Title: Mystic Taxi
Genre: Steampunk Urban Fantasy
Set-up: POV Character is approached by a stranger in Central Park in the middle of the night. The part you don't see is right after, when she kicks his a**.
"How doin'?" It came from the foggy dark, the words sounding burned as if by coal dust. She knew that sound. The raspy voices of coal-digging spawnsters had filled the patch towns of her Kentucky home. She still heard them in her sleep. "Spare a dime for a man down on his luck?"
She turned around, her spine stiff and booted legs poised to kick what would hurt the most. The only threat he posed was the stink coming off him in waves strong enough to choke a skunk. "I'm poor as you, mister. You won't hear no coins clinkin' in my purse."
"I be a pig's uncle. You's a woman, ain't ya?"
"Last I looked."
He chuckled. "You dressed too masculine to be one of Hell's Bells. What you doin' out in Central Park all by your lonesome?"
"Waitin' for someone. How 'bout you?"
His brown-toothed smile spread his mouth wider than normal for a human. He was a spawnster, all right. "Makin' new friends." He took a swig from a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. He held it out for Wanda. "Wanna be my friend?"
She grimaced at the smell of rancid olive oil that intoxicated him. "No, thanks."
He frowned, his dark eyes starting to glow. Great. A drunk spawnster with a temper. "I'm sure you're a nice guy and all, but I ain't interested. Share your, uh, oil with a lady who can enjoy it, k?" She turned to face the street.