me by, and I did my best to keep my head down for the time being. Let me tell you, sometimes you don't realize how big a body is until you see it up close, and a rat of Alfie's size was not something I was prepared for. I'm not unused to having others tower over me, but Alfie's oversized frame, with a heavily worn vest barely covering much of his muscled torso, seemed like an optical illusion. Like I was looking at a rat's skin stretched over a tiger.

I watched Al attempting to get enough pint glasses onto a tray that he could carry over to Alfie and his friends. Naturally, their table was as far from the bar itself as possible and none of them seemed too eager to hop up and give him a hand. It's possible the beer had given me some artificial confidence, but I felt this was a perfect time to assert myself.

"Hey! Er, oi! Al!" I flagged him down while doing my best not to be louder than necessary.

"Li'l busy 'ere, lad," he grunted in response.

"I know! I know, but uh, maybe I could lend a paw? Carry all that over?"

Al turned and gave me a look that was somewhere between confused and impressed. The span of bar between us had collected several patrons by that point, and apparently my offer was a great joke based on the laughter.

"Ya serious, ain't ya? Well okay. Easier on me knees at least."

The pair of us carried a tray apiece through the surprisingly dense crowd that had gathered. Al's bar wasn't especially big, but seemed like the main watering hole for the residents, who had no issues with packing in as tightly as they felt they could get away with. Finally we made it to the far end of the room, an oversized booth with a couple tables slid next to each other to make space for Alfie's whole posse. Alphonse himself sat on the cushions, facing out towards the rest of the bar.

"Oi, who th' fuck izzis? When ya start 'irin' Minnies, Al?"

I learned later that a "mini" or "Minnie" (I'm honestly not sure which he meant and didn't care to get clarification) is what rats in the Alley used to refer to mice. We were not off to a good start.

"I ain't gonna be able t' afford any employees long as you lot ain't payin' ya tabs," Al snorted, eliciting a wave of laughter from the table as he put his tray down and I followed suit. "Lad 'ere said 'e wants t' talk with ya. Summin' about money."

Alfie's gaze turned to meet mine. That tiger impression from before didn't wane. We rodents can have our vicious streaks, rats more than mice obviously, but Alfie's eyes didn't have that in them. This wasn't the look of a vermin with some fight in him. It was a predator. I was potential prey.

"Stubs, give 'is li'l fella ya seat."

Across from him, a pudgy rat snorted.

"I'm usin' it!" he protested. "Why should I... fuckin' 'ell..."

The obviously upset Stubs rose up, and a hard thunk sent his chair sliding across the floor towards me.

"Put ya arse down and talk."

To my left, Stubs crossed his arms in an unmistakable sulk. I couldn't help but notice his paws as he did so, the missing fingers giving me an idea of what earned him the name, and the kind of crew that would name one of their own after such a thing. There was no backing out, and I could tell I only had one shot at it. Al clapped me on the shoulder after putting the glasses on the table and collecting his trays.

"Good luck, lad," he chortled, leaving me with the Biter Boys.

"Well uh... my name's Richter Rozich, I'm a wr-"

"Oh fuck me!" Alfie suddenly barked out, loud enough to make me jump. "A minnie and 'e's a fuckin' yankee." He laughed, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, like he was getting ready for a show. "Oh 'is should be good. Okay, g'wan 'en."

Despite having spent the last few hours drinking, my throat was suddenly bone dry. The chatter from the other rats had faded off and I could feel all of their eyes on me. I looked from one pair to another. It occurred to me that I might have been the first American some of them had met.

"Um... okay, well, like I said, my name's Richter Rozich. I'm a writer for th-"

Alfie stopped me cold. "Whoop. Nope. Stop ya there, mate. I thought y' said y' was 'ere about money."

Each sentence took a lot of effort, like I needed to load the whole thing in my mouth before I could get it out.

"I am! See, I'm a writer for FSPN magazine, and those videos of yours have gotten a lot of attention, so I wanted to talk to you..."

Another sharp interruption. "I don't talk t' th' print," he said flatly, leaning back in his seat. "I don't talk t' th' print, an' I don't talk t' cunts who lie to get me attention. Fuck off, minnie, ya got no business 'ere."

Alfie's boot suddenly rammed into the chair I sat on, sending me back with alarmed squeak. I was in a bad spot. If I just couldn't find him, that was one thing, but to be right there, face to face, and get shut down? I probably should have taken the hint, and while I'd like to say it was my journalistic integrity that kept me in place, but really if it hadn't been for Al's beer I would have scurried away long before. Instead, I stood up and walked right back to the table.

"Alfie, listen, th-"

"I said FUCK OFF, ya li'l git, while ya still got th' legs to carry ya!"

I looked again at the rats around us. Some were amused, others on edge. I was reminded of how my editor mentioned other writers attempting to get stories. I had a feeling Alfie wasn't one to make idle threats. It was do or die time. Truth be told, my body wouldn't have let me run off even if I'd wanted to (and I did want to). I might have still had my legs under me, but they were in no mood to carry me anywhere.

"The AFC wants to sign you, probably for a shitload of money!"

The air froze at the table. Every one of us stopped in place, their eyes locked on me and mine on Alfie. I watched the muscles in his jaw flex, his claws scraping the table. I saw the digits etched into his knuckles that were only hinted at in the videos. Thirteen forty eight. I wondered what they meant. I wondered if I wanted to know what they meant.

Alfie rose from his seat, calmly, quietly. Somehow, that was even more intimidating than another round of yelling.

"A'right, lads. Think I'll call it a night 'ere. Me'n... Richter, was it? We's gonna 'ave us a nice li'l jaw."

The rest of his crew protested, but only for a moment. Alfie whistled through his teeth for me to follow him and went straight for the front door, with me doing my best to politely thank everyone for their time while I scurried along behind him. The big rat stopped at the bar just long enough to grab a bottle to go. Surprisingly, he offered me one, which I was more than happy to take. By this point my nerves were shot and I really needed something to help take the edge off.

Walking with Alphonse Norwich IV was an event all by itself. He took broad strides, leaving me to nearly jog to keep up with him. It was after sunset by then, and the darkened streets (despite the occasional light) left me trying to keep as close to him as I could. I felt like a pup trying to stay with his big brother.

"Start talkin', Minnie," he said simply, cracking the beer bottle open with his teeth and taking a drink.

The quick pace plus feeling weighed down by a half dozen drinks made my breathing heavier than I would have preferred, but at least we were talking now. "Okay, so uhm... hey, you mind if I record this?" I asked, pulling my phone out of my pocket. "I mean, it's not like you've never been on tape before..."

Alfie's ears flicked once, and he turned to look down at me and my phone held up like a microphone. He shrugged. "Fine by me. But if I tell ya somethin' off th' record you betta respect that, eh?"

I quickly nodded to the affirmative. Back to the sales pitch. "Okay, the AFC. So your, er, highlight videos have gotten immensely popular, as I'm sure you've seen."

The big rat laughed. "I don't fuckin' pay attention t' that shite, mate," he said, taking another pull from his beer.

His response took some of the wind out of my sails, but we weren't done yet. "Well... they have! Enough so that the Anthropomorphic Fighting Championship is paying attention. They'd be heavily interested in signing you."

I wasn't paying attention to where we were headed, and as we turned down an unlit alley I realized I had no clue where Alfie was leading us nor did I know how I was going to get back. The "row houses" of his neighborhood had no distinguishing features, and the darkness mixed in with my beer-soaked brain meant navigating any of it was simply not happening. Alfie made me nervous in his own way, but he was my guide, and so I kept as close as I could without feeling like I was invading his space.

He stopped abruptly, and turned towards a wall, relieving himself against it. "Yeh? So they wanna pay me t' bust some nonnie 'eads in, eh?"

"Nonnie," I discovered, was a catch all term Alfie and his friends used for "non-rats." As far as slang went, it was one of the least offensive examples, but still sat poorly in my ear.

"Er... if you want to put it like that, yeah!" I nodded. "You're in high demand right now, Mr Norwich."

"Alfie."

I paused.

"Pardon?"

"Alfie. Don't fuckin' call me Mista Norwich. Makes me feel old."

Talking with Alphonse Norwich IV felt like I was trying to drive a car through a blizzard, desperately trying to keep my wheels from skidding out of control and sending me into a tree. He gave off an aura that everyone around him was operating on his time, on his terms.

"All right. Alfie. Like I said, the AFC is really interested in extending a contract offer to you."

He zipped back up and resumed the walk. "Yeh? So why're you 'ere and not one-a them, eh?"

From the tone of his voice, he already knew the answer. "Well... you're not exactly easy to find, Alfie. At least not for, y'know..."

Alfie tossed the bottle off into the distance, with the crash of it against pavement coming a few seconds later. "For a, ah... non-rat, izzat what you was gonna say, eh?" he asked, with a not insignificant hint of pride in his voice.

I nodded.

The big punk rat snorted. "So you came 'ere t' do a story on the mysterious Alphonse Norwich IV and give me info to the AFC cunts so they c'n talk t' me about puttin' me on TV?" It sounded dismissive, but there was a curious edge to his voice.

"Pretty much!" I replied. "Mixed martial arts is a big deal. Play your cards right and there's a lot of money to be made."

Alfie snorted another laugh. "Mixed martial arts... ya make it sound all fancy an' sophisticated."

It was time to really launch into the proposal. We talked about sponsorships, TV appearances, merchandise, and the like, but Alfie didn't seem terribly interested in being a celebrity. He wanted to know about the money, but seemed to want to know what the minimum amount of actual appearances he could get away with would be. I got the distinct impression he would have been perfectly happy to just take a flight to an event, fight, then fly back home without talking to anyone. The conversation drifted along, with him asking about what kind of opponents he'd have, if he'd need to move (though I'm unsure whether he considered that a good or bad thing), how training worked. The longer we went, the more curious he got, and the less guarded he seemed.

Eventually he stopped at one of the houses and led me to the front door, pounding on it a few times.

"Oi, s'me! Open up!"

I assumed this was his home, and for him not to have a key was certainly unusual. But the door did indeed open up, thanks to a young rat standing on another's shoulders to undo the chain.

Alphonse led me inside. My eyes were greeted with the sight of at least a dozen and a half rats milling about. From the outside, the house seemed fairly small, the kind to be home to maybe a husband and wife with one or two children. This seemed to be an entire family, scurrying over and around each other like water. It was as if the house itself were breathing. There were two legless couches in the "living room", along with a few beat up chairs scattered about. The youngest were huddled around an old tube-style television. As we swam through the crowd, Alphonse repeatedly told his housemates that I was okay and not to worry about me. I felt less than reassured, though, with all those beady eyes locked on me as I passed. Despite being close species, the distance between us felt like, well, a world apart.

"Nice place you have, Alphonse," I said over the noise. "Very, uh, cozy."

"Yeh yeh, c'mon up," he said, waving me to follow along up the stairs. I trod carefully, faintly concerned that the whole thing would collapse under me at any moment.

Alfie's room was just as humble as the rest of the house. I should say it clearly wasn't only his room, as there were two beds wedged inside, and quite a bit of clothing scattered.

So began my real introduction to Alphonse Norwich IV. He told me that the house we currently sat in was just the most recent the Norwich clan set their nest in. Gesturing out the window, he explained that the majority of the Alley is public housing, a fair amount of it abandoned, and that the local government doesn't bother with any kind of maintenance. The community, he said, does as much of the repairs as they can themselves, but when a house completely breaks down (such as pipes bursting or heaters giving out), families just relocate. I asked him how long they've been doing that.

"Last ten years or so, I'd say," the big rat answered, digging under his claws with his teeth. I saw the digits on his knuckles once again. I inquired as to their meaning, and Alphonse got a broad grin on his face.

"June of 1348, lad. That's when the rats brought the plague t' England. Took less'n a year an' half the pop was dirt." He spoke as though it were a point of personal pride, like he'd done it himself. "Only took two years before fifty five percent of Europe was gone, and a hundred 'n' fifty to build it back up. Name another species eva take down half a whole fucking continent! Ya can't, can ye, eh? Course ya fuckin' can't!" he laughed.

He continued talking about the spread of the plague on the backs of rats. For as unintelligent as he seemed upon my arrival, his knowledge of this particular subject ran impressively, perhaps disturbingly, deep. I had to interrupt. "Now hold on, Alphonse. You say that like it was a good thing."

"It WAS a good thing! A GREAT fucking thing!" he spat back. I immediately regretted pursuing this line of conversation.

It was then that I really took survey of the other marks on his body. A rat tail fashioned into a noose tattooed into the side of his neck, the fur kept short to show it. Two capital R's branded into his calves with the left one reversed (the symbol for the Rat Resistance, the name for the larger rat supremacy movement). The biohazard symbol on his lower stomach. He had several piercings, including a horseshoe barbell in his nose and his right nipple. The left must have been pierced at one point, but judging by the scar left behind it had been torn out long ago. In between was a patchwork of scars and burns. Even his ears were notched and haggard.

He proceeded to tell me about his family, particularly his father. He told me about their corner shop just on the other side of the park, one that had run back generations in his family, a stalwart of the neighborhood. As he said it, Alphonse III was well liked and a good, hard worker, just like the Alphonses before. He worked every day in his shop, and everyone in Toxteth knew his name. He told stories of helping out on the weekends, sweeping the floors and going on delivery runs for the older rats in the neighborhood who'd grown too feeble to make the walk on their own. It certainly sounded idyllic. The family wasn't rich by any stretch, but he insisted that they were respected.

Alphonse's expression darkened. "An' then those FUCKING BEAKER CUNTS moved in!!"

When Alphonse was twelve, a family of pigeons moved into the small neighborhood. That by itself was unusual, but not unheard of. At the time, he said, rats were about three-fourths of the population, but the others "knew their place". They didn't cause any trouble and his father was even friends with several of the varied species who patronized his store. The pigeons, however, moved in and opened up their own shop barely a block away. Suddenly, Alphonse III had competition, and IV didn't mince words concerning his opinion of them.

"They lived IN the fucking store! Their li'l squabs didn't go t' school, the whole fucking family worked there! Those li'l TITS cut every corner, how was my dad supposed to compete with that??"

He got more and more riled as he told the story. Within a year, the pigeons' store had taken nearly all of his father's business. He had tried offering deals to frequent customers, and even expanded his delivery service with Alphonse IV biking halfway across town if need be, but nothing mattered. Eighteen months after the pigeons moved in, the Norwich Corner Store had to close its doors for good. The large rat before me was nearly quaking with anger, and for a moment I thought his eyes might start tearing up.

"A whole fucking city for those beakers, and they moved in HERE. You know WHY? Y' know WHY they moved so close to my family's shop?"

I shook my head lamely, knowing I would be told the answer.

"RESPECT. Those pigeons had NO fucking respect for us rats. They CHALLENGED us. They came in, an' they took the money out of OUR pockets, the bread out of OUR mouths. Because no one has any fucking respect for rats. D'you understand? Our name 'd been up on that sign longer'n half the streets in this city!"

I asked what happened to his father. He paused, and then put two fingers to his temple, thumb extended, then jerked his hand.

"Coward's escape, mate. Didn't have th' stones to fight back, so he tucked tail and run. One night he didn't come home, so I went to check on 'im, figurin' he'd be cryin' his eyes out in the store. Found 'im in the back room givin' the walls a grey coat." It was unnerving listening to him describe the suicide of his father so flatly.

The pieces were starting to fit together, but Alphonse IV wasn't finished. After the funeral, he sat at the same park I'd met him that day, talking with his brothers about the pigeons and what they'd done to their father. A group of rats had overheard them, and approached, agreeing that the birds had been nothing but trouble since they'd shown up. Generations of simple life, so they said, thrown in upheaval because of outsiders creeping in on their turf. They asked Alphonse if he wanted to take the fight to them before the pigeons did any more damage to their once-proud community.

The "fight", as it turned out, involved baseball bats, ski masks, and a couple of molotov cocktails. By the time the melee was over, everything that could be broken was broken and the store was in flames. The family managed to escape, although the owner's wife got herself a broken beak in the process. Alphonse refused to directly say that he was actually a part of it, but did tell me that the police brought them all in for questioning. Ultimately they were all let go because the family refused to press charges. He said the pigeons were packed up and gone within three days.

"Just like that," he said, the grin returning to his face, head turned toward me, "Everyone looked at the Alley rats a little different." He tapped his temple, eyes flashing wide.

Alphonse the Biter Boy was born.

The Biter Boys, I later learned, were formed at some point in the late 1970's as a kind of reactionary force to increased poverty in what would later be coined Rat Alley. Initially little more than a loose group of local punks who went to rock shows and got into drunken fights, they slowly developed into a hate group as the situation in Toxteth worsened and the government's aid trickled to nothing. They began to wrap themselves up in the imagery of the black death, attempting to "reclaim" the epithet of disease that was so often slung at them. Alphonse's father was simply the catalyst that turned them from ignorant hooligans to a more dangerous entity. I have since seen file reports of victims, the pictures of shattered teeth, torched scales and plucked feathers. I can't say with certainty what involvement, if any, Alphonse had with the more heinous acts, but it's a safe assumption that he at least knew what his fellow Biters were up to.

That was nine years ago. Since then, the relatively small group turned into a number anywhere between 50 and 150 rats (there's no "official roster" and police have been unable to get an accurate head count) sprawled throughout the Alley's tightly packed homes. Although there have been several deaths linked to the group (including one police officer), no members have ever been formally charged with murder. Multiple arrests were made in the early years, but few charges stuck and the group's lack of central leadership meant breaking them up would be impossible. Over time, the police decided it best to keep the area isolated rather than putting themselves in danger to cut off the heads of the hydra, and thus became Rat Alley, a nearly independent city. Alphonse told me I was the first non-rat allowed in his house in years. I wasn't sure if I should feel honored or appalled.

Alfie invited me back to the pub to see his brother's band, but I felt I'd heard all I cared to, and had more material than this article would be capable of containing already. When I attempted to call a cab to pick me up, I was told that no drivers were willing to go into the Alley at night. To my surprise, one of Alphonse's brothers agreed to drive me back to my hotel in a car that looked like it would be lucky to make it to the end of the block. As we drove, his brother, Philip, let me in on a family secret. They know that Alphonse is in with a bad crowd, but he assured me that their brother isn't so bad. He just needs to get his head on straight. For all the bad things he's done, he said, Alphonse has also brought a sense of community and togetherness to a poor neighborhood that desperately needs something to hold onto.

As Philip professed his brother's kind heart, all I could picture was that pigeon with the broken beak, the bobcat who lost his teeth on a curb, or any of the hard working store owners whose sin was nothing more than opening up shop in the wrong neighborhood.

Could Alphonse Norwich IV succeed in the AFC? Honestly... I don't know. I'm not an expert in combat sports. The Alfie I met certainly had a skill for throwing punches. It's certainly possible that, given the opportunity, he could harness the aggression into something constructive. The larger question, though, is if he's worth the risk.