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Joseph Falcone


Sinful

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JOSEPH FALCONE

 

 

“Another cold morning in The Big Apple, Mr. Fahrenheit says twenty-six point six is the number, so call in sick, turn on your TV, and wrap yourself up in heavy blankets, my friend!”

 

The digital radio’s programmed alarm suddenly awoke Joseph Falcone. He opened his eyes and looked around. He did not recognize his current environment, yet he was not surprised. His life was far away from being dull, and waking up in cheap hotel rooms was part of his routine.

 

He looked left to him; a woman there slept. A single thin, white sheet lay upon her soft legs, and her deep breath made her small, pale breasts inflate beautifully. Her expression was calm, almost amused. Her brown, shoulder-length hair covered part of her face. She was a gorgeous woman; one of a kind, Joseph thought. He touched her neck and, as she moved her head slightly as if she were to wake up, he drew his hand. He sighed; he could not have her for himself.

 

Of course, she never asked him to love her, nor did he say he did, and he was sure she was not interested in a serious relationship. He remembered her saying her name was Jane; maybe Mary. Perhaps she said Natasha. He shook his head; he just could not remember the young lady’s name. Not that he really cared. The only woman he had ever lived with for more than a week was his mother, yet he did not consider that as a bad thing, saying so every time someone asked him whether he would ever get married.

 

Several empty, square-shaped brown glass bottles stood on the floor at the foot of the bed. He kicked one of them as he stumbled through the stuffy bedroom. He started picking up his scattered clothes from the carpeted floor and dressing them. Once he was finished, he gave one last, long look at the female on the bed and sighed deeply. Although the doormat's loud creak could wake up many people with ease, she did not move a single muscle as he walked out and slowly and quietly closed the door behind him.

 

He checked his pockets and, as he rapidly walked his way through the narrow corridors and shorts starts leading to the inn's front exit, clumsily lit a white, non-filtered cigarette with his shiny steel lighter. It would have him killed in no time, he knew it. But who said he could resist it?

 

Joe, as he was better known, was a thirty years old Italian-American born and raised in the never sleeping city. His work was unusual, yet respected. He worked as, as he liked to call it, a “private bodyguard of a very unique organization”.

 

That dawn's cold drizzle wetted his early-gray hair and his pitch black suit and hit his slightly wrinkled, tired face. His countenance was not consistent with his age; the tobacco had severely damaged his cardio-respiratory system and physical condition. But although he would loose any chases, he could beat many men on a short-length fight - should it last more than five minutes he would start coughing and finally pass out on the floor. It was too the only thing that calmed him in the decisive moments his profession had.

 

Joe walked at a fast pace to his car: a businessman, manly black sedan with completely darkened window tints that was parked across the street. He sat on the driver's leather seat and turned the key. The characteristic noise echoed and Joe grinned, satisfied with himself: the car was one of the few things he was proud to have; it represented the relatively high position he occupied at the organization he worked. Of course, he had his superiors, and one of his most hated ones had just called up on him. Joe mumbled and tried his best to avoid the meeting, but the man was inflexible and categorical: he had to obey or consequences would be suffered. Joe finally agreed on meeting his superior in a few minutes; the man did not live far away from where he had slept.

 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

That's it for now.

It'll last around 5 chapters; I don't want another long thing in my hands. (No pun intended. No, really.)

 

P.S.: This is the reason I hadn't updated the library in the past days (weeks?), I was waiting for me to finish the second chapter of it so I could post the first (yes, this is the first.)

 

Also, non-coincidentally, this is my 1000th post.

As always, I hope you like it.

Edited by Sinful
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I liked it; some good description and it looks like it' s shaping up to be a good story.

 

Congrats for the 1K as well! smile.gif

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It looks good Sinful. This story looks interesting I will watch out for when you update.

 

And congrats on your milestone.

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I like the way this story looks to be shaping out, I'll follow it

Congrats on 1k, by the way.

kdr9l4.png

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When I was reading the part about room and a woman I listened to Phil Collins' "In the Air Tonight". And that was like "Wow!". Nice story so far.

BTW Congrats on the milestone!

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Two days earlier

 

Santiago and his weekly "collection" were one of Joe's heaviest fonts of income in the past few months, and also one of the easiest side-jobs he had ever had. He had the complete approval of his superiors, but, like all good things, should he get deeply involved in the procedure it all would have to come to an end.

 

Santiago had arranged a meeting with Joe a few hours earlier and in that awkwardly sunny day of winter they met, like all other days, at Santiago's father's liquor store. Santiago was waiting for him outside the deserted shop, leaning on a wall and smoking marijuana. He bore shoulder-length, lice-infested dreadlocks, wide brown eyes and wore a pinstriped baby-blue shirt with jeans. He checked his fake golden watch while Joe, wearing his usual black suit set but with no jacket, approached the store. He sweated heavily from his forehead but still looked vibrant and ready for the job Santiago had for him.

 

"Hey, Joey… Was 'bout to give up on ya, ya know? What's took you so long?" Santiago asked in his slow, slightly hoarse voice.

 

"Business, none of yours," Joe answered brusquely. Santiago smirked and let out smoke from his cigar. Joseph was not exactly polite with people, and those close to him knew that, minding little.

 

"Whatever, man… Look, you want some?" he handed the cigar to Joe, who just stared at it. "You look a little worried, it should relax you."

 

"I'd rather be worried right now. Too much of that sh*t I'll end up just like you. Can we move?"

 

"You say it like it's a bad thing," Santiago answered, pretending to be offended as he was followed by Joe towards his rusty, once-upon-a-time-red van. "It all depends on your… How do you say? Point of sight."

 

"It's point of view," Joe said as he entered the vehicle, followed by his employer. "And yours is a bitch."

 

Santiago laughed aloud and turned the engine on.

 

Joseph Falcone and Santiago Lopez worked as partners on a collection business. The latter first sold packages of illegal drugs to numerous shops around the city with interests and, should they not pay, Joe would show up at their door along with a fully loaded semi-automatic pistol. Not that Joe was afraid of weapons, but he was glad he had never had to actually commit murder while on the job. He was sure the sight of a gun barrel ought to be enough at any occasions.

 

Several minutes later Santiago parked the van on a rather crowded street. The duo left the car, the Latino on the lead, and both walked inside a cozy and nearly deserted coffee shop. It was the kind of place, Joe knew, where an espresso would cost over ten dollars. All because of the wooden balcony, wooden chairs, wooden tables and top quality china. A big waste of money for a cup of coffee, but a great cover for dope pushing. Only an old waiter, bearing a large gray moustache and little hair sticking out of his brown beret, stood behind the impeccably clean counter. He was a white stout man and wore a matching apron with a white shirt behind it. The man stared at Santiago as if he had never seen such a dirty thing walk trough his shop's door. There was only one costumer inside the café: a seemingly athletic white man wearing a simple black shirt along with matching jeans pants. Joe studied the man for a few moments and then turned his head back to the counter. Santiago had his right hand stretched out, but the man did not shake it. The Latino drew it and said:

 

"Well, that's nice to see you too, Alf." He looked around, pretending to analyze the place, then looked back at the waiter. "I see you're a busy man and have many clients to supply 'round here, so I'll cut the crap. Where's my money?"

 

Alf the waiter leaned forward.

"In my ass," he whispered.

 

"Whoo! That must've hurt!" Santiago said aloud. "You know, sadly for you, I won't be putting my hand down there. So why don't you hand it over to me, huh?"

 

"Never," Alf muttered. Joe rolled his eyes and wondered how long would it take until Santiago gave the order.

 

"Joe?" It finally came. Falcone reached his belt and withdrew a opaque black automatic pistol, firmly pointing it to the old man's head, who just looked at it and smirked. Joe rose his eyebrows: that was a quite unusual response to such situation; something was wrong.

 

Click.

 

"Oh sh*t," Santiago muttered.

 

The client who had been quiet the whole time now pointed another pistol to Joe's head, who did not look back.

 

"Drop it," the man ordered. Joe laughed nervously.

 

"No way, you drop it," he said, leaning his body slightly backwards. "Unless you want this guy dead. But that wouldn't be good for your business, would it?"

 

"I'll give you five seconds," the man calmly said.

 

"I only need three," Joe said rapidly, acting even rapider. He released his right hand from the weapon, deviated his head to the left, hit the man on the stomach with his elbow and heard the bullet coming from the latter's weapon and hitting the ceiling. Joe did not think twice and fired his own at the man's head. Blood spattered on Joe's and Santiago's legs, later beginning to spread around the wooden floor. Santiago stared at the body, disgust spread around his face; he loathed blood. He sighed and turned back to the terrified waiter.

 

"Now, shall we get back to business?"

Edited by Sinful
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Why did I not notice this sooner?

Rehtorical question as I know the answer: I suck.

 

This is excellent! Just as good as the teaser you sent a small while back. colgate.gif

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  • 2 weeks later...

Today

 

The two inconspicuously armed, suit-dressed guards that stood by the door of the brownstone nodded at Joe as he walked up the stairs and opened the house's unlocked front door. Another man, with a matching outfit but this time holding a threatening 12-gauge shotgun, stood inside. He held a hand up, signaling Joe to stop, then, gun pointing, said:

 

"Gimme your piece, Falcone."

 

"Screw you, I ain't walking in without it," Joe answered in disdain.

 

"New policy. Wanna get in, good, but leave your piece with me." He seemed irreducible.

 

Joe laughed at the irony. He did not want to be there, he was forced to. Also he knew arguing with a simple guard of a lower position than his wouldn't make a difference.

 

"All right, but take this sh*t off my face," he said, putting the guard's weapon out of range. He put his hand inside his pocket and pulled out the black pistol. He gestured for a fraction of second, playfully, as if he were aiming the weapon at the guard, then spun it with his fingers and handed it over. The man took it and allowed Joe's passage through the small entrance hall, allowing him to immediately spot Sergio Lampone.

 

The obese businessman stood on his small kitchen, his back facing his newly-arrived subordinate. The latter made his way to the kitchen walking through the living room, which was rather simple and composed of only a brown leather sofa and an extra matching easy chair, a twenty-inch television atop of a wooden rack and a small round, dark wooden table with two dinner chairs by it. The kitchen was clean and neat, and Joe noticed a characteristic tomato smell coming from a casserole on the oven. Sergio, who had black short hair and wore white sweatpants with a blue stretched t-shirt hummed a classic tarantella from his homeland while slicing pieces of pasta for a gnocchi when Joe walked in.

 

He looked at the fat man cooking; one of his most favorite hobbies, just behind talking about how things were better in the old days. He could not see it, but he knew the man was enjoying the situation. He would not miss a chance to make Joe's life more miserable, and the latter loathed him for that. For that, and also because of the fact that years ago Lampone had had an affair with Joe's mother. The fat son of a bitch. Should he die, he would have it coming. Gluttony. That would be ironic and fit well. To die because of his love for food. Joe could almost laugh.

 

"Falcone, Falcone… This knife's no good. Could you give me the bigger one right next to you?" the fat man said. Joe checked the white counter next to him: it had nothing on it but a sharp, shiny long knife with a black wooden handle. He picked it up and measured its weight. Perfect. Also seemed sharp enough. "C'mon, I don't have all day."

 

"Oh, I bet you don't."

 

He spun the knife, held it up and struck. Directly on his neck. He had little time to yell in pain as the blood deviated from its way to the brain to, instead, leave the body in a bizarre red shower. He fell to the floor and began groaning helplessly. Joe watched, laughing quietly while the death sounds ceased and Sergio Lampone died on the floor of his own kitchen.

 

"Falcone, I'm talking to you. You must look at me in the eyes when do that."

 

Joseph turned his eyes from the knife to Lampone. At a first glance he seemed serious, but Joe was sure he was laughing in the inside.

"I'm listening."

 

"You have killed a man," he said while he ate a few spare pieces of crude gnocchi.

 

"Maybe. I wasn't working for you, though."

 

"Yes, you worked for Santiago."

 

"Wow, you know his name," Joe said in a surprised tone. "Should I be impressed?"

 

"Shut up, enough of your jokes," he said while he ate the last of his pieces. "The man you killed…"

 

"Was a security guard."

 

"Was a rent-a-cop. You do know that…"

 

All sarcasm was expelled from Joe's face along with much blood, and he became pale as Sergio's words turned into distant whispers. His heartbeats became faster, as fast as they had become the day he had seen Lampone leaving his mother's house and fastening his pants' belt. His words turned into distant whispers. The kitchen was no longer there, and everything seemed to spin violently around him. His hands worked automatically as they picked up a cigarette from his suit's pocket and lit it. The kitchen began to take shape once again and the large figure of Sergio Lampone reappeared in front of him as he inhaled the tobacco's smoke.

 

He had never killed a policeman before, but he knew that the end to those who did was, most of the times, not good. The police force liked the taste of revenge as much as any other criminal organization. Joe had broken the balance, he was sure of it.

 

"However." Lampone was still talking. Joe started listening as he noticed the only reason he was still standing was because he had leant against one of the kitchen counters. "There's a way around it. The police chief said that, if we can get rid of Santiago, they'll turn down the heat on us."

 

"That… good," Joe mumbled and nodded.

 

"Yes," Sergio said, raising his eyebrows at his subordinate's lack of words. "And you'll have to do it."

 

"What?" He had heard it very well. He just did not wish to believe he would have to kill the only person who currently was the closest thing to a friend he could ever have. He knew that, if it was really necessary, he would overcome his death with ease -if it only happened by the hands of someone else.

 

"You're gonna have to give Santiago his death sentence. Within a day," he said, turning around and resuming his cooking. "Now leave, I only appreciate your presence as much as you appreciate mine."

 

----------------------------

I'm getting lazy, goddamnit.

 

Stupid f*ckin real life. No, really. whatsthat.gif

Edited by Sinful
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This is pretty good. You have a lot of good detail and a clever writing style.

 

Are these posts separate chapters, or are the going to combine into a chapter one?

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  • 2 months later...

Act 3

 

The idea of killing Santiago Lopez still had not grown in Joseph's mind, and an espresso was all that would allow him clear thought without the issue of lung cancer.

 

He was sipping and staring blankly at the busy traffic outside his favorite Café downtown. The best in town. His heart was even beating faster as he enjoyed it happily.

 

Not his heart.

 

He picked up the vibrating cell phone from his shirt pocket and answered it.

"Mom?"

 

"Joey!" She shouted, forcing him to put the phone away from his ear. "Are you my son Joey? Hello? Is this working?" She spoke it all non-stop.

 

"Hey, hey, calm down, mom! It's Joey here, you don't have yell, ok?"

 

"Joey? It's your mother!"

"Well, I heard that, mom." He was starting to get annoyed; he had been there the day after the coffee shop incident to see her.

 

"Men came here. Black men. They wanted to talk to you, but I told them you didn't live here, and then they asked where do you live, and then I told them to wait, 'cause I didn't remember and I was gonna call you, and then I… Well, where do you live?"

 

"Mom… Who are these men?"

 

"They are… They're your friends, son, from the tomato firm! They say they're Santiago and…" Then she spoke something outside the phone. "And Mario, yes, Mario… Like that videogame, son, remember you used to play it?"

 

"Look, mom, that's… Great. Can I speak to Santiago?"

 

A long pause took place on the line. Santiago's slow, slightly hoarse voice then came.

"Hey, Joey, how you doin', my friend?" Joseph could picture a smirk in his face.

 

"What are you doing there, Santiago?" He forced himself to sound calm regardless of the situation.

 

"I was just trying to find you, but you never told me where you lived, so I thought I'd stop by your momma's!"

 

"How did you find her?"

 

"Questions, questions… Why can't you ever enjoy the moment?"

 

"How?"

 

"I followed you." Silence. "So simple you feel dumb, don't you?"

Joseph sighed. He knew the thrill that the tobacco gave him would get him killed someday, but he never thought it would affect his own mother. Perhaps he should start looking at the car's mirror more often.

"Fine, what do you want?"

 

"Talk! Now where do you live, bro?"

 

Joseph swallowed the rest of his espresso at once and described his house's address to his ex-business partner as he threw a five dollars bill at the counter and rushed to his car outside.

"Don't you think of hurting her." He made a great effort to sound tough while he turned the keys and listened impatiently to car's noise.

 

"Hurting her? Why would I do that? I mean, we're friends, ain't we? That's why I expect you to greet me nicely when we meet."

 

"Go f*ck yourself."

 

"I love you too, Joey!" And he turned off.

 

"You gotta have a good sight of the door, ok? They can bust in anytime now." Joseph Falcone held a nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistol up, aiming fiercely at an invisible target on the door. Two other men, both holding sawn-off shotguns, did the same.

 

"Ok, fine, b--"

 

"Shhh," Joseph whispered. "I think I heard something."

 

He indeed had, and his eyes widened crazily as someone forced the way through the living room's door. It finally opened, but there was nobody there. Then, in a time range of two seconds, many things happened. Joseph whispered the F word; the two company men with shotguns fired at the wall behind the opened door; the pistol-wielding one threw himself to the ground behind the couch; two black men materialized outside the room; the two company men yelled dirty words and finally fell dead after the projectiles coming from the two black men's weapons pierced ruthlessly through their scalps.

 

Joseph at last yelled that same word, only to hear a very familiar laughter.

"Joey? Why don't we take a walk like… right now?"

 

Oh, he could feel the rotten smell coming from those lice-infested dreadlocks.

 

------------------------------------------

Yeah, I know! You all must be like "who the f*ck's Sinful anyway?! This guy's so 2007."

Edited by Sinful
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Takin' you long enough to post the chapters, but it's completely worth the read.

Great job, man.

kdr9l4.png

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I only read the first chapter, but I was surprised. I never read your stuff before, you're a good writer, let alone for a 16 year old. I really am interested to see the stuff you'll be writing in a few years, really.

 

There were a few things I could nitpick at. Every one here writes these short chapters, it just doesn't do it for me. Not that the length is necesserily the problem, it's the fact that they end prematurely and it stalls the rhythm. In prose chapters are not just resting spots, they should represent a plateau in the story's ark. The whole chapter should build up to something and at the end rest on one of the story's points or beats.

 

Also, after the first chapter I noticed the structure goes down hill, certainly because of dialogue being implemented. Just a tip... you're not too far off base, it seems as though you might have wrote it in a processor with indentions for every new line of dialogue, which is correct... but the problem comes when you paste it into the forum because the indentions are lost. On the forums the best structure for dialogue would be probably:

 

"You gotta have a good sight of the door, ok? They can bust in anytime now," Joseph Falcone held a nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistol up, aiming fiercely at an invisible target on the door. Two other men, both holding sawn-off shotguns, did the same.

 

"Ok, fine, b--"

 

"Shhh," Joseph whispered, "I think I heard something." He indeed had, and his eyes widened crazily as someone forced the way through the living room's door. It finally opened, but there was nobody there. Then, in a time range of two seconds, many things happened:

 

Joseph whispered the F word; the two company men with shotguns fired at the wall behind the opened door; the pistol-wielding one threw himself to the ground behind the couch; two black men materialized outside the room; the two company men yelled dirty words and finally fell dead after the projectiles coming from the two black men's weapons pierced ruthlessly through their scalps. Joseph at last yelled that same word, only to hear a very familiar laughter.

 

"Joey? Why don't we take a walk like… right now?"

 

For the forums, the double line break should pretty much represent an indention. Keep it up, dude.

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Thanks for the feedback, Candarelli, I really appreciate it.

 

I'll implement that in the next chapter and will also edit the previous ones so that they match the new layout.

 

Thanks for the comment too, Oblivionz.

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  • 2 weeks later...
Ronmar The Only

Good writing Sinful. Nice little story with several running plots in it, but the overall plot is up front and not hidden. This may be thought of as a rhetorical question, but have you ever read Mario Puzo's actual books? I only say this for he doesn't focus so much on the dialog as to the description of the people, environments and such. You do this, which is good. Descriptions, for me at least, always sell a good story. They place you in the narrative.

 

Also, whenever I mention Puzo's books I mean his mafia trilogy for I have but a little bit of "The Fourth K", the only book of his which is not a mafia book.

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Good writing Sinful. Nice little story with several running plots in it, but the overall plot is up front and not hidden. This may be thought of as a rhetorical question, but have you ever read Mario Puzo's actual books? I only say this for he doesn't focus so much on the dialog as to the description of the people, environments and such. You do this, which is good. Descriptions, for me at least, always sell a good story. They place you in the narrative.

 

Also, whenever I mention Puzo's books I mean his mafia trilogy for I have but a little bit of "The Fourth K", the only book of his which is not a mafia book.

Surely! He's my personal writing hero tounge.gif

 

I've read The Godfater, The Sicilian, Omerta and also The Godfather Returns by Mark Winegardner.

 

About Joseph Falcone, I'll continue this when I feel like it. I noticed forcing myself to write never works o_o

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Ronmar The Only

You need to read the Last Don, nice story. I have been trying to get hold of the TV mini-series but Amazon never has it the bastards.

 

Hopefully I will be able to post something here in the next few months...working on backstories.

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