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The Bar

Recommended Posts


Rudra entered the bar smelling of Petrol, half an hour later than he was supposed to arrive. He'd forgotten about the 'fed' in Gur's car, so he had to go back, load all of the corpses into the van and set it on fire. The fact that the van was sitting on a full tank, with a can of petrol in the back made it a lot easier.


He stayed there, watched the corpses burn...he cremated his friend. Even though Gur was an asshole, he was one too. At least Gur stayed loyal...he, had forgotten what loyalty was.


Then he remembered the Dead drop, so he had to go and load a G36c with a foregrip and an RDS attachment, six magazines of 5.56*45 mm bullets, six more 10 round magazines for his Elite P500, his Sero GM-6 Lynx and 10 rounds of .50 BMG ammunition, some pounds of taggant less C-4 and a bulletproof vest in a duffel bag. The client had even left him a couple of Cohiba Esplindidos. Which reminded him that he'd need to call the client soon and secure his payment.


Rudra finished his glass of absinthe, he wanted to go for an Aunt Roberta* initially but then decided not to. Just in case he needed to stay sober. In his left hand, between his thumb an index finger, a slowly burning seven inch long cigar...it reminded him of his own mortality.


Funny, he could be a brutally cunning killer in one moment and a ponderer in the other. Maybe he was made to be a ponderer...not a killer.


Maybe that was why he wanted the money, to get a fresh start.


He took in the cigar smoke, swirled it around in his mouth,, and exhaled...partially through the nose and partially through the mouth.


He wanted to go check on the crazy woman, because both Santa and Tom were nowhere to be seen, and he wondered if psycholops was already dead. Plus, he needed to keep the duffel bag some place safe.


Maybe he'd offer her one of his cigars...if he didn't kill her. Because, she was both useless and a horrible shot. He had nothing against women, and he definitely did not believe that women couldn't be good shooters, in fact, Rudra learnt shooting from a very talented woman.


But he he felt that in a group of elite killers, she was a burden...then again, her mentally unstable antics were good baits.


When others hid behind any sort of available cover, she stood around in the open, giving her opponents a big target and the people around her some time to aim for the head.


Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a stereotypical nerd with a beer, reading a notebook.


Rudra stood, picked up the duffel bag and walked upstairs.


Location: Main Room


*Aunt Roberta: 2 Absinthe, 1 brandy, 3 vodka, one and a half gin and a shot of blackberry liquor. Shake all ingredients with ice and strain into a glass. Lock the door, keep all sharp things out of reach. You're welcome.


Don't drink too many of them, or you wont have a liver left. 100% alcohol.

Edited by AEsob

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The door clicked open. In the door way was the broken-nosed guy. He reeked of fuel, and had a large, green duffle bag strapped to his right shoulder. Elizabeth covered herself in the sheets surrounding the table she lay on. "Did you strip me down?" She snapped, "If you did, I'm going to turn your fingers into minced meat."


The nose-guy attempted to present himself as indifferent to her nudity, but even he tried to steal a peek. "No," he responed, "It was probably the guy in the trench coat. He's the one who treated you"


"The old man, you say? He's dead," she smirked, "I'll kill him. He'll be nothing more than entrails in a back alley"


"Don't get ahead of yourself, you're in no position to make threats," he interjected, "In fact, you should be thankful he saved you, even if he is an asshole." The man exhaled a cloud of smoke, dropping a duffle bag on the table beside her. Remnants of what used to be an alcohol bottle scatter along the table holding the duffel bag. Rhino pulled a large case from the bag, pulling a cigar from it. He waved the cigar towards her direction, gesturing Elizabeth to take it. Though she was unable to see it clearly from her position, the bag looked like an army weapons cache. She leaned forward to grab the cigar from the man's hands, still trying to conceal what little is left to the imagination.


"Why am I here, eh?" She questioned, placing the cigar in her mouth "You have no purpose in saving me, after all. I should be in hell by now, giving satan the finger."


"You may want to ask the old man yourself," the broken-nosed man muttered, "Supposedly, he wants to do a job of some sorts. And we're invited." The indian pulls a lighter and a cigar cutter from his jacket pocket. Elizabeth rolls onto her chest, kicking her feet up, allowing some of the blankets to roll off her body.


"A job?" She said, "Any details?" Elizabeth jerked foward so the man could cut and light her cigar.


"No," he grunted, "That's as much as he's told me. Don't know why you're involved, you're incompetent." A little agitated from the comment, Elizabeth simply grunted in response. A job, she thought, hopefully it's one where she could "let off some steam." She swung her feet in the air as she huffed in the smoke from the cigar.


"Say, I didn't catch your name," she said, killing the silence, "Mine's Elizabeth, but most call me Simon."


The man stood idle for a short period, unsure of whether or not to reveal such information. He gently rubbed his index finger on his cigar. His face never changed from a soulless, blank expression.


"Rudra," he utters, "You can call me Rudra."


Elizabeth simply laughed softly. She found it funny that neither one has tried to kill each other yet. She'd lose, obviously, since she didn't even have a pair of trousers as defense. She'd rather not have another blow to the ribcage this time.


"That asshole in the coat better bring me some damn clothes," she joked, "I'm not doing the job naked."


It may be that she's relaxed, but Rudra seemed to think she was acting rather different, like some switch has been pulled in her brain. Her tone was soft and restrained, in contrast to her brash and aggressive method of speaking during their conflict in the alleyway. Her voices had a light Canadian accent that was only distinguishable on certain syllables. Her behavior remained childish as before, but without a gun in her hand and the intent to kill, so that's a plus. She seemed like a different person when not in the face of excitement or danger.


"Nice t' meet you, Rumdro" she chuckled, intentionally mispronouncing his name, "Hopefully I don't have to kill you."



Edited by countingfingers

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"Have you been in here all night?"

Kieran stood with arms tightly folded in the cubicle doorway.

"Hey, I'm talking to you," he barked, kicking the frame.

"I know, I heard you. You don't need to yell."

"Well are you going to buy a drink or go home?"

Elliot Pollard groaned softly, using the hands already supporting a heavy head to rub his temples.

"What time is it?"

Elliot's mouth was so dry it was hard to understand him. Kieran freed his arms to check his watch.

"It's about quarter past something. The second hand fell off when I was looking for Les' chalk."


Elliot sat upright slowly, hands still glued to the side of his head. The surrounding floor was sodden with what was left of his last order, making grip impossible with cheap trainers.

"I can't believe you've slept through today," Kieran said softly, helping Elliot to his feet. His tone was forgiving but threatening; "we've had sirens, couple of disagreements, the usual. I can smell burning too, but for once that's nothing to do with us."

"It's those knock-outs, I'm sure you only give them to me."

"You'd never sleep otherwise, and besides you - wait a minute," Kieran stopped before lowering his tone, "you didn't use this cubicle did you?"

Elliot blinked slowly, pretending not to hear.

"You know the third one from the sink doesn't work. Please tell me you didn't."

"If you didn't want anyone to use it, you should have put a sign on the door," Elliot said, straightening up slightly. Kieran's eyes narrowed.

"I did, it looks like you've wiped with it."

Kieran's cold stare flickered towards a rolled up piece of paper adorned with crude marker pen and questionable stains resting on the toilet's cistern.

The two men looked at each other for a couple of seconds before the stench got to them both.

"Come on, let me get you some coffee."

The words had barely left Kieran's mouth before he turned on his heels and marched back towards the bar, which had thankfully been left untouched in the few minutes of absence.


"You know, you can't stay here forever. Your student loan is for important stuff, like drinking in other bars. How long is it going to last?"

Elliot perched gently on a vacant stool at the end of the bar as a chipped mug of coffee was practically thrown in front of him.

"You need to get your life together pal," Kieran aimed a stubby finger at Elliot's nose, "I like you and all but you're a f*ck up. You're not at this level yet. This place is full of f*ck ups, but you're only 20. That is if your ID is real..."

"I'm actually 23," Elliot spoke through the rising steam of the coffee, "I got a fake ID so I could still get student deals and sleep with younger students."

Kieran let his mouth hang open as Elliot took a sip and grimaced. With a soft exhale he turned to the back wall of spirits to check the optics. He didn't want Elliot to see him grinning.


A few minutes of bar ambience crawled past before Kieran spoke again.

"Why not get a part-time job at least? If you're going to drop out of studying you're going to need something to fall back on when they eventually write to your folks and they boot you out."

"I guess," Elliot forced more coffee down, "do you know anyone?"

"Look kid, I'm not a career's adviser. I like you and all, you spend more money than anyone else at the moment, but you're going to waste. You've got an edge and I like that but you can't get by on winning drinking bets against dads sick of their kids mid-road trip."

Elliot just shrugged, growing more interested in the bottom of his cup.

"Can you Irish up this coffee?"

"Are you even listening to me?" Kieran slammed two large hands down on the bar top, lifting Elliot's mug in the air slightly. The bar carried on as usual.

"I'm warning you. This isn't a charity case. Believe it or not, I'm not a social worker either. I serve drunks. They've had their chance. You're about as old as my nephew is, and he's already using the webbing on his toes so his mum doesn't find out. We all know. Don't turn out like him."

"Then what am I going to do?" Elliot retorted, life returning to his voice, "it isn't like I'm good at anything. I take sociology and business studies, I'm barely getting by with a D grade which barely counts. This semester I'm talking about the impact of religious text books and how they can be applied to 20th century psychology practices. Do you have any idea how useless that sounds?"

"That's a load of sh*t," came a voice from the corner, belonging to a man who's beard was soaked in ale, "a D grade does count".

Kieran eyeballed the man before his focused dropped down to Elliot again.

"Regardless, you're doing something. If you're desperate, go and see Molly. She's doing her rounds downtown today with new stock. She can drive, so you can sleep off your salty attitude before mixing with clients. Don't take it out on me. I've had a rough morning already, I don't want to put you on your back as well."

Elliot once again looked into his mug which was now nearly empty. Chunks of poorly dissolved granules danced around lazily.

"Alright, where is she?"

"She's having a wash, she's not had a great day either. Like I said, you missed a lot. Don't say I said anything."



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Mokrie Dela

The man had an errand to run, informing his associate that'd he'd be a day or two. Tom, having ventured out himself, returning with a carrier bag, slapped the tall, stocky, grizzled veteran on the shoulder, wordlessly sushi him a good journey.


Tom sat at the bar, sipping a drink when Rudra appeared, the smell of petroleum fumes whirling around him like hungry sharks.


"What the hell did your friend do to her?" Rudra asked with narrowed eyes. "I get that you guys are like dark, immoral mercenaries, but come on, that's going a bit far."


"What are you talking about?" Tom frowned. "He removed the bullets, cleaned the wound.... Is she awake? Delirious?"


"No, she seems rather coherent, surprisingly. She's naked..."


"Ah, I see where you're going with this. No, that's not it. I... I guess I should talk to her."


Rudra nodded, sitting st the bar. "Where is he?"


"He'll be back tomorrow or the day after. Don't worry."



Tom sheepishly pushed the door open, seeing a woman scorned, and knew the saying that warned about her fury and how it was worse than Hell. He took a deep breath and closed the door behind him.


"Get away from me or I'll cut your tiny cock off."


Tom held his hands up. "Nice to see you, too."


Elizabeth pulled the sheets up, hiding as much of her body as she could. "You bastards."


"Hey, I think you've got the wrong end of the stick." Tom set the bag down and reached into his pants for his gun.


"Silencing the conspiracy, how are you?" Fear and pure fury burned in her usually playful eyes.


Tom paused for s second, his expression neutral: then he ejected the magazine, emptied the chamber and threw the empty gun in the bed.


"That Indian chap told me what you think has happened." He reached into his bag, pulling out another. From within he pulled out a horrid, brown and red stained cloth. He threw that toward the bed.


She looked at it, frowning. "What the hell is that?"


"Stretch them out."


Elizabeth gasped, dropping them. Her head disappeared beneath the covers as she peered at herself. The cloth was her own soiled underpants.


She looked back confused.


"Your injury was worse than you think. My associate removed your dirty clothes because they could cause infections or blood poisoning; I've seen that and believe me it's not nice. I was here the whole time, and while he did see you, he didn't go where you think. He's many things but not that."


"I don't believe you," she fumed. "Why remove the bra?"


Tom shrugged. "We cleaned you from head to toe - apart from your hair. Look at yourself. Is there any blood or dirt on your skin?"


Elizabeth surveyed her body behind the sheet. She shook her head reluctantly.


"I ain't gonna lie; he wants you. But he likes his women with fight to them. Some slap and tickle - literally."


"Some what?"


"You might have died if he'd left you. And he should have left you. It's unprofessional. Maybe he's getting sentimental in his old age."


"I still don't believe you."


Tom shrugged. "Go the the hospital then. Get tested. Hell, put your fingers up there and feel for anything. Frankly, my dear, I don't care."


"Where is he?" She breathed through gritted teeth.




"He st least could have given me some new clothes."


Tom three the other bag to her. She looked inside, her eyebrows rising.


"These..." She swallowed. "These are from a really good store."


Tom nodded. "We did what we have to. Now we've got another job coming up, and you might have a part in it. But first you need to decide if you think he did it or not. If you think he did, then you can kill him. After our job. But the job demands trust, so if that's the case, you can't come. If you decide to believe us - the truth - then we can work together."


"You wouldn't come back here."


"We would. Like I said, he wants you, and that's why I think he saved you. You'll have an ugly scar in your arse, but at least you'll be alive to see it." Tom turned to the door and paused. He sighed. "Your dirty clothes are all in this bag. Your bra broke in taking it off; have you ever met a guy who could undo those things quickly? All of your clothes are dirty; see for yourself."


Tom closed the door softly behind him.


On the bed, Elizibeth looked around, wanting to clap her hand with excitement at the job, but also to weep at the thought of what she thought had happened. Tom had left his gun, albeit empty.


She didn't know whether to believe them or not.



Elizibeth location: upstairs bedroom - alive & awake

Tom location: main bar

Rudra location: main bar

Unnamed man location: out of bar (24 hrs+) (exclude him for a bit, guys!)

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Francesco Bonomo

My characters name is West Carter


​Just came in from Vegas with twenty dollars in one pocket and shallow darkness in the other. I have no home, wherever I hang my hat. I have no spouse, wherever I hang my hat. I have no future...


I repeat that in my mind continuously everyday since my fathers death. This is me, a thirty-five year old drug-addicted, stealing, rolling stone alcohol without a path and without any happiness. When will I learn? Someday.


I see a bar across the street. Seems quiet, a nice place to grab a drink and reflect upon my wretched life of debauchery, lies, and regrets. Let's see what twenty dollars can get me.


I cross the street and just as I expected, a taxi nearly hit me, I was kind of hoping it would, but I continued my way to the bar.


I stand in front of the entrance. It's open but I stand there looking inside seeing a lot of different characters, whom of which I don't know. So I take two steps back and sit in the cold sidewalk that feels comforting to me. A man who stepped out of the bar asked me "What are you doing there? You get kicked out?" I simply replied "... No. Just preparing for my end before I go in there."


The man walked away, confused and concerned. He looked back towards me three times as he was walking away. If he only knew what I had been through in my life... he would understand.


The coldness of the sidewalk converts into welcoming heat and I feel safe. The Devil is waiting for me, God wants me to change my ways, but the sinful saints in between encourage me to say "f*ck it."


Location: Outside of bar

Status: Alive

Edited by Francesco Bonomo

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The thought of the old man having some sort of high-school-crush on her brought a chill down her spine. Though stubborn and loath to accept the truth, Elizabeth realized they have no reason to invite her into the job if she was to fall victim to such a crime, and his boyfriend, Tommy, has shifted her perspective a bit. She hated the man, but she'd prefer to accept that it didn't happen, or at least claim it didn't, and if it did, she'll have to know eventually.


If it did happen, the old man will be dead.


As pitiable as the old man may seem, he was the catalyst of mayhem and murder, and she may even get a mighty fine paycheck to boot. She rolled the cigar along her lip and rose from the comfy bed, trying to regain her footing after her injury. A slight sting arose from the wound, but she battled the pain. Standing gracefully, she sent her arms skyward, locked together by her fingertips. A light pop came from her arms as she tugged upwards.


She exhaled softly as she let gravity drag them back to Earth. She grabbed the bag containing the fresh clothing, then pouring the contents of the bag onto the bed. She quickly dressed herself, so that any uninvited guest wouldn't catch a full glimpse of her exposed body any further. To her surprise, the old man's boyfriend did his research, since the clothing fit her size. She wore an dark, olive button-down shirt, sloppily tucked into a pair of black cargo pants.


Her boots, though muddy, luckily survived the ordeal, so she positioned them besides the door way for future use. She now had to play guard for Rudra's bag of toys, a task he assigned her to do.


How boring, she thought.


Location: Upstairs Room. Conscious, clothed, and bored.

Edited by countingfingers

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The air bit Elliot's nose as he stepped into the alleyway to the rear of the bar. Behind him, the fire exit door slammed shut in a manner that would have come across as foreboding to somebody less skeptic. Pulling his jacket around him, he let his head swing back and forth looking for Molly. By now, Elliot knew what she looked like but couldn't believe it took him this long to talk to her. Sleeping off the morning's headache had it's disadvantages. Elliot barely had time to step outside before the door was thrown open again. With a harsh draw on a cigarette, Molly jabbed a finger into Elliot's chest.


"You Elliot?"

"Yeah," he replied, a little startled, "nice to meet you too?"

"Sorry, I've had a rough day. I presume Kieran told you? He can't keep a secret to save his life."

"He didn't go into details. Your secret's safe."

Molly shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, clearly more affected by the cold than she would like to let on. Elliot gave her a few seconds alone with her cigarette, suddenly growing very interested in a cardboard box carelessly resting against an empty barrel.

"Kieran said you had a job for me? A helping hand, maybe?"
Molly seemed to scan him, before throwing her stub on the ground and flattening it.

"Yeah, you could say that," she spoke through a last exhale, "my friend is doing the rounds to local bars and taverns. Pornography's coming up in a big way. Online market is booming, yeah, but sometimes you can't beat a blank label DVD rotting in your player."

Elliot pretended to understand, nodding through the lingering fumes.

"I'd go myself," she continued, "but I'm staying put. I need something stiff."

"So we're touting it? Just... just going around asking if they're interested?"

"You make it sound so seedy, but yeah, pretty much. Be a doll and help me load the box into the van? You'll be back before you know it."

Elliot, keen to impress and petrified of Kieran's words duly heaved the box onto his shoulders. He couldn't conceal a gasp.

"Christ, what's in here? Just DVDs?"

"DVDs, VHS, magazines..." she paused to light another cigarette, "covering all bases, you know?"

Elliot could barely muster a nod beneath the wait as Molly led the way to a brown van at the end of the alleyway.

"My friend's in the van. I'll introduce you both. She's called Debbie. Dependable cat, bless her. Nice enough. Her on-off boyfriend works in the first pub you're going to, he's given us the best time to go in so no community officers come snooping. They always snap up the best stuff first."

Elliot nearly did a double take, as Debbie was a spitting image of Molly. He turned back but Molly beat him to it.

"No, we're not related. Go on, get. I'll be here when you get back and we'll talk more work. I need a strapping lad."




"First stop!"

Elliot's mind had clearly wandered - not only did he not notice any significant landmarks along the way, but the tavern had crept into view earlier than expected. With a jolt, he lurched forward, a faulty seatbelt barely saving him from an encounter with the dashboard.

"Sorry, honey," Debbie clearly had a touch more of a consciousness than Molly did, "I'm just eager. Leave the box in the van, I'm seeing my man first. Relax and have a drink, I'll come and find you when I'm finished."

"Nice clientele at least?" said Elliot.

"A little rough around the edges," Debbie mused, "so it's home from home. Come on."

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Mokrie...you have to write the next part, we have no idea what to do.

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Mokrie Dela

sh*t is it hinging on me? Alright I'll have a look :|

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Please do. I mean I know there's an overall plan but it has to be you who sets the heels in motion, since it is your plan.

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Mokrie Dela

Well not necessarily


Great thing about this is you're writing with other people. Sure I have a big job 'plan' but really it's all about bouncing off other people's ideas. So if you have an idea, go for it!




Tom sat at the bar, a steaming mug of foul-smelling coffee in his hand. He didn't care much about the taste; he craved the hit of caffeine and the warm liquid in his throat. The index finger on his spare hand swooped across the screen of his tablet, the screen showing a building in the maps app. He sighed, shaking his head slightly. A footstep sounded beside him and he quickly closed the app, concealing the location he'd been looking at. He looked up, seeing a face he didn't recognize sit two stools up from him. He sighed and looked at the blank screen. Then he casted his gaze upward, looking at the ceiling, or to where the woman was, sitting unseen upstairs. He didn't approve of his associate's decision, but it wasn't his place to make such a call. The job had been coming for a long time. She was too green, too... useless. She was a liability.


The Indian? He was a pleasant surprise. Where they'd planned to rough him up, maybe even take him out completely, now Tom saw promise. Potential. His associate wasn't going to be around forever. He'd been living on borrowed time for twenty years, and since Tom had known him. Every day, every job, the man doubled down on the time that was running out. It was a shame, Tom thought, but that was life. He was a tough son of a bitch, but even tough sons of bitches were mortal.


Worse, his decision making had declined. He was going to get the girl killed. And all because he wanted one last hurrah - he wanted a final job, to top all other jobs, and he wanted to get his end away, most likely die in his sleep after spending himself. Tom couldn't blame him for that; the girl wasn't ugly; she was attractive in a plain sort of way. Certainly Tom could get better, in better bars.


Why was she here? he asked himself. It wasn't her scene. She seemed like a spoilt child, rebelling against the silver spoon and looking for trouble on the wrong side of the tracks. He didn't think she was exactly what his associate thought she was. She wouldn't punch, bite and pinch while rolling around in the sheets.


Again, Tom sighed. He looked up again, wondering if he should talk to the girl once more. He wanted to know why she was hanging out in such a dive, getting into such trouble, following three obviously dangerous men in dark alleyways, men that could turn out slicing her breasts off with samurai swords.


That image filled his mind, a memory he thought he'd forget. No, a memory he wanted to forget. He and his associate had been with many people. Bad people. Rudra had severely underestimated them - not so much Tom, but...


"Jesus," Tom breathed. At any given whim, he could witness Rudra being mutilated. The girl, too. They didn't deserve to know the old man. This job was going to get them killed. Well, he corrected himself, perhaps not Rudra. But the girl was too wild.


He blinked, realizing what the old man had planned for her.


"No," he said, shaking his head. The old man had run off, likely signing her death warrant. No amount of luck or divine intervention was going to save her. He left his coffee and raced upstairs.


"Why are you doing this?" he blurted as he burst through the door. No knock; she could have been naked still, urinating or playing with herself. He didn't care. He needed answers.


"What?" Elizabeth blinked, taken aback by his aggressive entrance.


"Following us, getting in shootouts beyond your ability, hanging out in this dump. Why? You're going to get yourself killed in this job. It's what we called the big one; dangerous enough for the two of us, and we're good, real good. He's the best there ever was. But you? You're... normal. You're bricking it thinking he raped you, a kid out of her depth. You're someone's princess, someone's daughter, someone's whole world. Why are you throwing it all away, hanging out with bad people - people so bad it wouldn't be surprising if you were raped, then robbed and left hanging by your hair from a streetlamp...." Tom exhaled. He dithered. "Why?"


Before she could answer he stepped back, realizing the look on her face; like a child caught doing something they shouldn't. She had a bag, and he knew it wasn't hers. He looked at it, seeing the guilt in her eyes. No, not guilt. He snatched it.


"What's this?"


"Don't!" she shrieked, jumping to her feet. He opened it and looked inside...



Tom & Elizabeth location: upstairs bedroom.

Edited by Mokrie Dela

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"Give it back, asshole!" Elizabeth yelled. The lass was flustered with unbridled rage. Tom dug his hands into the bag, disregarding the woman's curses, finding an assortment of guns and a large cigar box. As he was searching through the stash, Elizabeth sent a clenched fist into his cheek. Tom's head followed the motion of Elizabeth's punch and a faint grunt released between his chapped lips.


Tom threw the bag far from the perimeter of the two, letting it crash on the weak drywall, chiseling a crack onto the dirty wall. He tripped Elizabeth, sending her to the ground and landing on her back. Tom rushed to restrain her movements, forcing her arms to the mahogany floor. She kicked and squirmed as Tom held her to the floor. His hands were like shackles on Elizabeth's arms.


"Calm down," Tom ordered. From Elizabeth's mouth, a ball of saliva flew into Tom's rough face.


"Let go of me, bastard," she barked. After another short period of thrashing to free herself from Tom's iron grip, she finally calmed down. Tom knew better to not release her so quickly and kept her restrained.


"Where'd you get the bag?" He interrogated.


"It's the other guy's bag, the Indian. Rudra, I believe his name was," she angrily responded, "He brought it here and I guarded it. Why else would you expect me to have it?" Logically, Tom was defeated.


"Ok, but about the job," Tom grumbled, accepting his defeat on the debate, "You shouldn't join. You're not a criminal, you're just a normal girl. You're someone's child. Don't rope yourself into this."


"You f*cking hypocrite, you're the one uncut for the job," she snapped, "You shouldn't worry about my safety!"




"But f*cking nothing," she interrupted, "I'm not someone's princess. I'm nowhere near royalty. Look at me, I'm missing an eye, have stitching on my ass from a gunshot wound, can barely be considered sane, and I once cut off a guys fingers one by one, blissfully listening to his agonizing screams and pleas for mercy! Why on Earth do you think I would possibly have anything to care for?"


"What about family?" Tom protested.


"I have no family. My mother, dead. Brother, dead. My father..." Elizabeth hesitated, troubled by the mention of her father. She turned away from Tom's expressionless face, possibly to hide her sorrows. "My father....," she muttered, "My father wasn't a good person. That's why I fixed him."


Tom knew well enough what she meant by 'fixed.' The thought of her dad's fate caused her to faintly grin, but she dared not to laugh.


"Fine, if you want to get yourself killed, so be it," Tom reluctantly agreed, "But if you're dying from a gunshot wound or worst, don't expect us to come rehabilitate you again."


"That's fine," she said, "So long as you're not giving me these nonsensical lectures about living a life normally, I'm fine." Tom released his tight restraints. His grasp has left Elizabeth a red mark around her wrist. She rubbed them gently with haste. She rose from the ground, patting herself clean.


"I'm going to the bar," she grumbled, "You can do whatever the f*ck you want because, frankly, my dear, I don't give a f*ck." Exhausted and annoyed from the argument, she wouldn't love anything more than sipping down anything with alcohol in it. She slipped on her boots, which were still filthy from the alleyway event, and left for the watering hole.


Tom chased after her, recalling information that would be vital.


Elizabeth: Main Room

Tom: Main Room




Sorry for redoing my portion. After proofreading it, I felt it was inadequate and lazy, so I reworked it, and made it neater and more polished.

Edited by countingfingers

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Tyrell Blackwell overheard Elizabeth and Tom from a nearby room. He hadn't made a single peep, sitting patiently trying to figure out what they could be talking about. "A big job? the f*ck they talkin' about?" Moments later the two left the room, heading for the bar by the looks of it. Creeping into the room, he stumbles over a bag that he heard crash into the ground. Without looking the bag is snatched, and back to the second floor Tyrell goes. Overlooking the city from the balcony, he swings the bag around from his back, unzipping it before looking inside. "What the f*ck did I just get myself into?" "This sh*ts gotta be expensive.." He zips the bag closed once more, slinging it over his back. The creaking of the backdoor convinced Tyrell he'd be caught, but to his surprise, nobody heard it. He was in the alley, all he had to do was get out of sight.


Location: Back alley of the bar, carrying the drop.

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Oh f*ck SRB, you're cold. The stuff in that bag was customised. Worth at least 50,000 dollars. Rudra is going to be mad. You won't like him when he's mad. I feel sorry for Tyrell.

Edited by AEsob

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Rudra had been drinking his absinthe and smoking his Cigar...it was a long cigar, and took a lot of time to burn through. He didn't take the smoke in to his lungs, and that was why he was in perfect health. he used to know people who didn't smoke Cigars properly, and filled their lungs with smoke. That was why he used to know them.


In his line of work, a creaking floorboard or even a little cough could give someone away. Amateurs and fools died soon.


He saw Elizabeth, and Tom after him, get down the stairs.


That meant...


"Hey, psycholops! Where's my bag?"


Elizabeth froze, having left Rudra's treasure trove of murder instruments upstairs, unprotected.


Rudra's mind was racing...there were fifty thousand dollars worth of equipment in there. The shipment was clean, free from serial numbers, the bullets weren't marked, and that'd give the police no idea where they came from.


And, without a sniper rifle and a carbine, a few thousand sh*ts would collectively hit the fan if something went wrong.


Without waiting for an answer, He slowly walked towards the door near the second set of staircases that led upstairs, his boots were modified, with a layer of padding under steel tipped soles. perfect for smashing teeth in.


Before he could get there, the door creaked open, and a flash of green zipped past the door.


A shifty looking kid had just walked out of the door with his drop.


Rudra followed him outside to the back-alley. He drew his pistol and the karambit.


The kid with the bag was struggling with the weight, and it was supposed to be so, because there was at least about 25 kilograms of equipment inside.


The kid was an amateur, he didn't even suspect anything before Rudra stabbed him in the shoulder, kicked him in the knee with his steel tipped boot and put a cold gun to his head. Rudra put pressure on the kid's other leg, stabilising him so that he didn't fall facedown, just kneeled.


There they were. As Tyrell kneeled in the snow, with a knife in his shoulder, an injured, possible dislocated knee and a gun to his head, he realised...that Karma had finally caught up with him, and it even got an Indian to do the job.




Tyrell Blackwell: Back-alley

Rudra: Back-alley


And that kids, is why you never steal from elite assassins.


Clock's ticking SRB, Tyrell better have a good reason or a sob story or a violent sadist will put a .45 ACP Hollow Point in his head.

Edited by AEsob

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"Man," a voice entered the scene. The crunching of snow emitted from the alley way. "You always get all the good stuff," Elizabeth complained. She trailed her feet along the snow covered back alley, never cleaned by the store owner.


"What are you doing here?" Rudra asked, "Do you have nothing better to do than chase me around and get yourself killed?"


"Nope," she playfully said, "I guess I just like the company." She walked around the injured man, like she was art critic analyzing every millimeter of a sculpture.


"This our guy?" She asked. Rudra nodded his head pushing the gun closer to the man's skull. The kid shook with terror, sensing an ominous gun trained on his head. He was weak from his wounds, incapable of retaliating.


"That's the f*cker," Rudra answered calmly.


"May I?" Elizabeth pleaded, "It's my mistake, after all. Can't I get the option to fix what I've wronged. I'll make him tell his life story from square one if you want."


The thought of how she'd break the pathetic sap lying in pain on the ground seemed like something she wanted to do herself. Perhaps she'd break all the bones on the man's already damaged arm, one by one. Maybe she'd smash his testicles. The options were endless, and she'd hate herself if she didn't get to try at least one. She clenched her right fist on her left hand, popping as force was placed against it.


Before she could try her luck, she needed that bag secured. She lifted the bag, securing it on Rudra's free shoulder.


"There. That's step one in fixing my mistakes. Now, can I take care of step 2?" She calmly asked. The amateur locked eyes with the woman. Through the cool headed expression, she was struggling to contain her composure. The man had seen the woman before.


"Fine," Rudra submitted, "Show me you're not entirely useless." Elizabeth's expression quickly changed from composed to a sadistic smile. She dug her boot into the man's back, letting him lay on the snow. Rudra stood as spectator, or rather, a referee, making sure she wouldn't kill the poor sucker. Elizabeth's muddy boot pushed against the thief's hand, listening with a jolly face as the man let a soft scream of pain. She cupped the man's jaw, forcing her eye to meet his.


"I don't play nice," she spoke calmly, "So be a dear and give the guy what he wants."


Location: Back Alley

Elizabeth, Rudra, and Tyrell.






Sorry, I was kind of bored at the dentist, so I decided to get involved.

Edited by countingfingers

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SRB? Where are you?

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Tyrell attempted to catch his breath, his heart was racing. "Play tough, act hard, maybe they'll be afraid of you, or respect you for it.. " he knew that was a lie, and he knew that had slim chances of achieving anything. He remained silent, shaking his head. He wasn't as upset because he was about to die, but he was more upset with himself for getting caught. Tyrell had an odd mind, his brain operated in a way that would make him more upset with himself for loosing to somebody, then the consequences for loosing. He was hard on himself everytime his mind told him he "lost". "I'm better then this" he kept thinking, continuing his silence. "Well do you have anything to say for yourself" the lady questioned. "Kill me I guess, I deserve it." Tyrell blatantly says outloud. The indian and the women eyeball eachother, most likely puzzled and confused at the answer they probably weren't expecting. Tyrell shuts his eyes, awaiting his end.


Location Tyrell-Rudra-Elizabeth: Back Alley.


Tyrells fate is in your hands fellas.


Would of wrote more but I'm on my lunch break and don't have the time right now. Just figured I'd toss in a little bit to keep the bar moving.

Edited by SRB

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"I can't kill you now," Simon grumbled, "You actually want death." The boot's force was lifted from the man's backhand. The hand was a dark purple from the crushing force. Feeling the pressure decay from his hand, the man exhaled softly, letting the pain escape with his fainting breath.


"How adorable," she said, "The hero boy accepts fate, but it won't come get him." Elizabeth set herself down in front of the man, placing her hands onto his cheeks. A soft kiss was placed onto the swindler's bloodied forehead. It was quick, but the thief's eyes peeled open in confusion, wondering why he's not dead.


"Tell you what," she softly spoke, "I'm not going to kill you, I'm going to break you. I'll make sure you won't forget me." Her fingers dug into the man's open stab wound. His howls of pain were muffled by the woman's opposite hand.


"See?" She said, holding in her laughter, "Isn't this better than death?"


Rudra was rather suprised by her brutality. She didn't hesitate on actions. Her face seemed remorseless, seeming pleased of herself. Rudra tapped the psycho lightly on the shoulder.


"No more, boss?" She smiled, pulling her fingertips, now covered in a coating of red, out of the wound.





Location: Back Alleyway




Edited by countingfingers

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Mokrie Dela

Blood matted his leather coat and had dried under his fingernails. Despite rubbing the blood from one of his cheeks, blotches of his face were a darker red than normal. Curiously, no one really noticed as he walked in through the bar's front door. He was too old for subtlety, he thought, though he had surreptitiously learned a few things.


He walked to the bar, expecting to see his partner, but instead saw strangers. As he waved at the barman for a drink, finally his appearance was noticed.


"What the hell?" the barman asked in his Irish-American brogue. "You look like you just butchered a whole family. You can't-"


He held his hand up. "Don't ride a motorcycle into a deer." He groaned, a cough audibly fighting its way up from his chest. "Not to mention the makeover, it hurts, and f*cks your bike up."


"You're lucky to be alive," the barman said. It was clear he was skeptical about the story, but the man didn't care. He tossed a bill on the counter and pointed for the whiskey. The barman remembered; no farther instruction was necessary


The first sip of the acrid liquid instigated a barrage of coughing and heaving. The man got a handle on it, though, breathing deeply, despite the lack of breath, and pushing his fist into his chest. He looked up, his face red, his eyes bloodshot. He exhaled, the feeling of air filling his lungs a blessed relief. Each attack felt like he was drowning, his breath stolen from him.


He felt the ethereal figure over his shoulder. His time was running out.


That's why he'd done what he'd done.


He finished his drink, feeling the swirling in his head that seemed to make the world tolerable. He must have had half a bottle; he'd built up a heavy resistance over the years. Sure, it wasn't helping his cough, but that was killing him anyway.


He stood, thumbing the scar on his neck. He'd let that asshole off lightly; only making him suffer for three days. If he could go back, he would skin him and pour vinegar over his raw body. The fingernails, the blowtorch and pliers, the pulling of the teeth and decapitation of certain appendages wasn't enough.


Where was Tom? He looked around, ambling for the door to the rear of the bar. He headed upstairs, finding the bedroom abandoned. Where was the girl? He sighed. That wasn't going to happen. He knew. That last hurrah would have to be paid for. He looked at himself in the foggy freestanding mirror.


Can't say I blame her, he said to himself. Well, if she wasn't going to consent, that was that. He was many things, but he was not that. Arguably, what he was was much worse. He could think of dozens of people who could attest to that.


He headed back downstairs, moving into the rear alley. He was no longer looking for anyone. He found the loose paving slab and removed it, finding the satchel hidden in the dirt. In it was a change of clothes. His coat he would wash down in the bathroom.


Where the hell was Tom, and Elizabeth, and that f*cking raghead? His instincts told him something had happened. He could taste it in the air. Panic clawed at his mind, but he was mentally conditioned to keep it at bay. Still, without the girl, his partner and Redrag Singh, or whatever he was called, he was stuck.


"Where the hell is everyone?" he asked the cold air. "The clock's ticking."




Tom is elsewhere. Consider this an open invitation to borrow the character for one chapter - so long as whereever he's gone to and whatever he's doing doesn't conflict with any of the other characters ;)

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Francesco Bonomo

I finally entered the bar with little money, low to no expectations, and a nervous feeling upon me. I look around and see a variety of characters having a nice time and through the thick cigarette smoke I saw the bar, I made my way. The bartender was this big man who most likely used to be a boxer or enforcer... He looks scary is what I'm trying to say. Walking through the crowd I felt the energy getting more and more heavy for some reason, like I'm being watched or soon to be attacked. I pull up a dusty stool and sat on it and politely asked for a Miller and a shot of Tequila, the bartender just stood there looking at me like he's seen me before but I know for a fact that I don't know him. I was feeling a little nervous and was close to getting up and leaving the bar but as soon as he spoke, I spoke, he asked "Aren't you West Carter?" I swallowed some saliva and said "Yeah, why?" He left.


The suspense was killing as I'm sitting there like a frozen idiot not knowing what's going to happen to me in the next five minutes. The bartender came back with two men and asked me to go with them, I quickly reacted and pushed them to get away but unfortunately I couldn't get away as they had the door locked in some way that I couldn't unlock it from inside. The trio grabbed and dragged me to the back while punching me. I'm so confused and crying because I don't know why this is happening to me or who these people are. Eventually I passed out and woke up moments later tied to a chair with my mouth taped shut in a dark room and I can distantly hear people taking on the other side of the door so I know I'm still in the bar... I can't yell for help. All I can do is hope I can get out of this alive at least.


Status: Alive

Location: Unknown

Edited by Francesco Bonomo

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Tyrell makes an attempt to get back to his feet, but fails. His knee felt as if it was pushed the opposite direction. Again he attempts to push himself up. using his hands to support his next maneuver. His hand, purple colored and tingling is of no use either. The boot pressured on it didn't help. "Why won't they just kill me already?" "They obviously got their sh*t back, why won't they just let me go or kill me? They can call the cops if they want or something cause this sh*ts just f*cked... " "Don't say that outloud, it might anger them more. You're outnumbered, figure something out."


He looks up at the indian man, letting out a small smile before putting his hands underneath him again. Shaking, he managed to slowly push himself to his feet, eyeballing his bruised hand. He only had slight pressure on his one leg, due to his knee being injured. He was very unsteady, and swayed back and forth slightly, all while attempting to make it look like his injuries were minor. They actually hurt him, but he wouldn't admit it. "Play the tough guy role" he told himself, what else does he have to loose. He flashed a quick smile toward the girl, who instinctively smiled back at him. "That kiss was alittle to kinky for our first date" he joked towards her. He had a knack for saying the wrong things, then continuing even when he shouldn't. "Next time maybe I'll get to be the dominate one" he remarks, smiling at her. He then turns his attention back to the indian, slowly turning, limping as he does to face him.


Location: Back Alley still, with Elizabeth and Rudra.

Edited by SRB

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The man seemed like he was fighting to retain his consciousness. Embedded beneath the false smile was a pained and distraught. Elizabeth could sense it. A mere facade to hide his true pain. A light punch across the face will knock him out cold.


His stance was weak, and he barely managed to hoist himself upward, to begin with. His left foot had very little weight being applied to it, letting it rest as the right took the burden of keeping it in balance. Above his belt, his torso hunched forward. His wounded arm was rendered unusable by all the punishment it sustaine, and his healthy arm clenched tightly on the stab wound on his shoulder. Both hands were drenched with his blood.


"You're quite the charmer," Elizabeth sarcastically smirked, rubbing her hands together for warmth, "But you're definitely in no condition to be the dominant one. In fact, you'll never be the dominant one." Rudra stood before the pathetic man, watching him. Perhaps he was fully ready to watch the man succumb to his injuries, since he definitely wouldn't last very long with an open, bleeding gash on his shoulder.


"So, you're gonna kill him or what?" Elizabeth impatiently snapped. Rudra shook his head, holstering the firearm he'd held firmly in his hands. The dunce knew he'd lose consciousness, but was still fighting fate.


"No," Rudra said, "We're not killing him."


"Man," Elizabeth groaned, "You're really boring. We could have sliced a limb or two, keep him bound to a chair as we pour salt over the stump, feed him only the finest rats the city can offer, and when the time comes, sit down with booze in our hands as he breathes his final breath. The perfect conclusion to this guy's life, right?"


"You're crazy, you know that, right?"




The man finally failed to keep himself awake and collapsed on the cold, snow filled ground. The snow looked like a cherry italian ice cone, covered in the unconscious man's blood. The two blankly stared at the man in the snow, unconcerned over his critical condition.


"If we're not going to kill him, what do you suggest we do with him, then?"



Location: Back Alley

Rudra, Tyrell, Elizabeth.



Quickly wrote this to keep the thread from dying. Was getting bored at home, with nothing really important to do.

Edited by countingfingers

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"No Dad please, I'll try harder I promise!" he screams, running out the door of his apartment. "Just stay out please!" his dad roared behind him as he stormed out behind the young Tyrell. "You won't ever be good enough, you'll never make anything of yourself, give up now .. please.. save yourself the time" his dad would tell him over dinner. He had to escape his house atleast twice a week, it was that bad. Nights were cold when you slept under an over hang with nothing to stop the wind from chilling you. When your alone, in the middle of the night, in you're pre-teens, just about every noise scares you. Tyrell thinks to himself, then blaming himself for not having a mother. His father was probably right, he was the problem. His mom must of seen that early on, and got out of dodge early. He felt bad, feeling as if he burdened his father and must of ruined his life.


Then this picture fades, things go black just as he jumps awake. It was a dream. He realizes he's laying face down in the snow, and the snow is red. It's his own blood. He slowly rolls over onto his back, glancing at the indian man and the women. His head begins to perk up, but his strength won't let him. He shakes, slowly resting his head back to the ground. Instead of doing what a logical person would do, and ask for forgiveness, or for help, he proceeds with his curse, and says more of the wrong things. "I like my ladies fiesty! That stuff turns me on.. " "How does somebody like you not have a boyfriend?" he remarks sarcastically.


Location of Tyrell, Rudra, and Elizabeth: Back Alley

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Rudra looked at the man lying in the bloody snow impatiently. He opened the bag on his shoulder and fumbled around for a piece of metal that'd get the job done. He found what he was looking for, a fifty calibre shell. Elizabeth was slightly puzzled as he cut off Tyrell's clothing at the wound and jabbed the brass shell in it, then heated it up with his butane lighter. Tyrell whimpered as the heating metal cauterised his wound. Rudra took the piece of blood soaked cloth in his hand and with the help of his knife, he pulled the red hot shell out. He grimaced, as the tip of his finger was slightly burnt.


"Your wound's cauterised, and your knee is not broken or dislocated. Yet. So get out of here before I change my mind and have your 'date' here play cricket with your balls."


Elizabeth sighed disapprovingly. This was disappointing.




I wasn't in a condition to come in sooner. So, Counting and Mokrie, where are you?

Edited by AEsob

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sh*t. I thought it would be later, but I'll be back sometime later. If anyone fancies, they can continue for a bit. If not, I may post something sometime tomorrow.

Edited by countingfingers

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Tomorrow it is then.

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Mokrie Dela

Think I'll begin to wrap up my character soon

Edited by Mokrie Dela

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Wrap up Mokrie?

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Mokrie Dela

The current story arch of no-name. There's the "big job" that I'm currently pondering the best way to implement it. I only have the most basic plan, as you guys gotta come up with something once I post the first part!


My attention has been turned toward COL2, the last week, as well as real life stuff, so the bar's a lower priority. Once I post the first "heist" (sorry!) part with no name, you guys can go nuts with it (use my characters, assuming you don't harm or kill them). I just wanna see where you can take it!

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