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Tears of the Vicious

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  • AceRay

    In my restless dreams, I see that town...

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Posted 20 October 2013 - 09:13 AM Edited by AceRay, 20 October 2013 - 09:14 AM.

Tears of the Vicious


Chapter 1


The bullets pierced his skull and sent him crashing down to the carpet in an instant, right next to the maid. Slater simply remained silent, staring at himself reflected in the eyes of his dead father. From there, reality ended and the nightmare began, the nightmare that would never end for those streets.


The thug holding the lethal weapon shook with fear, his mind racing with both adrenaline and terror. The next second, the only thing going through his mind was a bullet sent straight from Slater’s Glock 17. His fat buddy was next to go down, his kneecaps pierced instantly with vicious, precise shots before another two bullets knocked out his eyeballs, his brain slowly seeping out onto the kitchen floor. The two other guys ran to the living but only got half way until they were sent to hell with extreme vengeance, one crashing headfirst into the fine china set and the other slamming his head into the TV.


Driving home late one rainy night from a tough day working the streets of America’s meanest city, Det Martin Slater strolled into a hostage situation taking place in his kitchen. Five tattooed punks holding dear old Dad and the maid, Mel, at gunpoint. At first Slater co-operated and put his gun down, until Mel found a mess she couldn’t clean; her brain off the side of the fridge. Maybe it was the swearing or the shouting or fear of screwing up or just good old fashioned blood lust, whatever made that punk put the brain through Dad had unleashed the devil inside Slater.


He had to get revenge, starting at the bottom of the food chain.


A door had been flung open at the other end of the home. The last rat was trying to run into the gutter of the night. The rain belt down harder and harder as Slater rushed out into the rain and saw him fumbling at the wheel of his Impala. Slater raised his gun and shouted at him to stop, only for the thug to reverse hard into the busy street. His head was in his sights but this guy’s death wouldn’t bring answers; only pain and open questions.


Within a second, Slater made to his Dodge Charger SRT-8 police car before giving chase and radioing his partner, Steve Mason, an older detective and a good friend of the elder Slater.

“What is it?” he asked coldly, annoyed he was being interrupted.

“Dad’s been shot,” Slater said as he stuck the cop lights on the roof and kept hard on the guy’s tail.

“Oh my God. B-b-but he was a cop for twenty years. How did it happen?” his calm demeanour was gone and replaced with a sense of emptiness and sadness, evident through his shaky voice.

“Hostage standoff I think. I’ve got one of them on the run right now, just letting you know,” and with that, the conversation was over and Mason was left to wonder how it went down. Slater wasn’t one to dwell on the details or get melodramatic over what happened. Murders occurred every day in those streets and they were used to it. The only difference here was that this one was about the only person Slater ever cared about and that meant bodies were going to hit the floor bloody and bullet ridden.

The two cars weaved in and out of traffic at almost twice the speed limit. As the cars skidded around corners, Slater noticed the Impala was over steering like a truck on the slippery roads. Just a small nudge would leave it skidding all over the road, so Slater waited for his opportunity. He almost took it when the fleeing vehicle almost clipped a truck but it proved futile. A few seconds later, the Impala took a sharp corner way too fast, so Slater took the chance and rammed the Chevy, making it spin out of control and into a wall, totalling the car.


Slater grabbed the scumbag by his collar and threw him onto the pavement before breaking his leg with a mighty stomp, the bone letting out a violent crunch and the thug a violent scream. In an instant, Slater responded to his agony by shoving his Glock into his face.

“Why?” he gritted through his teeth. The only response was another scream by the bald idiot. “Answer, you son of a b*tch.”

“I’ll never talk,” and then the bastard actually managed to smirk at Slater, obviously not the right move to make.

“I can be very persuasive,” Slater growled as he lifted him off the floor and threw him against the Impala. His head was promptly sent through the window, glass impaling itself into his face. Another pitiful scream as the rain washed away the blood. The cop pulled him back outside and punched him hard across the chin, sending his remaining teeth scattered across the floor, before a punch in the gut sent him wreathing across the floor. Screaming pedestrians ran from the vicious scene of violence.

Slater then grabbed him by the head with his thumbs pressed against his bloodshot eyes. He let out one, simple word: “Answer!” still nothing, leaving Slater with no other option but to press down. Slowly, another scream let out through the night, this one even more blood curling than the last one. Yellow, sticky, crusty ooze seeped out of his eyes. When he let go, the eye sockets were nothing but black holes, staring into nothingness.

“I… I was…. Sent here by Rick Reiner… from the… Lucky Rabbit club… I don’t know anything else... I’m just small fry,” Slater let his grip go instantly and the body slumped to the ground, wreathing in pain. “Please, don’t kill me.”

“You are already dead,” and with that, Slater drew his gun and fired a stone cold shot into the victim’s skull, brain splattering the side of the car. Then he walked away from the carnage, to Rick Reiner and his club, to the answers he was looking for.


The night was just beginning.

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arch stanton
  • arch stanton

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Posted 27 October 2013 - 07:02 AM

Hoooly sh*t, that was intense. Great stuff.


Makes me inspired to write a fresh chapter for PB. You going to continue this Ace? Would love to see where this would go.

  • AceRay

    In my restless dreams, I see that town...

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Posted 27 October 2013 - 09:19 AM

Hoooly sh*t, that was intense. Great stuff.


Makes me inspired to write a fresh chapter for PB. You going to continue this Ace? Would love to see where this would go.

About half way into the next chapter, not going to lie, writing this is pretty fun.

arch stanton
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Posted 27 October 2013 - 09:35 AM Edited by Coat., 27 October 2013 - 09:37 AM.

I'd imagine. You know when you are writing something good because it flows out of you, if you know what I mean. Do you write out a hard copy before writing it up on the computer?

  • AceRay

    In my restless dreams, I see that town...

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Posted 28 October 2013 - 09:16 AM Edited by AceRay, 28 October 2013 - 09:22 AM.

Chapter 2


Inside the boardroom, the news pleased the four immaculately dressed and repulsively smug suits seated around the oak table as they swirled their cocktails and looked down on the distant streets from the penthouse. Their bodyguards and other assistants loitered right outside the door, waiting for grim orders from the most powerful men in the city with enough blackmail and dirty deals on any politician to have them wrapped around their finger.

They were The Syndicate.

Head of the board was F. Brusilov, slouched in a fine leather chair with an apple martini in his hairy mits and a smirk splashed across his bearded face below his stout nose and beady eyes. Brusilov was an entrepreneur; president of the largest deep sea oil company in the world, owner of seven five-star hotels, two law firms, several black markets over the world and a weapon manufacturing firm in Bosnia. Anything he wanted, he could acquire.

Brusilov chortled at a terrible pun by Franklin J. Marlow, the fat wall street stock marketer from the South with an appetite for danger and rodeos. It was not rare to find cocaine residue on his fat nose, although with the law wrapped around their fingers, it was easy to bend contracts.

Chen Xuesen was seated at the final bench with an air of indifference to the situation, although the occasional grin did give away his excitement at the proceedings. Possibly the most vicious Triad boss of all time, Xuesen held the entire Triad syndicate in his palm. Beneath his suit, he wore a bulletproof vest and several throwing knives.

He turned and looked over at the final member of the group: Stevie Modesetti, the personal assistant to Don Marco Salvo of the the Salvo Family: The old guy was senile and it was modesetti who controlled the most powerful mafioso family in the city. He was slender and dangerous, with a pair of thick spectacles perched on the edge of his long nose.

They sat there, chortling over their food. Little did they know that by the end of the night would have bullets lodged through their flesh, their eyes glazed over and their clothes blood stained, awaiting their inevitable burial.




Slater hovered beneath the wheel of the Charger as he slowly pulled up on the opposite side of the dark and rainy street, killed the engine and scouted the scene while dabbing off the blood from his face. The Lucky Rabbit club was packed, with a dozen or so patrons loitering outside the door, waiting to get their chance at the mindless, repetitive club music while sheltering themselves desperately from the violent storm. Even in the darkness of night, everyone could see the dark clouds roll in from above, as though the city itself was being engulfed in darkness.


The rain kept pouring, yet couldn’t wash the blood away.


His radio crackled to life. He lifted it up to his mouth and heard Mason on the other end as he eyed up the tough looking bouncers.

“Slater, what’s going on?”’

“I’m at the Lucky Rabbit club,” Slater said. “The thug gave me the name Reiner as a lead, so I’m going for answers.”

“You can’t go around just bashing people’s heads in. Come back to the station, Martin,” Mason’s voice was getting scratchier and more desperate with every word. He had already lost Frank Slater just a few minutes before, he didn’t want to lose the other one.

“I have to find answers. I won’t stop until I get some,” Slater took a deep breath and opened the door, leaving Mason dangling, wanting answers of his own.

He moved to the trunk of the car and unlocked it, before quietly sliding a Benelli M4 shotgun under his trenchcoat before anyone could notice, fastening it to his clothes. Next to the that was the Micro 9mm, which he slung into his shoulder brace, the Glock on the opposite side.

Every step across the road was heavy and hard, several onlookers looking at Slater cautiously, as if he was screaming with both guns drawn. With the line obviously stalled with no chance of him getting in, Slater quickly slid into the nearby alleyway, looking for the rear entry. Capitalism’s less fortunate were strung along the alleyway in their squalor, empty bottles rolling around on the concrete. At the other end looked like the back entrance to the club, which Slater quickly made his way towards.

The big guy with a cigarette dangling out his mouth and a heavy jacket took one look at the guy with guns obviously concealed under his trenchcoat walking towards him.

“Is this Rick Reiner’s club?”

“It is, but no entrance to punks like you,” the thug geared at him.

“I’m a cop, let me in or I’ll arrest you.”

“Fat chance, now you bet-” he was cut off by a surprise hook to the right, right in his jaw, sending him flailed on the ground. Another punch in the face saw him fade into unconsciousness. The bums didn’t even give a damn.

“Sweet dreams,” Slater whispered as he quietly slid through the door into the building.


The corridors were darkly lit and concrete, with many doors leading off to storage closets. Slater moved quietly down the hallway, past several goons. The endless electronic music vibrated through the walls. Maybe they wouldn’t even hear the gunshots. A waiter walked around the corner and straight into Slater’s path, who quickly ducked out of sight behind a cupboard. By pure chance, he happened to find himself at Reiner’s office.


He busted down the door with extreme authority. Reiner was at his desk, the dance floor visible behind him, the strobe lights pounding. It was empty. He was balding and short, wearing a cheap white suit top with cheap, thick-rimmed glasses. His face was fat and sweated with fear as he found himself at the receiving end of Slater’s Glock.

“What is this? Who are you? How did you get in here?” the questions came fast, as though he was grasping at some sense of reality.

“Why did you kill my father?” Slater said through his gritted teeth, imagining how nice the walls of his office would be painted red.

“Ah,” a gun cocked and Slater looked over his shoulder, finding it was his turn to look down the barrel of a gun, a .38 revolver. A couple of tattooed thugs had been kept hidden behind the door, waiting for him. It dawned upon Slater that he had blundered in there like an idiot and this was all part of their plan.

“You know, some people need to keep their noses out of private affairs,” the fear had gone and had been replaced with smug satisfaction. You had to give him one thing; the bastard sure could act. “You father was one of them,” at this, he pulled out a fat cigar and lit it, sticking his feet up on the desk. “Now, its time for you to die.”


Of course, Reiner hadn’t counted on the fact that he wasn’t going up against any normal cop.


In one rapid, beautiful movement, Slater smacked the gun out of the thug’s hand and twisted the arm right round, sending him flailing to the carpet, at the same time firing a bullet straight into the other guard’s head with extreme precision, the body dropping to the floor with a thud. Screams hadn’t erupted from the club; obviously the room had been sound-proofed. The remaining guard had regained his control and punched Slater twice in the face, only for the cop to stick the gun to his temple and blow the bastard’s brains over the floor. Reiner had lept up and made a run for the door, only to get tackled out the window by a furious Slater with death on his mind, over the dancefloor.

They flew through the air in harmony. Seconds felt like hours as glass rained upon the dancers, shouts rising through the room. Reiner screamed in pain as the glass tore through his flesh. Through the flashing darkness, Slater saw the security team lear up in surprise and pull their pistols, which was met by a series of 9mm bullets fired, midair, from the falling Slater.

Reiner took the brunt of the impact, mostly in his spine. He was in excruciating pain next to the cop, who had his 9mm at the ready and was moving behind cover as a few of his henchmen arrived. Around him, people were scrambling to find the nearest exit, moving over his mangled body. Fire burst out from his boys, and innocents began to drop all around him, pools of blood forming around each body, bloody spraying all over the place. It was a slaughterhouse.


It dawned on him, for the first time, that he had been tricked.

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arch stanton
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Posted 28 October 2013 - 09:04 PM

Nice chapter man. Keep it up - I'm enjoying it.

Mokrie Dela
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Posted 29 October 2013 - 12:18 PM

Very well written. Nice flow and language to it. Not a bad piece to read after my absence. Great to see this section isn't (yet) flooded with low quality V fanfics, or more to the point, the brains/talent remains.

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