Author's Note: This is my response to a Challenge posted by McJunker on TRL,t:
Prompt: They're evil and monstrous and cool and they usually have their faces covered. They are the bad guys, the antagonists, the enemy, the Dark Side of the Story. Write a story from their point of view. More than that- don't just write something where they kick a bucket of newborn puppies over, just to show off how EEEEEEvil they are. This is from their perspective, and few if any people think of themselves monsters. For this story, to them and maybe even to you, they're the good guys here.
Please excuse the language, I tried to write with language that smacked of the original story (epic fail) and so I used some distasteful words that I felt stayed true to the original and the POV of Monks.
Stepping back onto the street, Monks turned his feet toward 'Three Cripples'. The night was clear, and the filth of London readily visible. Whores ran errands between callers to the nightly trade, pickpockets lounged here or there, their artful skill not needed at this hour, nor in these haunts. Various other pliers of dubious trades lurked, performing, or planning, or recovering from, illicit adventures that one could only guess at. Monks was in his element; these people understood him, and he them.
His mother had been right. Father had been a wretch, and the benefactors and associates of his tryst were an abomination. Even if Monks had wanted to forgive and forget, promises were promises. Mother, before she had succumbed, had wrenched an oath to tie up his father's loose ends.
Now, the biggest loose end of all was in the grasp of the Jew. Fagin was not one to disappoint a paying interest, and Monks was certainly paying well. In Fagin's greedy care, that bastard orphan was as good as dangling at the end of a noose already. Monks smiled at the thought that his mother's final hunger was soon to be sated.
Barney, one of Fagin's people, was behind the bar. He poured Monks gin without a word. That was thankful; it was a trial to converse with the mush-mouthed Jewish boy.
What right did that mewling bastard have to walk around freely, whose conception had been part of the robbery of Monks own father from his childhood? Oliver Twist was a fitting name. Let Oliver twist on the gallows. With fortune on their side, Bill's little caper with the boy wouldproduce the end desired. Closure to his father's indiscretions would no doubt lift a weight from Monks's palsied shoulders.
Edwin Leeford had actually intended to give Monks's birthright to a bastard child! Mother had taken care of that, no other eyes would ever glance so much as one treacherous word of that lecher's will. Mother had done her part, and now Fagin would be the instrument to complete the affair.
Barney's silence was a measure finer than his conversation, but still Monks wanted more from this night than gin and a silent pourman. He drained the last of his glass and stepped out into the night. Perhaps he would drag Nancy back to a room somewhere...no, that one had taken up with Sikes. Bet would have to do, Monks did not relish the thought of poaching in Sikes's woods.
The London streets certainly seemed a degree less dismal tonight. Yes, things were starting to look downright joyous for Monks. He thought he might procure a special bottle of wine to toast the bastard's death. Great moments, after all, called for great wine.