Revelaraphobia

Hunched beneath the cracked window, he lurked, caught in the throes of fetishist-ic panic. Never had he had a chance to experience his greatest pleasure in such a robust and meaningful way. To overhear such words, such deeds - and be privy to crimes yet to come, while totally obscured to the two stern voices that occupied the back of a midtown restaurant. The experience was like no other, in no way diluted by his alleyway surroundings of garbage and assorted filths.

He could have stood stooped for hours if not for the most inconvenient of interruptions - a boy, no more than 9 years old, in the absence of a parent. At the child's gasp, the stalker slipped, alerting his quarry, and like the information parasite that he was, he was torn from his feeding and forced to flee. The things he heard could get a man killed - but the boy knew the parasites face, and if the mobsters decided to grab him, so would they. Such justification was all he could grasp to keep his stomach from emptying while he loaded his mistake into his car, and drove away in silent furious reflection.

Did they see him escape? What would he do with the body? He thought only of his own safety as he plotted home, accompanied by death and a dented, bloody trash can cover.