BUYG: Build Up Your Gang IV
Posted 25 February 2010 - 07:11 PM
Long Time no See?
February 22, 2010
"Carlos, you son of a b*tch! why the f*ck did you do thi-" No more bullsh*t. he was dead now. Carlos, Billy, Brian, and Jim all dead. It was perfect too, they didn't smell anything until they had a gun in their face. Now I'm sitting here enjoying a nice cup of Rum and Coke earning so much moey I can't even count it all. I got my nice brown suit on, all the trimmings I look like a godd*mn turkey haha. Whatever though , them idiots had it coming tey refused to be in the Pegorino's for god's sake. That's why I'm sitting in an imported chair from Italy and they are rotting in some hay bins out in the San Fierro countryside. Ah I still remember it all to, all that sh*t from the start...
December 9th, 2009
We all sat there in Carlos's f*cked up Burrito van that smelled of hooker spit and vodka while that radio blared some liberal bullsh*t . Me and Billy sat on the left , while Jim and Brian sat on the right . Of course the tighter than a nun's *ss Carlos would be driving you see he always said, "Hey If I get capped while driving, they all gonna die's too. I ain't got no dead's man switch on my acceleration. I foot is planted on that son of a b*tch," kinda stupid but whatever it takes to keep you alive I guess. Anyways we all sat there in out matching black trench coats and dark green military panteloones , waiting with Combat Shotguns held between out hands and holstered onto the ground. We were about to rob a local underground casino, if you will call it that. In reality it was the biggest conterfeit ring in all of Liberty City and we were gonna scim a few off the top you know? So there sat while the van pulled up into the local Park-O-lots facility that had been closed some years ago for a malicious 'fire' that killed some 23 Biker goons working with the Lost and damned.
"Ok, here's the drop off Jim and Leon will get the elavator down to the main section while Brian and Billy go down through the actual rampway. Now you guys shut te hell up and keep you footsteps quiet of them bikers are gonna be ready for you ok?" We all nodded and quietly marched out of the van. I tossed Jim his Shot' while we walked up to the elavtor. Jim ain't no Ball player though you gotta understand. He was only 5' 8" with a small blonde tupee looking hair-style and he was skinnier then a f*cking emaciated african boy. But that kid was godly with the electronics. " Ok, leon grab these cables and touch them to the powercore's main pulse, that's the white corde spanning down the shaft of the elavator you see it?" I nodded and placed the Jumper cables there.He lowered a Rope and cord for our descent and pointed to the other end of the cables, conviently housed onto a huge compact modified generator that could pull the plug on a 5-story hospital building for 13 hours. So we couldn't fail right? We took our positions leaning down into the shaft while Brian and Billy took theirs aiming down into the rampway that would eventually cross into the down stairs lobby, housing the big operation I was tellin' you about.
I nodded the ok and then Jim and I lowered ourselves into the shaft slowly descending into darkness. The muffled sounds of Grunting hill billy's was getting louder and louder. Jim pulled out the remote to the Generator and activated it. Distorted voices crowded everywhere below. We turned on our infra-red devices and lowered into the elavator's actual box. Jim pressed the button and we sprayed through the small opening in the doorway. Confused bikers everywhere were duckin into cover and yelling out ,"AMBUSH" but it was no use. Brian and Billy were taking out targets from behind the concrete barriers used to keep out cars and any motor vehicles that may interfere. Too bad it wasn't made for keepin' out people. We opened the door fully and right as we did a man got off the ground and rammed me into the elavator's box railing. I feel numb with pain, like someone broke my back or something, the jim pulled him by his belt, looped him back into his barrel, and blasted his intrails onto the concret floor of the parkway. I got up with the help of Jim and we proceeded ito the facility shooting everything that moved. Finally we aproached head Francis Brokhorn's little offce in the building. I shot off the lock and kicked the door in only to find the fat son of a b*tch hiding under his desk, quivering like a cold pup. I held the gun to his neck and pulled his head up to my level. " Where's the realy money Frankie boy?" I taunted him as I pushed the gun into his throat further. " I swear to god man I have no idea, I'm telling you it's not with us it's with the Petrovics man,"
"What te f*ck did you just say? you a fat slob you know that Frank? I should blow you're brains out right now for saying these kind of lies," I butted the guns end into his gut, then held the barrel to his ear. " Once more where the f*ck is the money?"
" 5 minutes Leon, oh sh*t my bad," I turned t Jim with rage, " why the f- , well I guess he has to die now,"
" Please no man, I swear I won't remember you're name, It's the Petrovics man they are dealing with us I'm tellin' you the trush man c'mon please I got a wife and kid at home," I turned to him and slowly said ," Well then, you should've gotten a safer job," he continued cowering and started dribbling snob down his cheecks. I don't want to tell you what happened, mostly because it still haunts my dream to think of how he mushed all over the place. I threw up right there from the hidious site that the man's guts made.
We were all back in the van now driving off before the polce got wind of what happened. Carlos turned to me, " so the Petrovics have it then?" I nodded and slowly drifted to sleep with my head on the back window. The cold air made the window freezing, but I managed to get some shut-eye before tommorrow.
Well more coming soon
Posted 27 February 2010 - 12:50 AM
Pegorino Family | Garbage Disposal Inc. | Long Time no See? (Chapter Two??)
$37 + $3,691 = $3,728
You're doing a story very clearly in the first person, so you shouldn't use the date as a heading. It's just poor writing. It's not really acceptable even in third person, but far less in first, 'cuz in first-person you really have so much more control over the narrative of the story. You can SAY things like: It was December 9th, last year, when we all sat there in Carlos's... , whereas third-person writers can't.
Watch your grammar, 'cuz you're missing commas and full-stops all over the place, and run a spell-check as well. There's also some missing words from phrases, like I foot is planted and So there sat while ?
However, overall, not a bad storyline going there.
And that's all the ratings Staff has to do. Awesome. Probably just as well, though. Aragond now has a 13-hour-a-day job which is seriously cramping his free time.
The following are still awaiting rating:
Pegorino Family | Recycling Plant | Story #13
$ rating pending
Aragond eagarly awaits hearing from other staff regarding his rating.
Issues? You know where to find us.
~ Aragond on behalf of Skramz , whose exams are really, really long.
Posted 27 February 2010 - 11:10 PM
Posted 08 March 2010 - 12:17 AM
|QUOTE (Sanjeem @ Feb 28 2010, 09:10)|
|I would like to Join the Gambetti Mafia Crime familly Please. Al Dente's since it is the Last option aswell. I will write stories afterwards.|
I think you know the rules: you don't get to reserve a place, the first to post a proper story about that location gets it. That said, don't hurry. We're a little quiet around here at the moment, so there shouldn't be a rush.
Posted 13 March 2010 - 03:52 PM
Ever since the 1970's, Law enforcment has hit Hard upon Organized Crime. Especially the Italian American families, One example The Gambettis. Although the "Mafia" famillies are still very Big to this very day, they have lost their place at the Very Top, for now they remian second to the Russian Families in perticular, Russians are new in America, they have won there place at the top for now... You see if the Gambetti's or any of the other famillies were Un-happy with the russians, they would call in a familly from Italy just to get into first place instead of being second. But instead of doing that, the Famillies accept the russians and others , If they don't hit us we won't hit them, working together against Law emforcment is a much better way of preventing our Organizations go down.
Aged 30, Sonny Depalma is a fully blooded Italian, who was born in the 1980's. In Liberty city he had a Bad child-hood, and came across some Bad people. However these Bad people found him, and he found them, he looked up to them, they were the most powerfull Criminals in Liberty City. These people took hin sonny, since he was only 14 years old, now sonny was no Saint, he was no beleiver in God though, but he did have morality. Sonny didnt want to be some janitor, he didn't want to be a Noutouriouse Gangster either, all Sonny ever wanted was a Place in the Familly structure, And even better if he made it to the top he might even be Made, and be Part of the familly.
Liberty City 2010, Sonny still lived today, Always Loyal to his rightfull owners, he never disobeyed, he treated his superiors with respect and they respected him. Sonny after years of living and working for the gambetti's only has one criminal record, and that was for Extortion when he was 18 years old. Sonny is still an Associate however, Most of the Associates were considered part of the Familly anyway, but to earn Ultimate respect and honour, Being a made man was pretty much the best thing that could happen to one within the Familly structure. Sonny now works at Al Dente's, well when he works there because it is an asset, when Dirty money comes in and the cops ask where the money came from, Sonny had an excuse, by saying he sold tens of hundreds of Spaghetti and Pizza. Cops never beleived it for one bit, and ever since the early 90's cops were much harder to Bribe, but if the cops have no proof they were powerless.
End of Chapter 1, Next coming soon.
Posted 13 March 2010 - 07:41 PM
Posted 14 March 2010 - 02:53 AM
Honkers (Pegorino Family)
Chapter 1: Bookends Part 1
Detective Scruggs is meeting Joseph “Joey” Gravano at the Alderney Correctional Facility, Joey who was an high ranking member of the now defunct Pegorino Crime Family, is locked up on forty three consecutive life sentences. Joey is only thirty three years old. Let’s get into Joe's past shall we?
Joseph Gravano was born in 1974 to an Sicilian Father and Cherokee/Black Mother in Carcer City, Liberty State. At 18 he joined the 82nd Airborne division were he fought three campaigns in the Balkans and One in Somalia. In 1995 we enter his first contact with La Cosa Nostra in Somalia.
June 6, 1995
Joey(Who was a Sgt at this time) and a close childhood friend Anthony “Gabe” Montague (Another Sgt) are walking towards a suspected pirate hideout, when they uncover a Mafia diamond operation.
(At the hideout)
“We need some souvenirs?” I asked Joey
“Hell yeah, wait till the guess at the base see these.” Joey said with excitement.
Then before we knew it some guys with sunglasses popped up.
“The f*ck are you doing?” one man asked.
“Hey, Hey we are Americans, who are you? Joey said.
Another one of the guys with sunglasses popped up.
“Let me explain Americans, my name is Ray Alberga I own these diamonds.” He said with his thin eyebrow raised.
“I’m Sergeant First Class Montague and this is Staff Sergeant Gravano.” I said.
“Nice to meet you, you like diamonds?” He asked us.
“Yea, I do.” Joey said
“Well I need a favor, I need to get this diamonds to America.” He said.
“Can you perhaps, you can use some of your bags to hold these diamonds?” He added.
“I don’t know…” I was interrupted by Joey’s yelling.
“sh*t, here put it in my ammo pack!” Joey yelled.
(Footsteps rushing to the hideout)
Somali repels surrounded the area, and then they started to fire on us.
“Get Down, cover fire to our flank Gabe!” Joey yelled.
He fired his S.A.W. with a fiery passion in his eyes.
One of the repels had threw a grenade in the hideout.
After that I’m drawing a blank, but I woke up on a boat to France.
I saw Joey holding the diamonds in his hand. I looked down and my uniform was off, I was in civilian clothing.
“what happened?” I asked.
“ 101st came and saved us, we were in the hospital for about a month, you were in a coma. They discharged us by request.” He said, juggling the diamonds in his hand.
“You know I grew up horribly poor, this is my first seeing diamonds.” he said
I started to laugh, “Come on, I’m saw your mom have diamonds on the bracelet she had.” I said.
“Those we’re plastic, I got from the store when we moved to Tudor; I never even seen them on TV or Mags.” He said.
“I didn’t go crazy, but this my chance to get out of this sh*tty life I have. I’m not like you Gabe, I don’t co own a strip club and nightclub. I didn’t go to Liberty University.” He said.
I stood up and put my hand on his shoulder and said “What are you going to do?”
He responded with a serious look. “I’m going to join the mafia, maybe the Pavanos or Ancelottis?”
“What! Out of everything you’re going to join the mob?” I said
“Damn it Gabe, I have no choice plus these diamonds are my only way in.” He said.
I sat there shaken my head, my best friend has made a horrible life choice. After we landed in France we split ways. As it turned he joined the Pavano family who then gave him to a separate outfit in Alderney. In 1999 he was made into the Pegorino Family (at that time ran by old man “Frankie” and his two sons James and Alfred.) As fate brought it on me I joined the mob as well. I was made into the Ancelotti Family the following year. (Detective Wilson interrupts) “I’m sorry you said the Pegorino Family, right ?” Wilson said.
“Yes, Under Frank and his oldest son at Underboss (Alfred “Al” Pegorino) and Youngest at Caporégime (James “Jimmy Skips” Pegorino).” I said.
“Ok, Thank you Gabe.” Wilson said and then left.
As the guards escorted me to the lunch room, a couple prisoners sat down with me at the table.
“So what else happened?” One asked.
“That I’ll tell you if you can get me some smokes.” I said.
Posted 14 March 2010 - 10:34 AM Edited by aragond, 08 May 2010 - 05:04 AM.
Episode Three, "Escalazione", Part Two
The veins on Joel's forehead pulsed with every word he screamed into his phone. "You lazy, no-good c**t! She's your daughter, too."
Joel lost his voice with the last words, his vocal chords unable to maintain his rage. After a mere moment listening to his phone, he pulled it from his ear, an exasperated expression on his face.
"Yeah, well, f*ck you," He screamed into his phone.
Pedestrians gave Joel's wild and angry gesticulations a wide berth, preferring to walk on the road than get too close to the short, angry man screaming expletives into his phone.
"No, f*ck you, whore. F*ck you!"
He screamed yet another expletive, kept himself from hurling the phone into the street, and looked across the street impatiently. He began dialing.
"Lou? You got anyone out Broker, right now?
"Al, 'kay. Can he do me a favour?
"No-no, no tie required. Just pickin' up my Angela.
"Alright. I'll give him a call. Thanks, Lou."
It was late, the sun dropping in the sky, as factory workers, diner employees and businessmen bustled in Mueri Street eagar to make their way home. And, as Joel's fury cooled, pedestrians shortened the distance between them and he, but Joel didn't notice or care. Provided they never bumped him, he left the working stiffs, the losers who worked their nine-to-fives, be. Until one raised his right arm at the back of Joel's head.
"Paddy Kelly sends his regards."
Joel felt the cold steel against the back of his head, would have sworn he felt the hammer cocking back, while his mind raced with the futility of any reflexes he could deploy. His life didn't flash before his eyes. On that, they lied.
"Ooomph, sorry," was the last thing Joel heard as the barrel slid off his head and fell onto his left shoulder and fired. In slow motion, he saw the pretty brunette in the short skirt fall forward, a clear explosion of blood from her lower back as his assailant stumbled forward. Without hesitation, Joel's reflexes kicked back in.
He spun around and sank his fist squarely into the gunman's chin, the head swinging back into the businessmen's face. Joel's other fist swung from the left and clocked the gunman in the side of his head, while he leapt, screaming, at the gunman, bringing him to the ground in a blur of punches and hits.
"You f*ckin' mutt! You take a shot at ME?" Joel screamed as he stood and levelled a grimace-inducing kick into his assailant's ribs. It was a kid, no more than early twenties, a white kid, not Italian, nor Latino. As he kicked, Joel saw the fear in the faces of the pedestrians around him, but didn't hear their wails. He then realised he had extraordinary pain in his ear, and felt the blood.
"You f*ckin' mutt!" Joel repeated over and over as he finished kicking the gunman, then collected the kid's gun, and dragged him through a wire fence and up the hill to behind a wall at the top of the factory's driveway so he could kick him without witnesses. And for every moment Joel was unable to hear, cupping his hand and the gun to his ear, Joel kicked the bloodied kid again.
Vinny emerged from the Recycling Plant across the street panicked when told of the gunshot. The plant's noise had ensured he heard nothing from outside, but now saw a crowd gathered around the entrance to the factory across the street, the old Ancelotti front.
Oh, f*ck, he thought. Joel!
Charging through the traffic and crowd, he sighed in relief when he saw it was a young brunette screaming in pain from a gunshot to the back. So, where was the boss? Noticing a small group of people standing at the ajar gate to the factory driveway looking in, too fearful to enter, Vinny pulled his gun and walked cautiously inside, relieved to find Joel, hand over his bloodied ear, alive and kicking the bloodied body of some kid.
"Who tha f*ck is this Paddy Kelly?" Joel screamed, ignoring Vinny's armed arrival. The kid spat a tooth and groaned, so Joel asked again, this time lifting the kid's head with the barrel of his own gun.
"He's the uncle of the kid you f*cked up," the bruised and battered mick mumbled. Joel just looked at him confused. "The car yard? The chop-shop you own now. You beat the Mikey Kelly into a bloody pulp."
"Oh, yeah," Joel recalled, a grin crossing his face. "The mouthy one in the leather."
"Joel, cops'll be here soon enough," Vinny said urgently. "Boss, we gotta split."
"F*ck, almost forgot, gotta make a call. Keep him there, Vinny." Joel pulled his phone out, dialed, and put it to his unbloodied ear. After a moment, the call connected.
"Hey, kid. Listen, Lou says you're out Broker-way. Where you at?
"What tha f*ck you doing in Steinway?
"Alright, fugedaboudit, 'cuz it works good for me. Can you do me a favour and get down to Outlook Park way?
"My baby girl, Angela, you know my girl?
"Okay, well, she's is freakin' out that some guy is stalking her outside her dance class that ended fifteen minutes ago, but my bitch of an ex-wife is too busy suckin'-off the pool-boy to be bothered goin' an' getting her. Could you do me this favour and rescue her from whatever creep is paying her attention?
"I appreciate it, kid, I really do. No f*cker messes with my baby girl. You hear me?
"Okay, thanks, kid. I got something here I gotta attend to."
Joel pocketed the phone as Vinny nervously watched the police arrive at the scene of the shooting and saw witnesses point the police up the driveway. "Boss!"
"Yeah," Joel agreed, hearing sirens over the ringing in his ear. He knelt down beside the kid and put the kid's gun to his head. "As for you, my friend, remorse overtook you, and you f*ckin' went and killed yourself."
"F*ck you," the kid spat, blood flying from his broken lips. "Paddy's gonna f*ck you up."
"I'll tell him you said so, as I shove this gun up his ass." Joel pulled the trigger.
Pedestrians and onlookers began running, while the two police walking up the driveway hugged the wall and began shouting commands. As the kid's blood 'n' brains oozed down the wall, Joel threaded the kid's fingers around the gun, then ran with Vinny down the side of the building behind them and out a gap in the fence onto Babbage Drive. They casually walked down the street, hiding in shadows.
I am genuinely interested in feedback. If you'd prefer not to clog the thread, feel free to PM instead.
This story received $50 and staff wrote: "Violence and snappy dialogue - good chapter."
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Posted 15 March 2010 - 02:54 AM Edited by Maverick24, 12 April 2010 - 01:05 PM.
|Firstly, please allow twenty-four hours between posting stories. You appear to have fired them into the thread within six minutes. Definite no-no.|
Understood. I had wrote all three stories already, and just posted them sequentially. They were going to be a single story, but the length seemed ridiculous and it seemed more logical to seperate the events. That's why Chapter 2 has ended up shorter than the rest.
Will make sure to leave sufficient time between posts in the future.
|(Took a while to figure out where the Lucky Winkles is, but can you see the river from there? Don't recall.)|
I've been and checked... and you can't really. There's that ugly two-levelled car park there that blots the view. But there is a bit of water on view, and that combined with some artistic license and I'll claim the story still holds credibility.
|Staff was confused by the phrase but had little enough conscience to stop the champ bare-knuckled fighter throwing him face-first into the platform concrete. Do you mean consciousness, perhaps? Conscience is what Aodhan would have had a pinch of to prevent himself from killing them, if you catch my drift.|
|"Get running you f*cking druggy." demanded Aodhan. -- the first full stop should be a comma. And does Stunned and shocked refer to Aodhan, in which case what stunned and shocked him, or the driver, who just got a knee to the head? If the driver, you've gotten that sentence wrong, 'cuz it definitely appears to be referring to Aodhan since it says his name immediately after.|
Your corrections are right. They are all screw-ups that evaded my observations. Thanks.
Anyway, here goes the next installment. It's taken a while to get the stories to come together, but I have part 5 almost complete too and planned story arcs for the next couple at least. Should hope to get into more of a posting rhythmn.
Act I - Chapter 4 - Of Mice and Men
The Irish Mob
Lucky Winkles Bar
Beneath the Offramp of the Algonquin Bridge Overpass, or BOABO as Libertonians affectionately know the district as, was a foreboding place to be at the best of times. The mighty structure that the area takes its name from dominates the sky; restricting sunlight during the day and shadowing the dark of night with its vast silhouette, casting phantom depths of shade that add an ominous character to the industrial complexes beside the river. Aodhan parked the stolen car in an innocuous car park. It would be more discreet to walk the two blocks to his destination. Packie remained comatose, slumped across the back seats, his face smeared with vomit that pooled in the rear foot well. He wouldn't wake, even with a few slaps across the cheeks, so Aodhan lifted him from the car and slung him over his shoulder. Despite his wiry appearance, Aodhan was a powerful guy. A bare-knuckle fighter in Ireland, he had a strength that belied his lack of prominence.
Pounding on the door produced a pair of Pikeys with nothing but boxer shorts and the pistol one of them brandished. "Whad'ya call this, Aodhan?" asked the armed scrub. "Hamm'rin' like this you's gonna get you'self shot."
"F*ck me!" announced the second guy, this one much more vast than either Aodhan or the armed Irishman. "That's f*cking Paddy f*cking McReary. Is he f*cking dead?"
Aodhan grunted and pushed past the two Pikeys. They were thugs, but they were his kind of thugs; fellow fighters from home who had taken the same boat as he, to find Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. He placed Packie on the sofa. Stirring half-awake, Packie cocked a single eye at his unfamiliar surroundings and mumbled an incoherent drone of swearing. Aodhan straightened himself and turned to the mystified pair who were shocked at the sight of the old-time mob-boss laid plastered on their furniture. "This, Liam, is Patrick McReary. The heat's on him," Aodhan paused, having responded to the larger man's observation, and reflected on the circumstances, "an' I suppose me too now. We gotta lie low for a little."
Liam was stunned in silence; he was a brute man of brute force, lacking the brain cells to think on his feet. Years of pounding, and being pounded, in barns and on gravel car parks didn't lend to a quick wit. Seán was more acceptant, an older and more experienced man, he had got both Aodhan and Liam out of Ireland when things went bad, and to Liberty City. Putting his pistol down the arse of his boxers he went to the kitchen fridge and produced three cans of Guinness, handing them to the others, "Tastes b*llocks in this country, but you's look like you's needs one." Aodhan and Liam sat in armchairs; Seán hadn't a seat to sit on, with the baked Packie sprawled on the sofa, and lounged against a wall. The three slurped stout in silence. The last gulps disappeared from each can and Seán passed more around. The tension ran down with the supply of Guinness. As the whiskey emerged, the three were buoyantly jovial and had dismissed what brought them together that night.
Packie awoke to a scene of chaos. The strange apartment was littered with empty cans, and beside the three sleeping Irishmen were full glasses of single malt, glinting gold in the low morning sun. Each of them displayed large, fresh bruises shining black and blue; Liam: a busted lip that had bled crimson across his bare chest. The inevitable conclusion of their drinking was always a punch-up. Packie knew the face of the one wearing clothes, but the two in underwear were strangers. Flashbacks to the night before reminded Packie of powder and drink with Derrick. They were planning something: something big and something soon. The memories became clouded with the final bag of coke, which Packie had to himself. As the jigsaw of drug-stained memory reassembled itself it dawned on Packie with a sudden dread, the reason he was not at home now.
Aodhan was woken to the birdsong of Packie screaming in his face, the booms of his voice enunciated by the hangover and the spray of spit as foul as his language. As Aodhan's brain rediscovered the capability to hear whole sentences, Packie's hysteria made sense. "I don't have a phone, Packie! I left it in the Winkle."
"Well these c*nts have got nottin' either. Backwards f*cking peasants!" Packie was fuming now. "Get a f*king car we're gonna go 'round an' warn Elizabeta. Does one of you pair of potato farmers have a car?"
The armchair fell over backwards as Liam's bulk exited it at speed. His fist clenched and coming in high, Liam made for Packie like a bull for a matador's flag. Seán placed himself between the charging giant and the frozen mobster, halting Liam with a winding thump to the solar plexus. "Do you relish screwing my life up, Liam?" Seán had been through a lot with this guy, but stood by him. "Put your head on, think who he is."
"Is that oaf behaving himself now?" asked Packie. "'Cos I got a f*cking mess to clear up and you're gonna help." His macho held up, but the sight of Liam launch so explosively at him had shaken Packie.
Aodhan, who had been nursing his head in silence, objected at this idea. "Packie, don't bring them into this, they don't do work for the mob."
"I need some tough tw*ts today, and since these two are available they're gonna do. Now you need to stop questioning me and find a damn car before I get mad, boy." Packie had little to bargain with but his reputation, but it got a reaction from Aodhan.
Seán had no car, and nobody would trust Liam with driving. They were dockhands in BOABO and had no need for a car. Seán knew somewhere to get a ride though. "There's a fella' o'er on t'other side of road wi' a garage full of cars. I tell yous, he won't know if one were gone he's that damn high on steroids. Pansy pumps himself up to look like Arnold bloody Swarznegger but couldn't win a fight against a darn bunny rabbit."
Liam laughed a short giggle, a childish sni**er at the rabbit comment. In agreement with Seán's idea, Aodhan set out to find transport.
Posted 16 March 2010 - 03:03 AM Edited by Maverick24, 12 April 2010 - 01:05 PM.
Chapter 5 complete. The story is starting to get somewhere now so is becoming easier to write. As I said, this was almost complete by the time I posted Chapter 4 yesterday, so it's been pretty swift to complete. Chapter 6 will probably take some more time though, so I'm not going on a posting binge again, don't worry!
Act I - Chapter 5 - Travelling in Style
The Irish Mob
Lucky Winkles Bar
Brucie's Executive Lifestyle Autos was only a single block away. Aodhan found the gate to the yard unlocked despite the collection of flash sports cars. He would rather have had something more discreet than one from this collection, especially given how much each car shone from excessive polishing. Aodhan located the only 4-door in the yard: a Sultan GT, complete with spoiler, hood grills and garish body-kit. Spotting a rock by the yard wall he approached the car. Wrapping the cuff of his sleeve about the rock, he shielded his eyes with his free arm. Pausing for a moment, Aodhan decided to check the door first. Surprisingly, the car was unlocked and Aodhan was inside in moments. This 'Brucie' was either too stupid to think about locking cars or that headstrong he believed crime only happened to other people.
The engine ignited with shocking intensity. The roar of its V6 thundered through Aodhan, who had been hotwiring the vehicle for over ten minutes, cramped with his head under the steering wheel. Aodhan sat back in the bucket seat and fastened the five-point harness, the straps too large for his skinny frame. Each clip snapped smoothly into a metallic buckle imprinted with the NASCAR logo. He released the hand-brake and revved the engine, the beast lurching aggressively forwards, before slamming to a stop as Aodhan attacked the brakes in trepidation. Carefully controlling the automobile out of the yard, Aodhan headed back to pick Packie up.
Seán emerged first, eyeing the car with unease. Liam followed closely and bounced forwards childishly excited, "F*ck, wow. I f*cking bet she go real f*cking fast."
Packie came out the door last. He wore fresh clothes that must have belonged to Seán as they almost fit, unlike Liam's collection of tent-sized attire. Seán's pistol was clearly visible tucked in Packie's waistline. "Is he a retard or somin'?" Packie said questioning Liam's enthusiasm. "Put the dumbf*ck in the car and let's get a move on." With Liam packed in the back, Aodhan could see nothing behind. Packie sat in the front seat, and Seán had to find room on the back seats beside Liam's bulk.
The drive through Broker and Dukes was simple enough, but crossing the bridge to Bohan meant passing the toll barriers. Packie slid low in his seat and tilted his head away from the guard in the booth. As the car slowed to a stop at the barrier, a chilling realisation gripped Aodhan that without his wallet he had no money for the toll. He turned to others in the car, "Quick, someone gimmie five dollars!" Packie had no cash following last night's escape, and Liam never carried money anyway. Seán emptied his pockets and produced three quarters.
The toll booth guard stooped to look in the car. Leaning forwards and straining out of the booth, he rapped lightly on the glass and indicated for Aodhan to open his window. As Aodhan complied the officer stood back, scrutinising the car's inhabitants, "Is there a problem, sir?" His hand slid onto his sidearm, wary at the sight of four scruffy Irish guys in such a notable vehicle. Nobody responded and an awkward silence emphasised the escalating tension. "It'll be five dollars if you want to cross the bridge, sir."
Aodhan looked sheepishly at the officer, "We ain't got five dollars." Packie gripped his pistol between his leg and the seat and gently eased the safety off.
"Alright, I'm gonna have to ask you to turn around." The guard looked at the cars queuing behind Aodhan. The early traffic was starting to build up and the guard wanted to avoid a confrontation at this time in the morning. "Look, I'm gonna lift the barrier for you, but I want you to turn just here and head back on the other side. I've got my eye on you, remember."
As the barrier lifted, the open bridge was clear ahead of them. Packie was not about to be turned around and realised the opportunity. "Foot down, now!" he shouted. "F*cking drive!"
Aodhan forced the throttle firmly to the floor of the foot well. Nothing happened at first as the redundant torque denied the tyres from holding the road. But as Aodhan allowed the revs to drop and the wheels to grip, three and half litres of twin-turbocharged V6 engine propelled the car forwards and slammed the four occupants firmly into their seats. Lessening only as Aodhan geared up, the howling thunder of the engine screamed its dominance in the calm early morning Duke's Bay air. The bridge pillars streaked by at an ever increasing rate, the Sun's rays flashing interrupted as each passed by. The toll barriers were now indiscernible behind them; the bridge's single lane meant they were rapidly approaching the cars in front of them.
"Don't f*cking slow down," warned Packie, "they'll get us at t'other end if we give 'em chance."
Aodhan steered the car onto the other side of the carriageway and kept the throttle pressed hard. Racing along on the wrong side of the road, while hammering on at well over 100mph caused unease with the guys in the back, "F*cking slow down, Aodhan" cried Liam, "f*ck, f*ck, f*ck!" Aodhan didn't lift the gas and kept the car straight, the engine peaking out as the car touched 177mph. The bridge pillars were now a blur, and they were passed the half way mark over the bay. Aodhan saw a distant car in their lane, head-on to them. The brakes screeched as Aodhan pressed down hard on the pedal, throwing everyone forwards. Liam's body mass crashed into the back of Aodhan's seat and his right hand pulled down on the steering wheel. As the front wheels turned abruptly they began to skid, the rear of the car slewed out of line and the car entered a slide, the four wheel drive unable to hold traction. As the car slid it veered sharply back to the right hand lane. Aodhan wrenched hard on the hand-brake and steered with full lock into the skid. The front wheels bit the road again, but the back stayed loose swinging the car fully around as it crossed lanes so that it faced the traffic; the front end narrowly missed colliding with the car they swerved in front of. The Sultan halted inches from the side wall and the whole bridge came to a standstill. With only the wing mirror bent in, there was no indication as to how close they had been to catastrophe.
Liam was obviously taken aback, his face a visible trauma of fear and anxiety. Seán maintained a steely composure, but was equally alarmed by the happenings. Only Packie had a smile, a smirking tactless indifference to the worries of the other passengers, "Sh*te, Adam! Michael said you drove like a tw*t but that were f*cking nuts!"
"It's Aodhan," replied Aodhan.
"Yeah, whatever," dismissed Packie. "Now get a move on and don't kill us this time, right."
Aodhan stuck the Sultan into reverse and floored the accelerator again. As the engine touched its rev limiter, Aodhan chucked the wheel about to full deflection and executed an authoritative J-turn in the narrow lane. Powering along the rest of the bridge, the approaching tunnel indicated the crossing's end. Upon entering, the road ascended promptly, brusquely jerking the car upwards with a blast of sparks as it bottomed out. They were in Bohan.
Posted 20 March 2010 - 04:29 AM Edited by aragond, 08 May 2010 - 05:07 AM.
Episode Three, "Escalazione", Part Three
The tiniest droplet of blood trickled down the dirty metal from the point the blade connected with Angela's throat. Its edge was rusty and blunted, yet it still managed a diabolical gleam of reflected dull light of the parking area at the end of the alleyway. As Angela whimpered in fear, Al contemplated that, in retrospect, their short-cut seemed foolhardy.
He firmed his grip on the pistol as he aimed at the head of the guy whose head was darting out from behind the front of the Moonbeam parked facing the concrete wall. He saw a 9mm pistol dart in and out, too, and wondered how much longer he could keep the three guys behind cover of the van with Angela's throat at the mercy of their fourth member.
"Your move, dickhead!"
Al refixed his grip on the pistol. "You guys have no idea who you're f*cking with," he warned them as strongly as he could, "and you sure as f*ck have no idea whose daughter she is."
"Yeah?" rasped the blade-man. "Well, we got you by the balls now, hero-f*ck." Menace dripped from every word, bringing a cackling burst of excited laughter from his partners. "So, drop the piece and we'll all go for a nice little ride."
One-two-three, spin. Al's eyes darted back and forth between his would-be targets: the first taking cover behind the back of the van, the second behind the driver's side of the van's front, and a third hiding behind the passenger door, his head clearly visible through the van's side-back and passenger windows.
He vasselated intensely, wondering whether he really was that good. Turning his head to see a clearly distressed Angela struggling under the tightening grip of the blade-man, Al then wondered whether the vagrant would follow through with his threatening blade.
"Not gonna happen," Al retorted resolutely. If he couldn't be threatening, he could at least sound threatening. "You're gonna let her go, and you're all gonna walk away from this garage alive.
"Otherwise..." he added, open-ended.
"F*ck you!" a voice shouted from behind the van, prompting another round of excited laughter.
"Listen to me, you f*ckin' hero," the blade-man threatened, the muscles and veins in his neck pulsing threateningly. "Angela here is coming with...-"
Al inhaled deeply and let his pistol reply.
As the first bullet cracked open the head of the guy at the rear of the van, he wheeled his upper body about to fire at the second gunman at the front of the van, their bullets crossing mid-air, before Al's smashed the jaw of his assailant, sending him crashing into the concrete wall.
In spite of his pain, Al's aim was firmly fixed at the back-left window of the van when the gun was again ready to fire, and as the back window exploded shards of glass, his pistol's mechanism had chambered the fourth bullet.
Crunching gravel underfoot, Al took a step forward and sent the fourth bullet to remove the dome of the third gunman's skull in a bloody explosion of bone, brain and blood.
In the time it took for his combat pistol to accurately despatch three gunmen with four shots, and for Al to spin around and aim just right of Angela's head, the blade-man had quickly calculated the risks of all possible courses of action, and determined that flight carried the least, while Al's brain finally compiled the sounds from behind him, the rapid footsteps on crunching gravel, into the image of the blade-man fleeing at speed out the alleyway and around the corner.
He ran to the shaking and traumatised Angela, held her by her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes, and uttered, "Do not move."
He placed his pistol in her hand as her distress grew at the realisation he was leaving her alone. "I will be right back," he successlessly reassured her as he put his jacket around her shoulders.
Steeling his emotions against her terrified pleas and screams for him not to leave her, Al's legs thumped hard against the gravel and pavement as he chased the blade-man around the corner and up the street, bowling-over a couple of pedestrians in his haste. But then the waters parted as the sight of a determined young man in a tuxedo shirt and bright green cummerbund charging like a bull up the street chasing the apparent-vagrant caused pedestrians to scamper from his path.
In the distance, a hundred feet ahead, Al saw his quarry and his adrenal gland injected a heavy dose of adrenalin into his veins.
On reaching the crossing road, Blade-man leapt then slid over the hood of one of the many cars creeping forward in the traffic jam that was the late afternoon streets. The insensed driver stopped his car and stepped out shouting his protest at the vagrant running down the street. Five seconds later, Al was less graceful, taking a running leap and stomping heavily over the hood of the car behind.
Sensing Al was gaining on him, Blade-man spied an escape, darting between two men and down an alleyway, dodging boxes and leaping a fence. As Al followed, Blade-man increasingly watched behind him, and, failing to see the traffic in the street, he thumped across and crashed over the trunk of a car that stopped suddenly. He screamed in terrified, frustrated pain.
Pulling himself from the ground, and seeing Al just fifteen feet away, Blade-man began babbling incoherently, terrified, pulled his weapon and ran, limping, into the alleyway across the street.
He waved the rusty, bloodied blade threatening, screaming, "You killed them! You f*cking killed them.
"They were just kids. F*ck, they were just kids," he implored, sitting against a wooden crate, resting, pointing his knife directly at Al as he arrived in the alley, his large fighting knife drawn.
"Old enough to threaten me with a gun, old enough to die," Al said simply, fully aware his conscience would later take issue with that assertion. Right now, however, his adrenalin reigned supreme as a rusty blade waved threateningly at him.
Plus, he needed to know.
"Who told you to kidnap her?"
"F*ck you," came the reply. But Blade-man stumbled woozily.
"WHO HIRED YOU!" Al repeated, teeth gritted.
"Oh, f*ck. So... light-headed... that run must...-"
Seizing the moment, Al grabbed the wrist of Blade-man's right hand and pointed the knife away while he pulled himself face to face with Blade-man, his own blade against the vagrant's throat. To his manifest surprise, he met little resistance.
"Alright, man, you win," Blade-man slurred sleepily in surrender. "Nicky J. hired me. Told me to kidnap princess back there. Just... just let me rest."
"What the f*ck? You got sleeping sickness or something?" Al said incredulously. "Who does Nicky J. work for?"
The vagrant's eyes drifted shut, prompting Al to slap him awake with a shout, "HEY!"
"I dunno, man. He does sh!t for The Lost sometimes," he replied drowsily. "I heard him say some guy Geary's name. Just don't kill me, man. I just need sleep...-"
As he slumped unconscious against the wire fence, his right leg pressed aaginst Al's left, Al felt a wet warmth against his leg.
"Oh, f*ck you, ya dirty f*ckin'..-" Al yelled as he recoiled a long step backward in revulsion, dropping Blade-man's right arm, which, in turn, dropped the bloody, rusty blade.
Only, it wasn't urine.
Al's heart raced as his mind recompiled all the little facts he'd seen, facts discarded as irrelevant to the immediately pressing tasks of avoiding death and recovering information. The vagrant's bloodied knife, but not Al's blood... the vagrant's wild collision with the car... the down-facing blade disappearing behind Blade-man's right leg as he crashed into the trunk... the screamed in terrified, frustrated pain... the drowsiness... the blood all down his leg, and, finally, the lack of any perceptible pulse in his wrist.
Al recoiled back and covered his mouth to stifle a girlish gasp in horror: Blade-man had sliced open his femoral artery in colliding with the car.
Hidden in a darkened corner, Angela was biting her lip, desperately willing herself not to completely lose her sh!t. It had been 224 seconds -- she'd counted every one -- of panicked fear, loneliness, and the torment of listening to every agonised groan of a gunmen Al had shot. She was gonna kill him for leaving her alone. She clawed at every curve of his pistol as she considered shooting the f*cker for this betrayal.
But then as Al's face appeared around the corner of the darkened alleyway carpark, she dropped the gun and gripped Al tight with a deep sobs of relief. Careful not to get blood on her dress, Al pulled away his bloodied thigh.
Noticing, she looked down at his blood-stained thigh. "Oh, f*ck, is that yours?" she shouted, pointing at his leg.
"No! No, it's alright, it's not mine." She visibly grimaced and buried herself within the safety of his bear hug. After a minute or two more, she relaxed her grip, and he pulled his jacket off his left shoulder and pulled a bullet from the kevlar. Angela grimaced, asked him if it hurt, and though it did, he denied it.
Pulling his shirt back on, he collected his gun from the ground, and began dialing. After one failed call, he reached Slugger.
"Yeah, well, I can't get Joel," Al explained. "Just tell him his daughter is safe, but, the guy was The Lost, trying to snatch her."
As Al relayed the last details of the past few minutes, he and Angela, she gripping his torso, walked through the garage to his car. He gave a parting glance to the front of the Moonbeam where the second of the gunmen, slouched against the concrete wall, again gargled blood in a groan of agony. His mouth was agape, his jaw a tangled, bloody mess, and Al reminded himself he ought to at least call an ambulance.
"Yeah, she's okay. Shaken-up, but she'll be alright."
I am genuinely interested in feedback. If you'd prefer not to clog the thread, feel free to PM instead.
Hmm. It might seem as though you can ping me because the Pegorinos don't have combat pistols, but it's not true: they were granted here. Not sure why the front-page doesn't reflect it, but it will next time this Staff attends it.
This story received a rating of $50.
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Posted 20 March 2010 - 12:38 PM Edited by iTz Macca, 20 March 2010 - 12:49 PM.
at steinway beer garden please
Posted 21 March 2010 - 08:02 PM
Posted 21 March 2010 - 10:26 PM
Some parts have an awkward rhythm to them with sentences lasting for longer than they need to do. These are having the effect of prolonging action events that would be better served as short-and-fast descriptions with punchier language. Example:
|Its edge was rusty and blunted, yet it still managed a diabolical gleam of reflected dull light of the parking area at the end ofthe alleyway.|
The description of the knife is too complicated, with too many layers of information. The term "reflected dull light" is oxymoronic, and feels out of place. It would work if the light was the subject of the description and you wanted the connotations attached to that term, but here it feels wrong.
I have also highlighted the 'of's as the repetition of the word gives the sentence a plodding and uncomfortable feel; its a minor mistake that you have reproduced in a few other places too.
|Crunching gravel underfoot, Al took a step forward and sent the fourth bullet to remove the dome of the third gunman's skull in a bloody explosion of bone, brain and blood.|
The highlighted repetition in this sentence manages to make an otherwise brilliantly violent sketch of a gunfight feel awkward, losing it's narrative edge.
Please also note the use of the word "blood" in the latter parts of this scene. I count 13 uses in the whole scene, with 10 in the second half (~850 words), and 8 of those in the final quarter (~430 words). I know that word counts as such are a poor representation of word usage with complete disregard for context, but hopefully the density of such a critical noun is apparent. I have made the same mistake with "car" in my Chapter 5 on this page of the thread and kick myself for it on re-reads.
A final point I want to drag up is that of over-complicated sentences again. The following example is a serious offender, and takes a few reads to really work out in which order events are occuring and who's involved in what:
|In the time it took for his combat pistol to accurately despatch three gunmen with four shots, and for Al to spin around and aim just right of Angela's head, the blade-man had quickly calculated the risks of all possible courses of action, and determined that flight carried the least, while Al's brain finally compiled the sounds from behind him, the rapid footsteps on crunching gravel, into the image of the blade-man fleeing at speed out the alleyway and around the corner.|
Firstly, I think that:
|...flight carried the least, while Al's brain finally...|
|...flight carried the least. While Al's brain finally...|
But, perhaps more importantly, placing an extended sentence of this sort in a description of combat kills the momentum of the narrative. It also feels "clever for being clever", instead of just being well-done narrative.
All said and done, however, this remains great work and all the more motivation for me to get on with working on my next few pieces. I know I am a newcomer to this thread, but hopefully this feedback is appreciated. Keep up the good work, aragond, and thank you for the time taken in keeping the staff element of this thread active.
Posted 22 March 2010 - 01:08 AM
Gambetti Crime Family
When one door closes…
A black Schafter slowly cruised through the streets of Hove Beach. Finally coming to a stop outside the Gulag Garden on Wappinger Avenue. Moments later two men came out of the Gulag Garden and stood by the Schafter. They were followed shortly after by a young dark haired woman, one of the men opened a backseat door for her, after she was seated, he closed the door behind her and both men returned inside the Gulag Garden.
Inside the Schafter the woman was using a credit card to chop up a small pile of cocaine on the back of a magazine. She told the driver to, “Go slowly.” as she sorted the pile into a series of small lines.
Just ahead of the car Vincenzo ‘Vinny Black’ Leccese stepped out from an alley clutching a grenade launcher. By the time the driver spotted him it was already to late. The grenade hit the engine grill. The explosion shook the ground. Small parts of car flew off in different directions, expelled from a beautiful orange fireball.
Vinny Black disappeared down the alley as quickly as he had appeared. What remained of the car’s chassis lay burning on the road. On the other side of the street a man exited a parked Sentinel and joined a growing crowd of onlookers. He walked around the wreckage twice before returning to his vehicle and driving off. He drove half a block then parked up next to hotdog stand. Vinny Black suddenly appeared from the shadows and got in the passengers side door. The driver slowly pulled away. Vinny Black took out a cell phone, dialled a number, rested the phone between his shoulder and his cheek and waited for someone to pick up at the other end.
On the other end of the line Roy Zito answered, still in his dressing gown, he walked into the house’s back garden to take the call.
“Roy, it’s Vinny. That guy youse were telling me about. He’s been in a traffic accident or somethin’, not to sure, we’re all pretty cut up bout it ‘ere.”
“Ah jeez, that’s terrible. This city’s roads huh?” Roy said, trying to sound as sincere as possible for the wiretap.
“Yeah well, I thought you should know, I’ll see ya then.”
“Yeah see ya Vinny.”
A couple of hours later Roy left his Beachgate house in a Cognoscenti driven by Jimmy Alfieri. As the pair made the short drive to the East Hook offices of Judson Bozeat they discussed Roy’s latest cash cow.
“It’s the same chop shops and car rings, only we sell for double what we get over here. Luxury cars are hard to get in these places, all the families are cashing in.” Roy proudly explained. “I’m thinking globally now, that’s what some guys don‘t get, they cant see that this thing is bigger than just one city, or one country.” Roy’s tone changed now, his frustration with some family members was clear. “We all gots to change, or the whole f*ckin’ thing will collapse. Its better to have a small family, that’s tight, fierce and cunning than a big family full of dissension and rats.”
“Maybe we should clean house, cull the fat?” Jimmy said coldly.
“Maybe a lot of things Jimmy, we’ll see.”
The pair didn’t say another word for the remainder of the journey.
At Judson’s office Carmine Faicco was already making himself comfortable when Roy and Jimmy arrived.
“Where is Judson?” Roy asked.
“I sent him on an errand, you said it was important so I thought you’d want privacy.” Carmine answered.
“Well, frankly its good news, Jons makin’ it official, he’s makin’ you captain.” Roy said, positively beaming with pride.
“My god! Thank you, all of youse, Jon and you Roy, I know it wouldn’t never happen without your support boss.” Carmine didn’t know what to do with himself, he leapt from his chair and embraced Roy.
“You’ll be making more money now, for both of us.” Roy said, stepping back from Carmine then lighting a cigarette, “It’s your crew, you can run it your way,” he continued, “but no new guys, that’s the new rule, I’m tellin' all the capos the same thing, there has been too many rats, guys not up to scratch. So we’re slimmin' down.”
“Anythin' you say boss.” Carmine replied, “Where are my manors, youse two wanna drink?” he asked.
Roy and Jimmy both nodded. Carmine poured scotch into three glasses. Each man picked up his glass in turn. The three men toasted, “La familia!” clinking their glasses before downing their drinks.
Posted 22 March 2010 - 10:10 AM
|QUOTE (vinnygorgeous @ Mar 22 2010, 11:08)|
|Thanks for not giving my slot away.|
V I N N Y !
|QUOTE (Maverick24 @ Mar 22 2010, 08:26)|
|aragond, the quality of your writing is befitting a member of staff for this thread, and the first two parts of Escalazione have been of excellent quality.|
WOW. Thanks, dude.
I haven't fully digested your criticisms, but I will. I appreciate the fact that you've taken the time to give me a... wow, very comprehensive critique.
It amuses me that stories I revise several times show their faults easily (probably 'cuz I don't want to revise them any further), yet ones I just scratch down on the back of a dirty napkin (last week's) are clean. Might have something to do with how much I obsess over details. You're right about the horrificly lengthy monster-sentence -- I know how it got past the editor, but... UGH!
Actually, you make some very valid points. Thanks for the feedback, Mav'. I do appreciate it. Your reply is why I keep asking for feedback. I'll be interested in your thoughts -- however brief -- on Part 4. Now, will I have time to revise Part 3 before it gets rated? (... he wrote, laughing, 'cuz he is the main rater.)
Start writing for an open gang slot, and, if you're the first, it's yours.
Posted 22 March 2010 - 10:18 AM
I know I'm yet to post a story, but, I plan on joining in on the fun with the M.O.B. at the Firefly Projects Crack Den. Hopefully I should be able to post a story within the next few days, and with this being the last week of school, HOPEFULLY you will see some of my material in here.
Posted 23 March 2010 - 02:37 AM Edited by Maverick24, 12 April 2010 - 01:06 PM.
Here goes the next chapter in the second part of this storyline. I should have divided these in a wiser way than 'Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 etc', so I'm retrospectively adding chapter titles. I've also taken the liberty of linking to the previous chapters for ease of reading through.
Act I - Chapter 6 - The Meet of the Problem
The Irish Mob
Lucky Winkles Bar
The scene at Elizabeta Torres' place was one of blue and white: the cars, the uniforms, the tape declaring 'DO NOT CROSS'; and of black: the NOOSE Enforcers barricading the roads, the ballistic vests and carbine rifles of the Tactical Response officers relaxing against their vehicles, their work complete. The West Bohan Projects was a community in siege, but had a peculiar peacefulness at the present, compared to the routine rampant drug-pedalling. The only people about were the small groups of gang members collected to investigate the incident and casually harass the police, and the morning's smack addicts who loitered with anxious consideration of where they could get an early hit.
Aodhan kept the car at a distance from the police cordons and Packie observed in acrimonious silence. The characteristically callous Irishman allowed his sturdy composure to falter as he learned the fate of his friend. Breathing hoarse, deep breaths, Packie gruffly brushed a solitary tear off his cheek. As he opened his mouth to speak, his voice crackled a throaty parchedness that made known his emotions, "F*ck it!" Packie lingered for a moment, uncertain of what to do or say, "F*ck it. F*ck 'em!" Further silence followed, the other three remained conservatively mute. Packie abruptly exploded in a fit of rage, "C*nts! C*nts! F*cking c*nts! Why the f*ck, f*ckin', f*ck?" He twisted and thrashed in his seat, thumping the dashboard in a furious rage. As he continued to discharge his aggression on the car interior, the offensiveness of his language boiled to a feverish temperature. He cursed those inside the car, the police, his brother Francis, Elizabeta herself, and finally God.
A short while passed before Packie said another word. When he did he had regained his poise, again possessing his manneristic indifference. "Get me out of 'ere, kid", spoke Packie. "Drive us t' the Winkle."
Aodhan started the engine without question and the car set off to leave Bohan, far less hurriedly than it had arrived.
Packie remained speechless on the trip over. The only voice in the car had been that of Liam, babbling excitedly as they drove along Topaz Street revealing the renowned Middle Park dazzlingly landscaped by the skyscrapers of Downtown Algonquin. Aodhan parked the Sultan in an alley nearby and the group walked to the Lucky Winkles.
The Lucky Winkles already had a few patrons, local drunks who had been outside before Dermot opened the door at 10am, and one more eminent guest: Michael Keane, alone and asleep at table in the corner, still wearing the clothes he had the night before.
Packie slapped Michael across the back of the head, "Wake up, f*cking inbred." He walked behind the bar and collected a key; opening a door in the corner exposed a staircase to the floor above. "Dermot, give Saint Michael here a coffee will you and tell him I'm in the office. Gonna give Derrick a call, he'll be over soon." Packie departed upstairs without saying anything more.
Dermot pressed buttons on a metallic coffee machine and a thick, sickly smelling fluid spurted slowly into the cup placed below. "Took your time, thought you'd become dead," he said to Aodhan.
"No need to worry about me," replied Aodhan with a cocky retort.
"I didn't," responded Dermot, harsh and unapproachable. He placed the cup of pungent coffee beside Michael, who snapped upright, repulsed at the overpowering caffeinated stench. Dermot sat opposite Michael to rouse him from his hangover.
Seán had managed to make Liam sit at one of the benched bar tables. Aodhan joined them and Seán leaned towards him to make conversation. "Is Derrick McReary comin' 'ere?"
Seán said no more on the matter. His face however showed concern. Michael was on his feet and ambled to the stairs, bolstering his progress with a firm hand on the bar, "If I ever have to sleep in this sh*thole again 'cos my damn driver ain't 'ere I'm gonna start ruinin' someone's face."
"You look like you had a good time." Aodhan knew Michael responded to wit better than others in the mob. "I'm surprised this place has anything left to sell."
"And f*ck you too." Michael dragged himself upstairs to meet Packie.
By the time Derrick McReary arrived the atmosphere in the Lucky Winkles had changed dramatically. Aodhan and Seán had both unwound, and were enjoying watching Dermot ply Liam with alcohol. "For a big b*stard, he sure can't hold his beer" chortled Dermot, pulling another pint.
"F*ck ... f*ckin'." Hardly a sophisticated speaker at the best of times, Liam's vocabulary had been condensed by alcohol into a single word.
As Derrick entered, Dermot stopped and poured the half-drawn pint into the drip-tray. "They're upstairs, Derrick."
Derrick didn't respond and walked behind the bar. Spotting Aodhan's group he paused and stared with a startled expression. "Seán O'Shea! What in Jesus are you doing in my f*cking pub?" Derrick's face adorned a wall by the toilet door, reminding all of when he ran the Irish mob.
"I think I'm working for your Michael now," answered Seán. "Our boy needed a hand with a small problem." He indicated to Aodhan.
"Ha, f*cking Michael Keane. Watch yourself, don't trust anyone who can introduce you to his mam an' auntie at the same time, you get me?" Derrick laughed rowdily. "'An' I heard about that sh*t with Packie. He's no small problem, he's a big f*cking one." His manner had altered, his voice intonated with a pang of irritation. "Stick around, Seán. A guy with your skills could come in use soon."
With those obscure words, Derrick went upstairs to join Packie and Michael. Aodhan looked intently to Seán, "Ireland?" Seán nodded a subtle response. Aodhan knew not to pursue history.
Posted 23 March 2010 - 07:34 AM
Chapter 1 - Leave no witnesses!
“Hey Mickey!” shouted Packie, above the music and chatter. I had just walked through the door, from the wind outside. It was a Saturday night, another party, another meeting. This was the McReary house.
"Packie, Gordon, Sean," I said acknowledging all three men. As we followed Packie to the rooftop, I observed all the photos. I was saddened to see all the photos of his family and realising no one was left. The dust that had laid down on the frame had a very eery feel about it. But that part of his life was over, now we're getting to the big stuff, the mafia.
The wind had stepped up and now there was rain. Those doomy clouds, the hailing wind, the pouring rain, it had the makings of a big night.
"All right guys we're all here," claimed Packie, "here's the plan: we're gonna meet up with my guy Niko and his cousin Roman, we get to the restaurant, kidnap the prick and we run. Mickey, you and your boy Sean shoot any witnesses."
"Packie, I know I'm new, but why do we need 6 people to kidnap 1 guy?" asked Sean, who had the most bewildered look on his face.
Packie had a look of horror on his face, as he turned towards me, "Why the f*ck you invite a brainless twat to a meeting? f*ck you're just like St Michael, god rest his soul."
"What the f*ck you say!?" screamed Sean, picking up the pump shotgun of the table and pointing towards Packie."I f*cking know, organised crime, that ain't organised!"
"Well f*ck you!" Packie shouted, and in one move, pulled a pistol and shot Sean in the head, "Lets get going."
We ran towards the car, the rain had picked up and now there was floods. I had to wade through the stormwater to get to the car. This was it, this was the jackpot!
sorry for small story, kinda rushed, will get ideas
Posted 23 March 2010 - 05:40 PM
I'll start my strand up again one of these days.
Posted 25 March 2010 - 08:31 PM Edited by Maverick24, 12 April 2010 - 01:03 PM.
I'm nearly at the conclusion to this narrative section. I have further stuff to write, but am going to force myself to take a break. It's addictive writing this stuff!
Also, I believe I may have broken some rules by having a Sultan GT in my story. If staff wish to take an objection to this, feel free to mark my stories $0; I am doing this for the fun of writing and for meaningful feedback. It's pretty ironic that I could be 'breaking rules' by stealing cars in a Grand Theft Auto forum.
ACT I - Chapter 7 - Big Trouble in Little China
The Irish Mob
The Lucky Winkles
Purgatory is where lost souls reside; bound between Heaven and Earth, they are locked in limbo by their own sins. Between the grandiose of Frankfort Avenue overlooking Middle Park, and the squalor of the tenement blocks of Hell Gate and Galveston, full of working-class Irish immigrants, the gradual gentrification of Purgatory gave its name greater resonance than any other time in its past. The sin, of course being liquor and crime, was embodied nowhere as much as in the Lucky Winkles.
When Packie, Derrick and Michael re-entered the bar the place had filled up. Early-afternoon drunks had now joined the morning drunks. The Lucky Winkles prospered from those who drank their lives away. Michael signalled to Aodhan for a talk. He left Seán at the table with Liam, who was face down amidst a pile of empty beer glasses. Derrick passed Aodhan behind the bar, and went to sit with Seán.
"Need you to go pick somin' up," said Michael.
"Yeah, ok," Aodhan was keen to get back to regular work. "Where am I going?"
"A Triad gun dealer, Chinatown."
Aodhan was slightly shocked. 'Pick something up' usually meant laundry or Michael's mum.
"Don't worry 'bout sh*t, this is business," continued Michael. "Take them two with you though," he indicated to Seán and Liam, "you're gonna Bismark Av, got it?"
"Yeah, no problem," Aodhan took this to mean he was on the ascendance in the mob.
"Give them this." Michael placed a bulky brown package in Aodhan's hands. Aodhan asked no questions. "Also, if you would please take that f*cking car with you and leave it somewhere other than outside a f*cking McReary pub." Michael hinted a more disapproving tone in his request regarding Aodhan's stolen Sultan GT.
After a few forced coffees, Liam was more or less sober and they were able to get in the car. Aodhan drove to downtown Algonquin. Cutting through Little Italy put them on Emerald Street. A small gravel car park around the corner from Bismark Avenue gave them a place to leave the car. They cut through an alley between the buildings to the address they were looking for.
The end of the alley was nearly blocked by Triad muscle: two wholly contrasting Chinamen in dark suits: tall and short, lean and round, sinewy and muscular, Yin and Yang. The shop was to be found beneath a tattoo parlour. Short steps led steeply down to a basement entrance. Aodhan and Seán were both menacingly eyeballed by Yin as they entered. Yang squared off against Liam, an exchange of body language that stipulated cooperation.
The bottom of the steps led through a hefty exterior door, an inner one of metal grill to hold back trespassers, and finally a shabby cellar, dimly lit with various pieces of scrap in the corners. Several large tables formed the core to the organisation, each proudly displayed weapons of all kinds.
Aodhan was astonished at how many firearms there were in this place. For each gun on a table, several stacked boxes beneath indicated several dozen more. He saw a range of pistols and sub-machine guns, shotguns: both pump-action and a larger semi-automatic combat version, even Kalashnikov and Colt assault rifles. He knew the Triads were big players in arms dealings, but this was unbelievable, "F*ck me."
"Keep it calm," whispered Seán, "don't bottle it at this point."
The seller in the shop was a more diminutive Chinaman than the goons above them. He had a shrewd face that spoke of a businessman, and a stooped stature that revealed of a lack of time outside of the illicit store. "You here for the Reary's?" His accent impaired his capacity for the Irish name.
Aodhan approached the man with the brown package, "Here's the payoff, now what are we collecting?"
The Chinaman pointed to a rectangular wooden crate, painted in olive drab with string handles on the short ends. Seán moved forwards and opened the crate. Four black M4A1 rifles sat wrapped softly in woven fabric blankets. Cool to his touch, Seán noted the precision cut steel was pristine and unused as he lifted one from the box. He chambered a fictional round and the rifle clicked with a mechanical exactness, parts sliding unopposed along perfectly lubricated rails. Another parcel lay within the crate. Sean returned the rifle and unfolded a corner on the paper packaging to expose a wedge of creamy coloured putty. "PE4?" he asked the seller before remembering his lapse, "Sorry, C4?" The seller responded by nodding his head. Seán turned to Aodhan, "It's all here."
A teenager entered the room from a side office. A young boy, thought Aodhan, he looked no more than fourteen. He was undernourished and balanced grimy glasses on his childish face. The seller exchanged brief words with him in Chinese, and then gave him the brown parcel. The boy sat at a corner table and started to count money into piles of matching notes.
Unaware of what they had been sent for, Aodhan was surprised that Seán had known what to look for in the crate. "Derrick told you what we were collecting, didn't he?" asked Aodhan.
"Aye," responded Seán, "he wanted me 'ere to check the wares."
"So this is what you did in Ireland then, before you met us?" probed Aodhan.
"It's complicated," began Seán, "an' this ain't the time, an' it ain't the..."
Seán was interrupted by the sight of Liam brandishing a colossal handgun, swinging it at fantasy confections in the corners of the room. "Put the f*cking gun down, Liam!" he shouted.
Bewildered, Liam turned towards Seán, Aodhan and the seller, "But". He began to speak but was cut short abruptly. The gun fired, a negligent discharge due to Liam's fat finger resting on the trigger. The blast was deafening in the cramped confines of the cellar, the muzzle flash throwing a sudden spark of luminosity throughout the dingy room. A .357 Magnum round slammed into the boy at the table. Crimson chaos exploded in a brutal flare of chunks of flesh, fragments of ribcage and a fountain of blood. The bullet carried enough force to devastate the youngster and pass on all the way through to smash a fist sized hole in the table. The teenager's body was launched forwards bringing the broken table crashing to the ground. As the carcass hit the wall, sliding along a motorway of blood to settle on the floor, red-stained money drifted steadily downwards all throughout the room.
The seller screamed with harrowing anguish and distress; his wails almost as loud as the firearm that had just ended his son's life. The four men stood frozen in fear, taut dread grasped all of them. The seller moved first, a fast draw and from his waist came a pistol. A single shot. Liam stepped backwards from the force; clutching his hand to his abdomen blood ran warm through his fingers. Aodhan moved with the demeanour of a cat, prompt on his feet and instant with his strike. Before the seller could bring his gun to bear at Seán, Aodhan's right fist arrived on the Chinaman's jaw. The huge impact spun the seller as he collapsed, crashing comatose into wooden boxes and crates. Liam moved through searing pain to point the gun at the downed man and fired three wild shots. At such range the inexperienced shooter was able to hit his target; the hand cannon achieving immeasurable damage in the last moments of the seller's life.
The exterior door slammed open with onerous intensity. Yin and Yang were down the stairs and through the inner door. Seeing the chaos and seeing Liam's weapon provided them the pretext they wanted; Yin pointed his pistol at Liam and Yang his sawn-off shotgun. The two of them joined the mêlée with a volley of lead. Liam took two 9mm rounds in his vast torso, and his gut was ruthlessly perforated by the buckshot of Yang's shotgun.
As Liam fell, Seán seized a loaded Kalashnikov off the nearest table. Frantic motions got the gun pointing in the region of the goons and Seán pulled the trigger. A stream of projectile death danced across Yang's bulk, slicing from his left to his right, five 7.62mm rounds penetrated his chest, tearing flesh asunder as they passed through, cleaving plaster and concrete to rubble behind him. The assault rifle continued firing, two rounds hitting metal grills and a table before another found its target. Yin was hit twice in the chest as the recoil lifted the Kalashnikov's barrel. Another shot maimed his shoulder, twisting his body before a fourth caught him in the face; the resulting product an explosion triggered by hydrostatic shock, his facial features disappeared in the red mist of cartilage and skull.
Aodhan crouched curled with his hands covering his head. An eerie lack of noise accentuated his perception of the gore that surrounded him. Every corner of the room was splattered red with blood. The corner table, where the boy had been sat, was a horror image of red walls and mutilated youth. The gunmen across the room lay in a bath of their blood, the evidence of assault rifle fire clearly visible in the cavities that decorated the concrete walls. To his side, Liam rolled in agony, screwing his body in contortions of torture. As the minutes slowed back to seconds, the fuzzy ringing faded and Aodhan's hearing became aware of Liam's tormented howls. As the other noise became clearer he realised Seán was towering over him.
"Get the f*ck up, Aodhan," Seán hollered. "Pick Liam up and run!" Seán had the Kalashnikov in one hand and dragged the crate in his other. Aodhan wobbled to his feet, light-headed from shock and unbalanced from the hearing loss. He put one of Liam's bear arms over his shoulder and pulled the brute to his feet. Liam cried louder now, the pain proving intolerable.
As they made their way up the stairs, Seán travelled first with his weapon held offensively forwards. They moved swift towards the alley where they left the car. A shrill burst of gunfire behind them shocked them all. Aodhan fell forwards into the brief cover of the alleyway, crashing to the ground with Liam atop of him. Seán dropped the crate and turned. Reflexes kicked into action. He swung right, pivoting on the ball of his left foot and the toes of his right; he hunched his back and dropped his right knee. Pushing the butt of the rifle firm into his shoulder so the barrel pointed to the ground; as he turned to face those behind him he stuck his right knee solid into the gravel and straightened his back, bringing the rifle horizontal, his eye staring unblinking down the adjustable sights.
Perfectly balanced in the kneeling position, Seán applied soft pressure to the trigger. Feeling the springs take a small amount of hysteresis, he flicked the fire selector to single shot. Two more Triads were across the street, emerging from the door of Peter Wong's Pancake House. The shooter brandished an Uzi and wielded it sloppily. Seán shifted his weight to bring his body in line with the gunman; his sights fell swiftly to the man's sternum. Seán squeezed softly once, twice. A double-tap dropped his target like a sack. He shifted his weight slightly again and his next quarry lined up. Two more shots, grouped tight in the man's chest, and he was neutralised. The Uzi rounds had barely finished ricocheting by the time both men were dead.
Seán spotted further figures in the pancake house. He flicked the selector back to automatic and let a burst rip through the window of the shop. He couldn't tell if he had hit anyone, but the rifle clicked empty. Discarding it he grabbed the crate and moved as fast as possible down the alley.
Aodhan leaned Liam briefly against the car to open the door and blood ran down the bright blue bodywork and sports alloys. Liam was laid in the back, and with the crate in the boot, Aodhan floored the Sultan's accelerator. Screeching out of the alley, the car drifted sideways onto Emerald Street and away from Chinatown.
Posted 28 March 2010 - 06:36 AM
The last ratings were on February 27th, which is, sure, a month ago, but since then only ten stories have been posted, and six of them were from two people:
- Sanjeem posted his Chapter 1: Working Together for the Gambettis at Al Dente's using an age-old trick of 60-point font to try and cover-up the fact that he's posting an only-438-word story.
- VinnieLeone posted his Chapter 1:Bookends Part 1 for the Pegorinos @ Honkers.
- Aragond posted his Episode 3, Part 2 and Part 3 for his "Family Rising" book for the Pegorinos.
- VinnyGorgeous posted his Chapter 5 for Gambettis.
- iTz Macca posted his first very short (500-600 words is short; 324 is too short) 1st chapter for the Irish Mob at the McReary's house.
- Maverick24 posted his 4th, 5th, 6th, and 7th chapter for The Irish Mob.
PS; If no other Staff member attends to these (even some of these?), I know of one temporarily stand-in staff-member who will over Easter (God willing).
Posted 28 March 2010 - 09:11 PM Edited by Maverick24, 12 April 2010 - 01:04 PM.
Here goes everything. I've been aiming for this piece since I started, kind of the key goal in the story. I hope people enjoy it.
Please note I am still messing about with the naming of Chapters. This latest edit attempts to place a the chapters into a time based collection of Acts.
Act II - Chapter 1 - The Fourth Leaf
The Irish Mob
The Lucky Winkles
Michael's tone was sombre; his voice was saturated with an uncharacteristic anxiety, "No, nottin's up, Ma." Michael drew a long, stuttering breath, battling emotions as he talked, "Jus', you know, I jus'. Can a guy not tell his Ma' he loves her?" A few intrepid sentiments were all Michael could say before hanging up. His hands shook as he gripped the phone tight between them; his tears mixed with clammy sweat, tasting salty as they ran across his trembling lips.
Aodhan watched from a bar stool with concern. He and Dermot kept in considered silence, unsure of what troubled their companion. Since arriving in an unusual charcoal grey suit and black sweater Michael had remained almost silent all morning, apart from to tell Dermot to keep the doors shut: the Lucky Winkles was to stay closed while Michael was still there. As the clocks struck midday, Michael breathed a heavy and audible sigh and stood up. He took a tumbler from the bar and poured a large glass of single malt. With a firm flick of his wrist, Michael knocked the drink down in one. "Let's go," he said to Aodhan, "take me to the McReary's".
The drive to Dukes was a silent affair. Aodhan commanded Michael's black Oracle peacefully through the afternoon traffic. As they crossed the East Borough Bridge, Michael stared fixated out of the window. Charge Island was a spectacle of autumn's design; the great trees formed a plethora of patchwork reds and oranges, masking the industrialized infrastructure with a glorious performance of colour. The crisp blue waters of the Humboldt River betrayed a fatal freezing current; a sole ship buoyed gently, tethered to the jetty at Steinway Park.
"Look kid," said Michael as they approached the McReary's household, "jus' go back to the Winkles and keep your head down."
"What the f*ck is going on, Michael?" asked Aodhan, the car stopping outside the house.
"Jesus, just f*cking do what I tell you for once will you?" Michael opened the door and turned to get out, "You'll know when it happens." With that he got out of the car. As he approached the house the door opened ahead of his arrival. Gerald McReary let Michael in without saying a word. Aodhan sat staring at the front door to the McReary house. In quiet contemplation he deliberated the possibilities of what might be happening. After a minute of observation Aodhan drove off, back towards the Lucky Winkles.
A small group gathered outside the doors of the Winkles. The usual drunks clustered nearby, but maintained a perimeter to the burgundy entrance. As Aodhan approached he heard a commotion from inside: smashing glasses and the cracking of wood. The small crowd parted as he approached, clearing a path to the doorway, the helpless alcoholics avoided eye-contact with the young Irishman.
Aodhan tenderly pushed a single door open with his fingertips. As it swung open on its sturdy hinges, a scene of anarchy was revealed. Broken glass covered the floor and the bar. Every table was smashed and splintered. Whole shelves that had previously held glasses and bottles sat split down their middle: their contents reduced to shards strewn across floorboards. Two Asian men in the dark suits of Triads were creating chaos with aluminium baseball bats: one assaulting the pub's commodities, bringing his tool to bear on anything breakable in remorseless destruction, the other striking downwards onto Dermot's back and laying swinging kicks into the sides of his ribs.
As the second man lifted his bat high over his head, readying to slam it firmly down into Dermot's screaming body, Aodhan yanked it confidently from his grasp. The Triad turned in astonished surprise as Aodhan jabbed the bat straight to the middle of his face. Holding it two handed by the shaft, Aodhan punched the handle's flat end onto the Chinaman's nose, pitching him backwards to the ground. The Triad's assailant rushed out from behind the bar, swinging violently with his bat. Aodhan deflected a powerful blow and stumbled backwards into a table, losing his grip on his own weapon. As the thug swiped for Aodhan's head, the Irish kid bobbed low to avoid the hit. Weaving between shots, Aodhan danced with the vigour of a prize-fighter. The Chinaman swung with too much exuberance, losing his balance and stumbling forwards. Aodhan kicked low to the shins and the Triad started to fall; as he staggered passed, Aodhan connected with a short, compact blow of the elbow to his head and the man's body collapsed unconscious.
Dermot was able to stand with Aodhan's help. He clutched his sides in pain: broken bones were evident from the squishy feel of his ribs. Aodhan offered to take Dermot to the hospital but he refused, "Later kid, firs' thin's firs'. Take these Chinky c*nts downstairs 'n' tie 'em up!"
As Aodhan dragged the first, unconscious Triad to the cellar steps, his accomplice started to stir. Panicked by the prospect of being at the hands of an angered Irish mob, he scrambled to get up, slicing his hands and arms on the glass-strewn floor. Dermot picked an aluminium bat off the ground and approached the terrified gangster. He swung with sadistic malice, the tip of the bat meeting the centre of his target's cranium. A muffled wallop declared the man's skull caving in. "Throw him down there anyway," said Dermot, callously.
Dermot's injuries seemed modest given the beaten he had taken, thought Aodhan. "Superficial mostly," the doctor had said. "It's a f*ckin' bruise," declared Dermot. "Why in the name of Jesus do I need to stay in for f*ckin' observin'?"
"You got two broken ribs," answered Aodhan, "from being beaten with a baseball bat. Call me paranoid but I reckon there's a good case for keepin' an eye on you."
"Yeah, but you're not a f*cking doctor," retorted Dermot, "so f*ck what you think!"
"Nothing wrong with him," thought Aodhan. As the large barman made sure his recuperation in the wards of the Lancet-Hospital Centre had as little rest as possible, Aodhan decided to find Liam. The only contact he had with Seán since he left him with the keys to the Sultan GT was when Seán told him Liam was in this hospital. Their separation had not been on friendly grounds. Seán blamed Aodhan for Liam's injuries, and Aodhan accused Seán of hiding his paramilitary past from them.
"I'm lookin' for a patient," Aodhan asked the girl at the reception desk. "Liam O'Shea?" Nobody knew Liam's real surname, so he would be using Seán's.
"One second, please," the girl was checking the records on the computer. A confused look on her face indicated a problem and she turned to the ward's paper files. A minute later she had a clipboard in her hand and the details of Liam's stay. "He's left, I believe."
Aodhan couldn't see how that was possible, "You mean discharged? But he'd got near-fatal gunshot injuries. "
"I don't know, ok," said the girl, her short patience snapping. "He's just not here anymore."
As Aodhan returned to Dermot's room he caught a senior nurse by the arm, "Do you know what happened to a big Irish guy, Liam? Came in 'ere about a week ago."
"Tw*t," said the nurse, "swore his foul tongue off at every nurse on the ward. I think he was transferred to Westdyke, thank God." She carried on down the corridor.
Aodhan took a seat outside Dermot's room and watched as the hospital operated. Organised pandemonium characterised the rhythm by which the hospital beat; nurses scurried between wards and rooms, like red blood cells always in a rush, their actions key to the circulation by which the hospital survived; doctors drifted in white coats, the stalwarts of immunity, their guardianship invaluable in the business of life-saving. Between the resources of the hospital, in various shapes, were the patrons: consumers of a gift of life. Individuals moved through the passages giving obstacles for hurried nurses to evade; bodies lay on beds of white and steel, their lives now governed directly by machines. A consensus of movement seemed to be happening, patients and staff heading to the waiting room and stopping there, their heads directed at a common point. Aodhan joined the crowd: a human instinct of inquisition. A television, held high in the corner on iron rails, was the item of the mass's attention.
TV crews on Columbus Ave were the first to broadcast the event as police cars surrounded the Bank of Liberty. The live pictures were shaky as crews attempted to get closer before the police set up a cordon. But as the bank's front doors opened and the streets erupted into gunfire the feed became indiscernible, the cameramen running for their lives. As the images on the TV became clearer, Aodhan's heart sank with dread. The suits, the guns; heck, he could almost recognise the way Packie moved. As the first group of police on the scene fell dead, more poured in selflessly. TV helicopters captured the moment a NOOSE van exploded into flames, the assault vests of the Tactical Response officers' granted inadequate protection against the immense firepower being put down by the bank robbers. As the trio moved into the side-alleys of Chinatown, the TV crews could only track them from the air, the rat-trap of side streets reducing the angles available for clear viewing. Inside the narrow alleys, the booms of gunfire resonated louder than in the downtown financial streets. Aodhan could hear the battle from the open hospital windows. So close by the streets of Liberty City were a conflict zone; Chinatown was the scene for open fire fights yet again.
To Aodhan's perception, the battle dragged on for eternity, the hammering streams of automatic weapons lasted for days. The fires of burning police cars added flickering glows of orange to the neon paraphernalia of the Chinatown streets. As police charged in on foot, the gunmen fired with lethal authority, choosing from an abundance of targets with clinical decisiveness. As marksmen covered the rooftops and fire-escapes, the gunmen picked them off with military precision. As Enforcers rolled mightily into the conflict, the gunmen took cover and overpowered their inhabitants with superior firepower. The stream of police that entered the kill-zone was a manifestation of the retribution the LCPD desired for the brutality enacted on them so far, but only served to worsen the body count on the side of the City's Finest.
The TV images were lost as news helicopters moved away to allow the police control of the skies. From afar they observed a fully laden NOOSE Annihilator swoop low down Emerald Street, cutting close between lampposts, its downwash flattening newsstands and scattering bins. Tense moments followed as Aodhan prayed they evaded the deadly attack helicopter. An explosion shook the hospital, accompanied by the TV images of a fireball emerging from behind the buildings. As the news choppers moved their platforms for a better view, the twisted wreckage of the Annihilator could be seen ablaze on the street, and the trio were nowhere to be seen.
Dermot approached Aodhan; horrified fixation locking the kid to the images on the television. "I'm checking out," Dermot said. "Come on."
Posted 29 March 2010 - 07:11 PM
Posted 30 March 2010 - 08:45 PM
Posted 02 April 2010 - 03:33 AM
|QUOTE (Unoriginal44 @ Mar 31 2010, 06:45)|
|Yeah, Steve Buscemi is f*cking awsome, you got a problem with it?|
None whatsoever. The guy's an awesome actor who has a gift for playing... "unique" characters.
Posted 03 April 2010 - 01:57 PM
Also this story is an entirely new story. Which means scrapping out my previous story and start fresh with a new chapter one.
"Shawn, wake up." I heard a voice as I was opening my shutted eyes. My vision was blurred and I could not recognise the voice I was hearing. Ignoring the voice, I closed my eyes again to get some sleep. "You piece of sh*t, wake up!" I fell of the chair I was sitting on due to the shocked of Billy Grey shouting right at my face.
I bellowed out, "Billy, can't a dude catch some sleep?" I stumbled trying to get back onto my feet.
Billy gave me a hard punch to my arm. I had to accept it, after all, I was just a prospect. He forced me up to sit down to hear another one of his lectures, "Shawn, shawn, shawn," He grabbed a bottle of beer before he continued, "I love you, you know that right?"
I nodded, although I was not really agreeing.
He took sip of the bottle of beer, not knowing that a rat actually shat in it. He coughed out after drinking it and threw the bottle fiercely onto the ground. After calming down, he said, "Shawn, you're a prospect and I really hope you make it like me one day." I was surprised because he said it like he meant it.
I nodded again but this time, agreeing on what he said. Half of the things he say is mostly bullsh*t while the other half was about me. He really cared about me more than the club itself. And that meant something for a president of the club.
Billy stood up and looked around the place. He gave me a smirk and said, "You've been keeping this place nice and clean. Good thing I hand over the ownership of the gunshop to you. Now don't sleep on the job again."
I gave him a sarcastic tone, "You did not hand it over, more like forced actually. And how do you expect me to not sleep with a boring job like these?"
The doorbell rang and Billy gave me one of the looks that said, "I told you so."
Some Chinese people came into the shop, muttering in Chinese to us. "枪炮."
I was dumbfounded, "Uh, what?"
They shouted at me as if I was at fault, "我们要枪！"
Billy never did like people shouting at him. He loaded a sawn-off shotgun that was lying on the table beside him and shot one of the three Chinese guys. The other two was running out while shouting, "你他妈的！"
I looked at Billy and asked, "What the f*ck were they talking about? You think they..." Before I even finished my sentence, Billy took off chasing those two Chinese guys. I ran out of the shop only to find Billy standing still. Apparently the Chinese guys ran back to their car to grab some AK47s.
I patted Billy on the back and jokingly said, "Nice idea, dad."
Posted 08 April 2010 - 08:22 PM Edited by Big_Mitch_Baker, 09 April 2010 - 07:31 PM.
ANGELS OF DEATH MC
The Epic Chronicle of
J o h n n y M a l v a d o
Chapter 11: Dead Fed Redemption
PREVIOUS CHAPTER: Let it Snow
"Well son of a bitch," Gwen's husband said with surprise. Malvado grinned ever so slightly, amused by the unfortunate and ironic set of circumstances. The agents face was still swollen, his eye purple and inflated like an eggplant growing from his eye socket.
"I'm Agent Powell," Gwen's husband introduced himself. "And this is Agent Howitzer" he said as he nodded toward the other agent, who in turn gave a respectful nod back.
"Give me a phone, I'm callin' my lawyer" Malvado demanded. The two agents chuckled a bit.
"Is that right? Well then, you're going to need a phone book. Go grab him one Howitzer" Powell said with a smirk. Howitzer left the room, and Powell lit up a cigarette. Malvado knew what was coming, as he had been through this routine plenty of times. The room was thick with tension, filled with a deafening silence broken only by the incessant buzz of the florescent light. The two men sat staring at each other, Powell sizing up Malvado who gazed back with contempt. The door popped open and Agent Howitzer returned with the Phonebook. The liberty city phone directory was a particularly large book, thick with the names of countless foreigners. Powell grabbed the book and immediately approached Malvado, striking him across the face with it. Malvado jerked toward Powell in an attempt to throw a punch, but his hands were securely cuffed to the steel chair.
"That's what I think of your crooked lawyer" Powell said. He struck Malvado again, "And that's for my eye" .
Malvado spit out some blood where his tooth had cut his lip on impact. Malvado glanced up at the camera, however the power light was off. No chance he was going to beat the rap with a police brutality accusation.
"Now you're gonna tell us what happened at the Old Hospital" Powell in turn demanded.
"f*ck you" Malvado responded, which earned him another smack with the phone book.
"Phone book isn't working, should have grabbed a sack of oranges" Powell joked with Howitzer.
"Look Dirtbag" Howitzer finally piped up, "We found you 50 feet from the scene with an assault rifle right next to you. There's a pile of dead bodies and you're the only guy alive on the scene"
"I happened to be in the area at the time...The rifle isn't mine and I was unconscious at the time of the incident. I'm not saying anything else but my name, rank, and serial number until my Lawyer gets here" Malvado said.
"You're not a POW, and your lawyer ain't coming. Once we get the finger prints off that rifle we'll have you pinned to this hook-line-and-sinker" Powell said, mixing his metaphors.
Little did they know that at that moment Big Al and Joe Jon were following a police cruiser carrying the evidence from the Old Hospital crime scene back to the station in Bohan.
Officer Lebowitz sipped his coffee as he waited at a red light. His partner scolded him, insisting that he use his siren to bypass the intersection. however Lebowitz prided himself on upholding the law to it's utmost. The rumble of V-twin engines crept up on them until two motorcycles pulled up on either side of the police cruiser.
Lebowitz and his partner slunked down nervously as the barbaric bikers idled next to them. Big Al looked down at Lebowitz with a smile and a nod.
"Nice Day huh?" Big Al said, then proceeded to throw a pipe bomb into the open back window. The two Angels of Death peeled out and sped away laughing, as the two officers scrambled to remove their seat belts and escape the car. They lept into the air just as the cruiser exploded into a ball of fire and twisted metal. The evidence against Malvado was destroyed.
Powell was about to administer another beating to Malvado when a short stalky Jewish man stormed in. It was Malvado's lawyer, on retainer for the Angels of Death ever since he passed the bar at law school.
"Don't say anything" the lawyer shouted to Malvado as he entered the room. The two agents rolled their eyes. Big Al had called and let the lawyer know where to find Malvado.
"How dare you question my client without my presence?" the lawyer asked, to which the Agents looked at each other unable to answer.
"He's a person of interest in an ongoing investigation" Powell responded.
"Person of Interest? Well if I'm not being charged with anything I'd like to leave" Malvado said.
"Alright, but we'll be keeping an eye on you. Don't even think about leaving town you hear?" Powell said frustrated, pointing his finger rigidly. Malvado smirked as he was uncuffed and the lawyer escorted him to the door. As he passed by Powell, Malvado motioned forward as if to throw a punch, and Powell flinched and covered his already sore face.
"Yeah, that's what I thought..." Malvado said in disgust as he left the room. The two Agents were disappointed in the outcome, and went their separate ways. Powell got a phone call on his way to the parking lot letting him know the car carrying the evidence they so sorely needed had been destroyed in grandiose fashion. He slammed his little phone shut in anger, and threw open the back door of the station. He looked down and sorted through his keys as he walked to his car, and when he looked up he was greeted by a group of angry bikers.
Posted 09 April 2010 - 05:12 AM
Anyone whos no longer interested in GTAIV's BUYG try out BUYG:Vice Edition, or BUYG: San Andreas( Currently in the workds for being re-made).
Or, If you believe that GTA is like the military why no petition to have a BUY: Army( Also being made).
Jesus I realized just now that 2 BUY_ are in progress, and I am leading both of them ?
Anyways, got any questions PM me. Become involved in WD today!
Posted 11 April 2010 - 07:04 AM
The Gambetti Family | Al Dente's | Chapter 1: Working Together
$26 + $1,743 = $1,769
Aragond warned you about this being too short, but nothing's changed. Nothing actually happened, it's more an intro', a teaser trailer for your proper stories. Plus, you're talking in a very casual narrator's voice, which is very cheesy. Very "Twilight Zone" or "Batman". I dunno. Doesn't sound right to me. This isn't really a story anyway, so what's it matter, I guess.
Story in reserve | Chapter 1 Bookends Part 1
$ rating still pending
You haven't had five stories yet to allow you to change gangs. Either write #5 for the Hustlers and sign off that storyline, or I'll allow you to start with a zero story count, simply assuming your long absense got you kicked, and you're starting over. Ergo, I am going to hold off rating.
Irish Mob | Lucky Winkles Bar | Chapter 4 Of mice and men
$46 + $1,423 = $1,469
... placed Packie on the sofa. Are you sure? You sure he didn't "drop him", "dump him" or "flop him"? Just thoughts.
Aodhan was woken to the birdsong of Packie screaming in his face = awesomely colourful description. I liked that! In fact, that whole paragraph was well-written. I'm impressed.
sni**er LOL. GTAF censored "sni**er"... er, "snig.ger".
Good value story. While it was lacking action, as such, it was a thoroughly-entertaining, well-written story, regardless.
Irish Mob | Lucky Winkles Bar | Chapter 5 Travelling in Style
$44 + $1,469 = $1,513
LOVE the fact that they're robbing Brucie! LOL. And, yeah, I always wondered about the toll boothes and their inability to stop you not paying. Well told!
Wouldn't they have flipped the car if they suddenly turned like that? (I guess not, since I get the impression you simulated it all.)
Another interesting story, well told.
Illegal use of vehicle (Sultan GT): penalty pending .
( It's pretty ironic that I could be 'breaking rules' by stealing cars in a Grand Theft Auto forum. It is, lol. But you know this is meant to be a game, so, Staff must be fair. (Even if this particular staff member hasn't docked anyone yet 'cuz he doesn't know what the penalties are and has no time to trawl through the whole BUYG IV to find what others have done.)
Irish Mob | Lucky Winkles Bar | Chapter 6 The Meet of the Problem
$43 + $1,513 = $1,556
"Wake up, f*cking inbred." LOL. "I'm surprised this place has anything left to sell." Dbl-LOL.
This is, again, colourfully descriptive, and Staff truly appreciates your style.
Irish Mob | Lucky Winkles Bar | Chapter 7 Big Trouble in Little China
$43 + $1,556 = $1,599
Irony is starting out in a post saying "I might have misused a car" and then buying a bunch o' guns from the Chinese gun store that your game doesn't own. It might seem a minor point, but the descriptor "Assault Rifle" refers to the AK-47 icon and "Carbine Rifle" is the M4A1 rifle icon. So, you're buying what we ought to take to mean Carbines, which are not owned by the Irish Mob. Ahhh, but as I finish reading, you don't actually use them, but studiously end-up using the AK. Clever writing! A second read was required, but well-done.
What a cacophony of action. An explosive end to the "Act".
In some respects, it was actually hard to keep-up with who was doing what. I'm wondering whether that was because I was reading so fast, so far ahead, rushing through the action, that I was missing essential details. Not a critique.
Well, if action is what your readers were seeking, they sure got it. My only critique is that it was not real violence, but an accidental burst of gunfire brought-on by Liam's buffoonery. (Why would a gun shop have loaded weapons lying around? ... Well, now that I think of it, yeah, you're right, they do.) And that Sean seemed a little too perfect a shot.
Otherwise, pretty gripping.
Illegal use of weapon (Carbine Rifle): It didn't happen! .
Irish Mob | Lucky Winkles Bar | Act II, Chapter 1 The Fourth Leaf
$46 + $1,599 = $1,645
Final thought: Apologies if there's a lack of critique for your stories, but there's too many of everyone's to be picky on them all. But, unless I've noted them, I found no serious woes.
"Michael." Of course.
It never would have occurred to Staff to join those dots. You did well to bring down an Annihilator so early in the game. I never tried. I just took Packie's advice and ran.
Once again, you're describing almost mundane hub-bub of the hospital with deft descriptive flourish, and Staff approves. Nice storyline, even if it didn't, directly at least, have much going on.
I'm liking Aodhan more and more, especially since I remember his first story, your first descriptions of this scrawny kid beating up some would-be muggers.
Thank you for these. Thoroughly entertaining reading alongside a high quality of description and language-use. And grammar, can't forget the grammar.
The Gambetti Family | Come Clean (drycleaners) | Chapter five When one door closes...
$43 + $1,769 = $1,802
Ahhhh. It was genuinely nice to read about some Italian mobsters after all that Irish business. And for it to be another well-written story, all the better. Good length (others take note; 791 words is fine), an explosive first half, a hints of more to come in the second. This was a solid effort, and Staff liked it. No major issues to note.
Irish Mob | McReary Household | Chapter 1 - Leave no witnesses!
$29 + $1,645 = $1,674
Aragond did warn you that your story was too short. C'est la vie.
It wasn't half bad, though. Killing of Sean was a little too matter-of-fact, and you could have spent much more time developing that. In fact, you've almost got no narrative, only a pinch relating to dialogue, and when you're writing first person, you really ought to have a lot more of your protagonist's thoughts. Remember, we're seeing everything as he remembers it, not as a camera would show us.
The following are still awaiting rating:
Pegorino Family | Recycling Plant | Story #13 (Episode 3, Part 1)
$ rating pending
Pegorino Family | Recycling Plant | Story #14 (Episode 3, Part 2)
$ rating pending
Pegorino Family | Recycling Plant | Story #15 (Episode 3, Part 3)
$ rating pending
Aragond eagarly awaits hearing from other staff regarding his rating.
Oh crap, I've just realised there was more posted after Aragond's summary (crap-on-a-stick, of course there would be, doofus!) Alright, sorry fellas. Next weekend?
The Lost | Ammunition | Prologue Daddy Issues (of a new storyline altogether)
$ rating pending
Big Mitch Baker
Angels of Death | AoD Clubhouse | Chapter 11: Dead Fed Redemption
$ rating pending
Not to mention VinnieLeone's above.
Issues? You know where to find us.
~ Aragond still on behalf of Skramz , whose exams are really, really, really, really long.
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