The Town Crier: A Short Story in 26 Sentences, A to Z

I just completed a writing exercise that one of my author friends told me about.
The function is mainly to exercise both an attention to short story plot while simultaneously developing flexibly creativity within a limited set of options.

Here's the skinny:
-Write a short story in 26 sentences.
-Beginning the first sentence with the letter A, each progressive sentence must begin with the following alphabetical letter (2nd sentence B, 3rd sentence C).
-And as a final push, one of the 26 sentences must be exactly 100 words long. No more, no less. It doesn't matter which one, just so long as one of them has that precise count.

This is my first try but I'm pretty happy with the outcome.

Enjoy.
And feel free to give it a hand yourself and send me the result. Maybe even post it as a comment!


THE TOWN CRIER

Already the people around had begun to hiss and whisper at what they took to be quite a spectacle.
By the time the rumoring crackled through the crowd Hans was up on his feet brushing the dry khaki dust off his clothes and hair.
Center of attention was never his place of preference.
Delighted by the sight of the freshly pommeled boy rising from the pile he'd just been left in, Hans' hound pup was quick to come and lick his master's wounds in some unwelcome offering of comfort.
Everyone began to break out of the tight circle that had formed around the youths wrestling in the streets.
Fights rarely occurred in the small town of Xylophone Springs.
Granted, the berg's name garnished plenty of public attention, attracting the drunk and over-sexed teens from the nearby suburbs to canvas the downtown streets with trouble in their lazy eyes.
Hundreds of people flocked to the unremarkable little populace to chance hearing a "musical trickle".
It happened that the tiny river running through the town (appropriately names the Xylophone after is matron spring) ran so lightly over a section of stair step layered shale that whenever fresh silt or tiny pebbles washed down the feeble flow over the stones, their sprinkled impact would create a tart and hollow resonance very much like a quiet Xylophone, bringing different musical tones out of the variously sized shelves beneath the water's sun-dappled surface.
"Just get off of me," Hans shushed sternly as the pup persisted in trying to salivate the bruises and abrasions now covering the boy's dirty legs.
Kids in Xylophone Springs were always known to be quite polite, well behaved, and well kempt.
Lately the cleaner, louder children (the ones whose parents clearly had an excess of means) had begun to heckle Hans for his shyness and dowdy wardrobe.
Mostly the harassment consisted of little more than the occasional jeering comment or ditty, ("Hans the hobo, Hans the hobo", "Hey trashcan", and "Are your pants sewn from a burlap potting soil sack?" were the most popular) but there were still the more aggressive and menacing attacks like the one that had just ended where Hans was either made target of whatever object the offending kids could obtain as a missile or actually directly accosted by the more proactive children who would pin his limbs and tickle him to the point that he began sobbing or crying for his mother.
Not that much about the present day's cruelties strayed far from the established pattern where the physical abuse at school was concerned, but this time the town brats had started their bullying in the middle of a crowded street full of the town's working adults and elderly crones.
Obviously it would seem a bit public for such a childish sin and yet the kids beat up on Hans with a particular sunny abandon that Sunday afternoon.
People around the kerfuffle did nothing.
Quiet perturbation and maybe even a little bit of spite tainted all of the proud citizens, looking on as "that dirty little boy" received what they took to be his just comeuppance at the hands of their bright and shiny offspring.
Rarely did anyone step in to defend Hans.
Several times a number of the surrounding playground children had thought very seriously about just how unfair it was to gang up on their sad and quiet classmate.
Thinking wasn't ever the same doing.
Usually, Hans would submissively weather the bitter abuse and then sneak into the backstage of the Primary school's auditorium to conceal himself by sitting cross-legged between the floor-length heavy felt curtains.
Veiled from sight, Hans would silently talk to himself confirming that he was still a good boy no matter how all of those people treated him.
Wiping rebellious tears from the corners of his eyes before the hot salt had a chance to stain his cheeks, he would calm himself and then walk out onto the blank stage in front of 220 empty seats and take a bow, imagining the freedom of knowing that the beautiful audience in his head would always be giving him the standing ovation he craved so intensely.
Xylophone Springs Primary school was currently thirteen blocks from Hans' blood and muddied shins, and so were the empty auditorium, the curtains, the stage, and his adoring and thunderously approving audience.
Yearning for the safety of his secret cocoon, Hans felt the expected tears fighting their way to the rim of his lower eyelids and, for the first time, didn't raise his hands to keep them from marring his countenance, instead allowing them to fall freely, tracing brownish pathways down his smudged cheeks.
Zipping his ripped jacket all the way to the top of the collar, he stood in the middle of the street and cried liquid release for all the town to see, pausing as the last of the hot water spouted from his Xylophone Springs...

...and then he bowed.