Episode One, Part Two
Tires squealed as the car cornered into the yard. A cloud of dust rose in the air and stones kicked up as the car slid on the stone-covered dirt to a stop. In the distance, sirens screamed as though in frustration at the disappearance of their quarry. And from the dull-green two-door Buccaneer three youths emerged in adrenalin-fueled fits of laughter and excited congratulations.
"Man, the way you shot the car between those two cops, JJ," said the youth in the black leather jacket, slapping his friend on the shoulder, "that was some f*ckin' awesome skills!"
"F*ckin' awesome, man. Truly," added the second non-driver struggling to exit the car from the back seat.
"Hey, Jay-Jay, that was some awesome sh*t back there. Or so I hear."
None of the three had paid the slightest attention to the two black-besuited men standing fifteen feet from where the car stopped. Too caught-up in their excitement to notice the shorter one with the intense-purple shirt, who they would ordinarily have joked looked like an extra from a "Miami Vice" set, tell his Whiz Wireless mobile phone, "Yeah, they just pulled in now. Ya did good, Vinny," before hanging up. But, it was "Miami Vice" that called out for them to notice him now.
"Uh, thanks," JJ replied with uncharacteristic uncertainty. "Who the f*ck are you?"
"Who the f*ck am I?" Miami turned to his Schwartzenegger-sized colleague and says with an insulting chuckle, "'Who the f*ck am I,' he said." His colleague cracks a slight smile.
"I'm your f*ckin' Grandmother, that's who," he aggressively quipped back, smiling with self-satisfaction.
JJ's expression turned to an indignant sneer. Half-turning to the leather jacket, he said at low-volume, "Mikey, check this Goomba." Without hesitation, Mikey strode in front of the car between his friends and the Miami Vice extra.
"Yeah, well, it's past your bedtime, Grandma," he uttered with his hand towering over the smaller man, his fingers forming into a pistol, 'gangsta-style'. With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he added, "So, why don't you go scoot yourself home."
Unintimidated, the extra retorts with almost mild amusement. "Ah, f*ckin' funny guy." Pleased with himself, Mikey turned to his friends with a cocky smile. "Well, I got a joke for ya," the extra added.
"How funny is this?"
Mikey had barely turned back to face the 'Goomba' when he felt his legs kicked out from under his tall, thin frame and to his right, which allowed gravity to pull his head into a free-fall collision with the car's hood. With perfect precision and timing, the Goomba helped Mikey's head slam with maximum velocity straight into the soft metal of the hood to make a loud, grimace-inducing bang.
The effect on the three young men was instantaneous and arresting.
"F*ck! What the f*ck was that?!" JJ shouted as he knelt down to attend to his friend, collapsed on the ground, moaning and holding his neck and head.
Miami Vice beamed, rather pleased with himself, turning to his colleague with a slight smile. He had their attention. Unbowed, JJ turned to his other friend. "Double-T, get Frankie and Jimmy over here with my shotgun."
Double-T would have turned and shouted to the two guys fifty yards away stripping a car, whose attention had already been won by the loud bang of cranium on metal, were it not for the larger gentlemen raising his arm to his side to show them the sawn-off shotgun held unthreateningly in his large hand.
"Oh, you mean this gun?" Miami said, gesturing back at his colleague's raised arm without looking behind him. "What?" he said in mock-surprise. "You didn't really think you'd hidden it?"
The pair were like a choreographed ballet, each knowing the other's exact movements without even needing to look. And that realisation informed Double-T instantly who they were dealing with.
"Oh, f*ck! You're Joel and Slugger," he said, taking two or three stumbling steps in retreat.
"Hey!" Joel shouted, pointing at Double-T threateningly. "That's Mister Lipari to you little f*cks." Pointing to his colleague, he adds, "And he's Mister Scarcarell."
Mikey regained consciousness with a moan, and bloodily spat words, "You f*ckin' cocksucker."
"Oh, f*ck, guys," Double-T warned, shifting nervously between running for dear-life and loyalty to his friends. "These are f*ckin' Pegorino mobsters."
"They're f*ckin' dead men," Mikey retorted as he staggered to his feet with JJ's help and sat on the hood, dabbing his bloodied head.
"What? You still want a piece of me, kid?" Joel replied, jutting forward his chest.
Mikey's head wasn't yet clear enough to put the little maggot out of his misery, so he decided to listen. "What the f*ck do you want?"
"Ah, look at this, Slugger," Joel said, gesturing to his colleague still standing silently behind him. "I finally got his attention.
"You little rats have been operating on my turf, running this little operation, pulling all this heat on my people, and I don't see dime-one of any of it?"
"What f*ckin' operation?" Mikey said with dismissive exasperation.
"'What operation?' he says," Joel muttered, half-turning to Slugger. As he turned back to Mikey and JJ, his face displayed scowling displeasure.
"This!!" he shouted, slamming his palm on the car. "You cocky piece o' sh*t!
"Or did you think Dorothy Wilkins, 73, of 1487 Aspdin Drive wants her car cut up for parts and sold for her?"
Mikey and JJ's jaws dropped. The Goomba knew exactly where they stole the car from. "What the f*ck?" and "How do you know that?" dropped from their lips in astonishment. "You cops?" Mikey, feeling better, concluded. Double-T tried to repeat that these were mobsters, but, again, Joel cut-in on his words.
"F*ckin'... this kid." he mumbles to Slugger. "NO, WE AINT COPS!" he screamed. "We're the guys who are gonna keep them off your backs, you dumb f*ck!" Veins popping in his neck, Joel spun around and paced back and forth to cool his exasperation.
Double-T tentatively speaks up. "So, who would we be working for?"
"You'd be working for me, get it? For me," Joel said emphatically, slapping his chest. "Slugger here will come once a week and collect one G'...-" Joel's speech was immediately interrupted by JJ and Mikey's scoffing protests.
"That's all we make a week," Mikey said, standing defiantly.
"Then," Joel responded, patiently, "you'd better scale-up the scope of your operation."
Mikey screwed up his face in disgust. "You know what," he said. "Screw you, you guinea f*ckin' nutcase. We aint workin' for f*ckin' nobody." While Double-T felt his whole body tense, even JJ briefly pondered the wisdom of pissing off the guinea nutcase and his towering colleague holding their shotgun.
But, Mikey wasn't even done. "Now, get the f*ck outa here before we drop your bodies in the f*ckin' West river." He then turned his attention to the two guys now half-way between the car they had been working on, and the five guys gathered around the faded-green Buccaneer. The words he would have uttered would have been: "Frankie, Jimmy, dispose of this smelly sh*t."
Instead, Joel, a pinch disappointed, shrugged the words: "Okay, kid, you wanna dance, let's dance."
With Mikey's head turned to his right, looking to Jimmy and Frankie, Joel's fist connected with the back-left of his jaw, instantly dislocating it. As the pain centres of Mikey's brain lit-up like the fourth of July, his head lead his body in a falling-swing around to the right, which meant Joel's next punch landed squarely in his left kidney, and his kick took Mikey's knee from under him.
Crumpling in a bloodied, pain-wracked mess onto the hood, and then sliding, face-first onto the ground, Mikey probably never felt the blows that followed, as Joel let his feet do the talking. Leaning on the car's hood for balance, Joel proceeded to kick Mikey repeatedly in the side until his body just flopped limply over.
Frankie and Jimmy needed no encouragement to help. While JJ just stood there, stunned into inaction by the intensity of violence being inflicted on his friend's unconscious corpse, Frankie and Jimmy flicked out their switch-blades and ran toward Joel who continued looking down at the body he kicked beneath him. But, neither of them got close enough to slide their blades into Mikey's vicious attacker, for Slugger, with cat-like grace, dropped the shotgun and drew a pistol from his coat and had it trained on their heads before they got within ten feet.
"Alright! Alright!" Double-T screamed in desperation. "He's had enough!"
At that, Joel emerged from a violent trance to notice the blood all over his shoes. While the disfigured, now-purple and black-skinned Mikey, blood and teeth oozing slowly from his mouth, lay at his feet, Joel's concern was firmly fixed on his shoes, complaining he'd now have to change them before the funeral.
"You f*ckin' maniac, look what you've done. Get the f*ck outa here," JJ screamed at Joel, kneeling down at Mikey's back.
"Yeah," Joel casually agreed. "Okay, kid. Sure."
Slugger's gun remained trained on Jimmy's head, as Joel leaned his foot on the hood of the car and wiped the blood from it, then turned to face Double-T.
"Alright, you seem to be the smart one, so you're gonna be responsible for handing over two thou' a week to my associate here," he said, casually doubling the amount. "No excuses. No negotiations. Or, I come back and finish the job," he said, gesturing at Mikey.
Double-T's gaze wandered back and forth between Mikey as JJ tried to roll him over, and the psychopath whose gaze was firmly fixed on him.
"Hey! Hey!" Joel yelled, snapping his fingers to break Double-T's trance. "You listening, smart guy?"
"Yeah, sure, man. Two thousand. You got it."
"Oh, now you see, Mister Scarcarell?" Joel said to Slugger in mock-surprise and faux-class. "Here you were demeaning the youth of today, and yet here we have a model citizen."
"Yeah," Scarcarell said, grunting his first words of the morning. "F*ckin' amazing."
As the pair began effecting their departure along the side of the car, Slugger's gun still firmly fixed on Jimmy's head, Frankie gained his voice. "What the f*ck, T? How we gonna make two thousand?" he protested, looking at Double-T.
"I suggest you get busy, boys," Joel advised, before he and Slugger turned and gently jogged out the front gate of the car yard.
As the guineas receded into the distance, Joel complaining, once more, about having to change his shoes before the funeral, the four guys stood over Mikey's broken body. They wondered whether he would live. They wondered whether they could really make enough to pay the mobsters two thousand a week. And then a cold sweat broke over Jimmy's skin.
"Oh, f*ck," he said with a genuine quake in his voice.
JJ looked back. "What now?"
Jimmy, with the attention of the three other guys firmly fixed on him, expressed his new fear. "What the f*ck are we gonna tell Mikey's Uncle Patrick?" The fear shared, cold sweats began breaking out on all four of the guys as the stared fearfully at Mikey's bruised and battered frame.
I am genuinely interested in feedback. If you'd prefer not to clog the thread, feel free to PM instead.
Note to staff: since these five young guys running a chop-shop are not Pegorino members (at best, they will be repeated as mere associates) and these items were not explicitly used by the Family, I hope you will regard my reference to the un-utilised shotgun and the Buccaneer the kids drove in with as mere third-party props having nothing to do with my gang's operations and thus not an infringement of the rules. It would seem untidy at best to have to twist the story and have Mrs Wilkins driving a Sentinel.
This version is slightly altered from what was first here. I've fixed a few of the tense problems. I have trouble staying in the past tense 'cuz the story's appearing before me "now" as I write it.
This chapter earned $49 and the comment "the dialogue and descriptive parts were both equally strong, providing an excellent story using a large variety of different words. Very well done, and I look forward to reading more."
It was also praised by one participant-reviewer, Tyla, with the words "... good ... authentic ... intensely descriptive ..."
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