HomeCriminal Consequences
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Mr. Fountain
Thade
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Re: Criminal Consequences
by Thade Sun Oct 11, 2015 2:48 am
Jack Godwin
Status: “Megahot”
“Oh for Christ’s sake…” Jack winced. That girl was trouble. And even if he was about to interrogate him, testicles were off limits. That goes beyond being brutal. That’s just plain cruelty.
He strode over, still pointing the weapon at the man who was at that point curled up in the fetal position, gently rocking back and forth. He felt a little sorry for him. It was about to get worse. But he knew the risks when he signed on, they all did. Or that’s what Jack told himself, so he could actually sleep at night. The alcohol only did so much.
Jack kicked the man in the back of the head.
~~~
When he awoke, the man was tied to a chair with a length of heavy rope. He couldn’t move his hands, or his legs, and his balls hurt like a bitch.
An italian man in a dark suit stood in front of him, that damn sluttily dressed whore next to him.
The man in the suit spoke: “I don’t expect you to talk right away, they never do. Still, it would be a lot easier for me if you just straight up told me where I can find Mr. F.” He noticed the man had a switchblade knife in his hand, it gleamed in the rays of sun that shot through the dirtied glass windows of the warehouse. The man in the suit waited.
Status: “Megahot”
“Oh for Christ’s sake…” Jack winced. That girl was trouble. And even if he was about to interrogate him, testicles were off limits. That goes beyond being brutal. That’s just plain cruelty.
He strode over, still pointing the weapon at the man who was at that point curled up in the fetal position, gently rocking back and forth. He felt a little sorry for him. It was about to get worse. But he knew the risks when he signed on, they all did. Or that’s what Jack told himself, so he could actually sleep at night. The alcohol only did so much.
Jack kicked the man in the back of the head.
~~~
When he awoke, the man was tied to a chair with a length of heavy rope. He couldn’t move his hands, or his legs, and his balls hurt like a bitch.
An italian man in a dark suit stood in front of him, that damn sluttily dressed whore next to him.
The man in the suit spoke: “I don’t expect you to talk right away, they never do. Still, it would be a lot easier for me if you just straight up told me where I can find Mr. F.” He noticed the man had a switchblade knife in his hand, it gleamed in the rays of sun that shot through the dirtied glass windows of the warehouse. The man in the suit waited.
Thade- Esquire
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Re: Criminal Consequences
by Fi Skirata Sun Oct 11, 2015 3:10 am
Some fucking Guy
Status: Mondays, amirite?
Wrists: Tied up too tightly
Gunshot wounds: Not as bad as his testicles.
Testicles: Throbbing.
The slut was holding her hands behind her, tottering back and forth on her heels like a child, watching the scene unfold. "Bettertalkoryou'regonnagetit!" She sang. The goon glared at her then at the suited man. What the hell was this shit.
"What do you even want me to tell you?" The man spat "He never told his fucking full name. Richie the Rat told that potato farmin' fuckin' Irish that the old man's name was Fairbank, or Fairbanks or something."
The goon blinked harshly against the rays of the sun "I don't think I need to tell you that's a fake fuckin' name. Alright? That's all I know. It's not like you're gonna do shit in front of your little whore, now is it?"
The mixed girl giggled "Actually. I like to watch. ItskindahotyaknowwhatI'msayin'?"
The goon wriggled against his ropes. Clearly the bloodloss and testicle crushing made him incapable of rational thought or he'd be more concerned about the Italian with a switchblade. "Fuckin' bitch!"
Status: Mondays, amirite?
Wrists: Tied up too tightly
Gunshot wounds: Not as bad as his testicles.
Testicles: Throbbing.
The slut was holding her hands behind her, tottering back and forth on her heels like a child, watching the scene unfold. "Bettertalkoryou'regonnagetit!" She sang. The goon glared at her then at the suited man. What the hell was this shit.
"What do you even want me to tell you?" The man spat "He never told his fucking full name. Richie the Rat told that potato farmin' fuckin' Irish that the old man's name was Fairbank, or Fairbanks or something."
The goon blinked harshly against the rays of the sun "I don't think I need to tell you that's a fake fuckin' name. Alright? That's all I know. It's not like you're gonna do shit in front of your little whore, now is it?"
The mixed girl giggled "Actually. I like to watch. ItskindahotyaknowwhatI'msayin'?"
The goon wriggled against his ropes. Clearly the bloodloss and testicle crushing made him incapable of rational thought or he'd be more concerned about the Italian with a switchblade. "Fuckin' bitch!"
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Re: Criminal Consequences
by Thade Sun Oct 11, 2015 11:47 am
Jack Godwin
Violating the Geneva Convention one Resolution at a time.
Jack turned slightly, staring at the girl next to him. “Seriously, what the fuck is with you? Who the fuck are you anyway?” After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. “Whatever, doesn't matter.”
He took a few steps forward, approaching the man in the chair with a hard jaw and blank, steely eyes. “I don’t care what his name is. I want to know where he is right now. Nothing else matters to me.”
Jack took the knife, running it down and through the fabric of the man’s cheap suit, exposing his chest.
“I seriously suggest you tell me,” Jack pressed the tip of his knife against the man’s chest, “now.” He moved the blade slowly downward, carving a line into the man’s breastbone. Silently, ignoring the sounds of protest emanating from the man's mouth, he carved two more lines to compliment the first. A letter.
"I can do this all day you know. I lost all my qualms in the war."
Violating the Geneva Convention one Resolution at a time.
Jack turned slightly, staring at the girl next to him. “Seriously, what the fuck is with you? Who the fuck are you anyway?” After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. “Whatever, doesn't matter.”
He took a few steps forward, approaching the man in the chair with a hard jaw and blank, steely eyes. “I don’t care what his name is. I want to know where he is right now. Nothing else matters to me.”
Jack took the knife, running it down and through the fabric of the man’s cheap suit, exposing his chest.
“I seriously suggest you tell me,” Jack pressed the tip of his knife against the man’s chest, “now.” He moved the blade slowly downward, carving a line into the man’s breastbone. Silently, ignoring the sounds of protest emanating from the man's mouth, he carved two more lines to compliment the first. A letter.
"I can do this all day you know. I lost all my qualms in the war."
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Re: Criminal Consequences
by Fi Skirata Sun Oct 11, 2015 9:22 pm
Some Guy
That we all hope doesn't have a torture fetish
The girl in the gothic clothes gave a casual shrug when the Italian asked her name. Some bullshit about called her "Violet" or something. The goon wasn't particularly listening, he was busy trying to even remember if F had mentioned anything about where he was going.
The underling begged Jack to not hurt him, to just give him a second to fucking think. Recalling information you may or may not even know is pretty hard to do when some guido is carving you up like he thinks he's fucking Zorro.
The underling protested vehemently, jostling the chair as he tried to get out of reach of the knife. He started string together bunches of words, fragments of sentences, anything to make the goomba hold off on cutting him for two seconds.
The information came as in a verbal keyboard smash. Mr. F smoked, he always kept his gun with him, his car was black, or wait, was it navy blue? The goon spouted a fountain of useless trivia until he finally jostled the chair he was in enough for it to fall over backwards, leaving him looking up wards at his captor.
"I... I dunno man, I don't know, fuckin calm down man, I'm trying here!"
That we all hope doesn't have a torture fetish
The girl in the gothic clothes gave a casual shrug when the Italian asked her name. Some bullshit about called her "Violet" or something. The goon wasn't particularly listening, he was busy trying to even remember if F had mentioned anything about where he was going.
The underling begged Jack to not hurt him, to just give him a second to fucking think. Recalling information you may or may not even know is pretty hard to do when some guido is carving you up like he thinks he's fucking Zorro.
The underling protested vehemently, jostling the chair as he tried to get out of reach of the knife. He started string together bunches of words, fragments of sentences, anything to make the goomba hold off on cutting him for two seconds.
The information came as in a verbal keyboard smash. Mr. F smoked, he always kept his gun with him, his car was black, or wait, was it navy blue? The goon spouted a fountain of useless trivia until he finally jostled the chair he was in enough for it to fall over backwards, leaving him looking up wards at his captor.
"I... I dunno man, I don't know, fuckin calm down man, I'm trying here!"
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Re: Criminal Consequences
by Thade Sun Oct 11, 2015 9:46 pm
Jack Godwin
Totally has a torture fetish.
“Alright, come on. Up you go.” Jack reached down and pulled the chair back upright with a faint grunt before wiping the blade of his knife against the man’s pant leg.
“Seriously, that information is worth nothing to me. Just gimme a damn address and we’ll call it good.” Jack reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a flask, popping it open and taking a swig. He’d let the girl stay, he decided. She wasn’t doing any harm, and it added a sort of macabre absurdity to it all.
“No? Fine. We’ll do it your way.” Jack shoved the still open metal flask into the hands of the mocha lolita standing next to him, and leaned closer to the goon, knife in hand. He pressed it hard against the man’s skin, his other hand steadying the chair. Six more lines, two more letters. It was a little cliche, but oh well. He was a fan of the old standbys.
“If you don’t know where Mr. F is, I suggest you fuckin' tell me where I can find someone who does know, so I can hurt them instead.”
Totally has a torture fetish.
“Alright, come on. Up you go.” Jack reached down and pulled the chair back upright with a faint grunt before wiping the blade of his knife against the man’s pant leg.
“Seriously, that information is worth nothing to me. Just gimme a damn address and we’ll call it good.” Jack reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a flask, popping it open and taking a swig. He’d let the girl stay, he decided. She wasn’t doing any harm, and it added a sort of macabre absurdity to it all.
“No? Fine. We’ll do it your way.” Jack shoved the still open metal flask into the hands of the mocha lolita standing next to him, and leaned closer to the goon, knife in hand. He pressed it hard against the man’s skin, his other hand steadying the chair. Six more lines, two more letters. It was a little cliche, but oh well. He was a fan of the old standbys.
“If you don’t know where Mr. F is, I suggest you fuckin' tell me where I can find someone who does know, so I can hurt them instead.”
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Re: Criminal Consequences
by Fi Skirata Sun Oct 11, 2015 10:19 pm
That One Guy
With letters carved on his chest
you know the one
The man bit into his lip to keep from screaming. The knife being used on him was half fucking dull. The Italian probably knew it too. 'Violet', as she had told the Italian to call her, was in the back ground taking a swig from the metal flask, looking on the torture seen with some sort of twisted interest.
The taste of blood reminded the torturee that he was biting his lip. He looked up at his torturer, "Fucking... Richie was the only one Mr. F ever talked to, so I don't know what you think I'm supposed to tell you!" The man spit at his captors shoes with a snarl.
Now that he was more composed, he remembered one detail. "He fucking golfed. That's it. That's the only other fuckin thing I know." This last bit of info was about as useless as the rest.
The lolita chimed in "This is some old white guy, right? This Mr. F dude?" The goon nodded and the girl tapped the Italian on the shoulder "There's only like, one golf course in town that isn't a shit hole, or in gang territory. I know the address. You could like, Idunnogothereandasksomeoneabouthim? Better than wasting your time on this dude."
The thug nodded "Yeah, Yeah see? You ain't gotta do this to me, man!"
With letters carved on his chest
you know the one
The man bit into his lip to keep from screaming. The knife being used on him was half fucking dull. The Italian probably knew it too. 'Violet', as she had told the Italian to call her, was in the back ground taking a swig from the metal flask, looking on the torture seen with some sort of twisted interest.
The taste of blood reminded the torturee that he was biting his lip. He looked up at his torturer, "Fucking... Richie was the only one Mr. F ever talked to, so I don't know what you think I'm supposed to tell you!" The man spit at his captors shoes with a snarl.
Now that he was more composed, he remembered one detail. "He fucking golfed. That's it. That's the only other fuckin thing I know." This last bit of info was about as useless as the rest.
The lolita chimed in "This is some old white guy, right? This Mr. F dude?" The goon nodded and the girl tapped the Italian on the shoulder "There's only like, one golf course in town that isn't a shit hole, or in gang territory. I know the address. You could like, Idunnogothereandasksomeoneabouthim? Better than wasting your time on this dude."
The thug nodded "Yeah, Yeah see? You ain't gotta do this to me, man!"
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Re: Criminal Consequences
by Thade Sun Oct 11, 2015 10:42 pm
Jack Godwin
Doesn't golf.
“Hm. I don’t know.” Jack made a straight vertical cut, and a horizontal one on top of it, still holding the chair steady. His expression was dead.
“You see, the thing is, I’m one letter away. So hold on a minute. The golf thing is good though, I can work with that.” Jack nodded. Four more cuts into the man’s breastbone for the final letter of E, a few more seconds of pain, before Jack took a step back.
“There.” He grabbed his flask out of the girl’s hands. “That should do it.” Jack poured some of the contents of the flask onto the wounds. Probably stung like a bitch, but it wouldn’t get infected at least.
“You should get out of this dump. Here.” Jack dropped the knife at the man’s feet. “It’s dull as shit now and I got another one in the car.” The man in the dark suit turned towards the exit, flask in hand.
“And you, whatever the hell your name is again, ‘Violet’, you better come too. I don’t golf.”
Doesn't golf.
“Hm. I don’t know.” Jack made a straight vertical cut, and a horizontal one on top of it, still holding the chair steady. His expression was dead.
“You see, the thing is, I’m one letter away. So hold on a minute. The golf thing is good though, I can work with that.” Jack nodded. Four more cuts into the man’s breastbone for the final letter of E, a few more seconds of pain, before Jack took a step back.
“There.” He grabbed his flask out of the girl’s hands. “That should do it.” Jack poured some of the contents of the flask onto the wounds. Probably stung like a bitch, but it wouldn’t get infected at least.
“You should get out of this dump. Here.” Jack dropped the knife at the man’s feet. “It’s dull as shit now and I got another one in the car.” The man in the dark suit turned towards the exit, flask in hand.
“And you, whatever the hell your name is again, ‘Violet’, you better come too. I don’t golf.”
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Re: Criminal Consequences
by Megantron Mon Oct 12, 2015 12:05 am
Slim
The balcony doors remained a good barrier for the time being, but eventually Slim would have to figure a way out of this mess and out of this building... with or without her new comrades.
Any chance she could take, she took a shot at the rest of the Jap minions that were left inside. After wounding Chen, he seemingly disappeared from the room.
From the bathroom, a fire extinguisher rolled out and the Jew shot it, releasing an array of smoke that provided a decent cover. Then Wade and Rosenberg came out, shooting some of the Japs in the room.
A henchman came and yelled something in Japanese to the rest that were left inside and not dead yet. They all scurried out. "Well, that isn't weird at all."
Slim slinked through the doors back into the room where two out of the three men still left alive from their little group remained.
The balcony doors remained a good barrier for the time being, but eventually Slim would have to figure a way out of this mess and out of this building... with or without her new comrades.
Any chance she could take, she took a shot at the rest of the Jap minions that were left inside. After wounding Chen, he seemingly disappeared from the room.
From the bathroom, a fire extinguisher rolled out and the Jew shot it, releasing an array of smoke that provided a decent cover. Then Wade and Rosenberg came out, shooting some of the Japs in the room.
A henchman came and yelled something in Japanese to the rest that were left inside and not dead yet. They all scurried out. "Well, that isn't weird at all."
Slim slinked through the doors back into the room where two out of the three men still left alive from their little group remained.
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Re: Criminal Consequences
by Nexeria Wed Oct 14, 2015 11:08 pm
Cyrus A. Lee/Wade Campbell
Status: We Should Be Fuckin' Dead, Man!
As the remaining Yakuza scurried out the other exit, Wade took several pot shots at him, one of which lodged into the man's left shoulder. Wade attempted to make chase, but stopped once he realized that kicking in random doors throughout the apartment probably wasn't the best idea. Instead, Wade circled back over to Isaac, kneeling down next Richie's corpse, as Slim entered the room from the balcony.
Wade reached into Richie's inner-coat pocket, pulling out his former superior's wallet, and cycled through his cash. "I'm gettin' fucking bonus pay for this fucking bullshit, man," He complained to Isaac and Slim, taking out two twenty dollar bills to split between himself and Cyrus, before passing over thirty bucks to both Slim and Isaac.
As Wade crammed the wallet into his right pocket, he jokingly asked, "Hey, is it just me or are we all being obscenely racist today?"
"YO, GANG, MR. LUCKY CHARMS IS STILL ALIVE DOWN THERE AND I THINK HE'D APPRECIATE YOUR FUCKING HELP!" Cyrus hollered out the bedroom as he went back to picking off targets in the parking lot.
"Shit, we should probably go save him. Hey, uh, Isaac, you seem like you know what you're doing, you wanna take point?" Wade asked.
Status: We Should Be Fuckin' Dead, Man!
As the remaining Yakuza scurried out the other exit, Wade took several pot shots at him, one of which lodged into the man's left shoulder. Wade attempted to make chase, but stopped once he realized that kicking in random doors throughout the apartment probably wasn't the best idea. Instead, Wade circled back over to Isaac, kneeling down next Richie's corpse, as Slim entered the room from the balcony.
Wade reached into Richie's inner-coat pocket, pulling out his former superior's wallet, and cycled through his cash. "I'm gettin' fucking bonus pay for this fucking bullshit, man," He complained to Isaac and Slim, taking out two twenty dollar bills to split between himself and Cyrus, before passing over thirty bucks to both Slim and Isaac.
As Wade crammed the wallet into his right pocket, he jokingly asked, "Hey, is it just me or are we all being obscenely racist today?"
"YO, GANG, MR. LUCKY CHARMS IS STILL ALIVE DOWN THERE AND I THINK HE'D APPRECIATE YOUR FUCKING HELP!" Cyrus hollered out the bedroom as he went back to picking off targets in the parking lot.
"Shit, we should probably go save him. Hey, uh, Isaac, you seem like you know what you're doing, you wanna take point?" Wade asked.
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Re: Criminal Consequences
by Fi Skirata Sat Oct 17, 2015 12:24 am
"Violet"
Aren't aliases the best?
The girl watched as her new Italian friend carved a name into his victim's chest. She chuckled, was that really a literary reference? And now the man was telling her to come along. Seemed like Dante was going to take her deeper into his Inferno. The young lady giggled out loud at her internal monologue, and waved goodbye to Dante's victim in an alarmingly friendly manner.
Her suited companion led the was to his El Camino, and Violet let herself into the passenger seat, propping her feet up onto the dashboard "Solikehow'sthisgonnago? You can't just carve up every person ya find til you get this guy. Wellactuallyyoucan. But do you even have a plan, Mr. Dante?"
Alexia wondered if Dante was a hit man. Or did he have a personal vendetta? Everyone in this city wanted someone dead for something, seemed like. Dante didn't seem much different from the rest. Plus, he trusted a mysterious waif of a girl. He couldn't be very smart. Alexia had seen detective work, and compared to her father, Dante was a brute.
Aren't aliases the best?
The girl watched as her new Italian friend carved a name into his victim's chest. She chuckled, was that really a literary reference? And now the man was telling her to come along. Seemed like Dante was going to take her deeper into his Inferno. The young lady giggled out loud at her internal monologue, and waved goodbye to Dante's victim in an alarmingly friendly manner.
Her suited companion led the was to his El Camino, and Violet let herself into the passenger seat, propping her feet up onto the dashboard "Solikehow'sthisgonnago? You can't just carve up every person ya find til you get this guy. Wellactuallyyoucan. But do you even have a plan, Mr. Dante?"
Alexia wondered if Dante was a hit man. Or did he have a personal vendetta? Everyone in this city wanted someone dead for something, seemed like. Dante didn't seem much different from the rest. Plus, he trusted a mysterious waif of a girl. He couldn't be very smart. Alexia had seen detective work, and compared to her father, Dante was a brute.
Fi Skirata- Knight
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Re: Criminal Consequences
by Thade Sat Oct 17, 2015 12:43 am
Jack Godwin
Jack walked in silence to his vehicle and the girl followed. Part of him liked leaving clues, little gifts to toy with whoever might find him. But he wondered if he should have let the man live. It was a risky play if the gangs found him, and downright suicide if the cops did. The FBI knew exactly who "Dante" was, and they would not be pleased to find he was once more a player in the criminal game.
He slid into his leather seat and slammed shut the door.
"A plan. I do, in fact have a plan "Violet." You're gonna help me kill Fairbank." Jack frowned at the girl as she kicked her feet on the interior of his vehicle, but kept quiet as he twisted the key in the ignition and pulled out onto the road, starting his drive towards the supposed golf course.
"Then, if I'm in a good mood, I'll consider not killin' you. But right now, ya know just a little too much. You're a loose end. That man in the warehouse was one, and I can't have another. So shut the fuck up and get your feet off my dash."
Jack walked in silence to his vehicle and the girl followed. Part of him liked leaving clues, little gifts to toy with whoever might find him. But he wondered if he should have let the man live. It was a risky play if the gangs found him, and downright suicide if the cops did. The FBI knew exactly who "Dante" was, and they would not be pleased to find he was once more a player in the criminal game.
He slid into his leather seat and slammed shut the door.
"A plan. I do, in fact have a plan "Violet." You're gonna help me kill Fairbank." Jack frowned at the girl as she kicked her feet on the interior of his vehicle, but kept quiet as he twisted the key in the ignition and pulled out onto the road, starting his drive towards the supposed golf course.
"Then, if I'm in a good mood, I'll consider not killin' you. But right now, ya know just a little too much. You're a loose end. That man in the warehouse was one, and I can't have another. So shut the fuck up and get your feet off my dash."
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Re: Criminal Consequences
by Fi Skirata Sat Oct 17, 2015 1:50 am
"Violet"
The girl rolled her eyes, tapping her feet on the dashboard. No, no, no. If he was going to kill her, she'd be at the bottom of the harbor by now, plugged full of holes. Why did all the men in this city think they could just talk a big game? If this guy was so worried about loose fucking ends, he wouldn't have carved his name into someone's chest and left them behind.
She pulled her feet off of the dash, and slipped the out of her heels. Damn things could be so uncomfortable. "What makes you think I'm going to be so helpful, exactly?" she queried, her vocal quirks briefly slipping. She glanced toward the road and quickly spat off a few directions, making sure Dante didn't end up in some bad part of town.
It wouldn't take them more than a few minutes to get to the course with her directions.
The girl rolled her eyes, tapping her feet on the dashboard. No, no, no. If he was going to kill her, she'd be at the bottom of the harbor by now, plugged full of holes. Why did all the men in this city think they could just talk a big game? If this guy was so worried about loose fucking ends, he wouldn't have carved his name into someone's chest and left them behind.
She pulled her feet off of the dash, and slipped the out of her heels. Damn things could be so uncomfortable. "What makes you think I'm going to be so helpful, exactly?" she queried, her vocal quirks briefly slipping. She glanced toward the road and quickly spat off a few directions, making sure Dante didn't end up in some bad part of town.
It wouldn't take them more than a few minutes to get to the course with her directions.
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Re: Criminal Consequences
by Thade Sat Oct 17, 2015 2:26 am
Jack Godwin
The half-Italian man sighed and one-handedly unbuttoned his dark suit jacket as he stared straight ahead, fixated on the road. She was right, she probably wasn't going to be a huge help. But he needed to keep his eye on her nonetheless. One carved up gangster wasn't a reliable source of information, but anyone who corroborated his story...
"I need ya to do me a favor. You're going to make sure no one is around when I take out F. Do what ya have to, flash your tits, I don't care. Just don't shoot anyone, and if ya do, finish the job. I don't need any more witnesses."
Jack took a sharp left. The golf course wasn't far now, just a few more miles, a few more turns. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but he realized he was basically winging it. He wasn't used to something of this caliber. Back when he was in his twenties, maybe. Back before that bust, and the FBI, and being blacklisted by half the families in New York. Maybe then. Since then it had been mostly small time drug lords, hoodlums who thought they were the next big thing. Gangbangers who didn't know the meaning of the phrase 'organized crime.' This was something else entirely.
The half-Italian man sighed and one-handedly unbuttoned his dark suit jacket as he stared straight ahead, fixated on the road. She was right, she probably wasn't going to be a huge help. But he needed to keep his eye on her nonetheless. One carved up gangster wasn't a reliable source of information, but anyone who corroborated his story...
"I need ya to do me a favor. You're going to make sure no one is around when I take out F. Do what ya have to, flash your tits, I don't care. Just don't shoot anyone, and if ya do, finish the job. I don't need any more witnesses."
Jack took a sharp left. The golf course wasn't far now, just a few more miles, a few more turns. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but he realized he was basically winging it. He wasn't used to something of this caliber. Back when he was in his twenties, maybe. Back before that bust, and the FBI, and being blacklisted by half the families in New York. Maybe then. Since then it had been mostly small time drug lords, hoodlums who thought they were the next big thing. Gangbangers who didn't know the meaning of the phrase 'organized crime.' This was something else entirely.
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Re: Criminal Consequences
by Mr. Fountain Sat Oct 17, 2015 5:08 am
Isaac "The Nose" Rosenberg
Status: *Responsibility has filled him with DETERMINATION.
"Shit, we should probably go save him. Hey, uh, Isaac, you seem like you know what you're doing, you wanna take point?"
"Ah, yeah," Isaac said as he took the thirty bucks and slipped it into his pocket. Without saying much else, he walked back over to Richie's cold, lifeless, and dead corpse - Isaac didn't know much about decaying bodies, but he thought that rigor mortis would be setting in soon - and frisked its pockets. He found what he was looking for - a phone - and put it in his own pocket. He'd need some way to contact the head honcho once this was all over.
"Alright, Cyrus, stay up here and lay down covering spray fire with whatever's left of that shotgun," the Jew ordered as casually as if he had just requested a Big Mac. "Slim, Wade. You guys follow me."
Isaac then marched out of the apartment room - his comrades on his heel - and down the hall to the staircase. After the staircase, another hallway, and then the exit. Isaac peeked outside and saw that Chen had indeed taken cover behind one of the cars in the lot. He was wide open from Isaac's side but Cyrus wasn't able to get a shot on him. That was fine. Cyrus was doing his bit: keeping the chink pinned there.
The Nose turned back to his new comrades and nodded quickly before saying, "Alright. On me. Quickly to the Irishman."
Isaac then strode out - firing the black Beretta almost casually in Chen's direction without really looking or aiming. The Jew was just banking on the Asian man crawling under the car for cover or moving somewhere else entirely - he was pinned, after all. The armed trio quickly made their way to the might-be cop - ready to offer any aid they could.
Status: *Responsibility has filled him with DETERMINATION.
"Shit, we should probably go save him. Hey, uh, Isaac, you seem like you know what you're doing, you wanna take point?"
"Ah, yeah," Isaac said as he took the thirty bucks and slipped it into his pocket. Without saying much else, he walked back over to Richie's cold, lifeless, and dead corpse - Isaac didn't know much about decaying bodies, but he thought that rigor mortis would be setting in soon - and frisked its pockets. He found what he was looking for - a phone - and put it in his own pocket. He'd need some way to contact the head honcho once this was all over.
"Alright, Cyrus, stay up here and lay down covering spray fire with whatever's left of that shotgun," the Jew ordered as casually as if he had just requested a Big Mac. "Slim, Wade. You guys follow me."
Isaac then marched out of the apartment room - his comrades on his heel - and down the hall to the staircase. After the staircase, another hallway, and then the exit. Isaac peeked outside and saw that Chen had indeed taken cover behind one of the cars in the lot. He was wide open from Isaac's side but Cyrus wasn't able to get a shot on him. That was fine. Cyrus was doing his bit: keeping the chink pinned there.
The Nose turned back to his new comrades and nodded quickly before saying, "Alright. On me. Quickly to the Irishman."
Isaac then strode out - firing the black Beretta almost casually in Chen's direction without really looking or aiming. The Jew was just banking on the Asian man crawling under the car for cover or moving somewhere else entirely - he was pinned, after all. The armed trio quickly made their way to the might-be cop - ready to offer any aid they could.
Last edited by Mr. Fountain on Sat Oct 17, 2015 6:36 am; edited 1 time in total
Mr. Fountain- Knight
- Posts : 958
Join date : 2015-01-07
Age : 29
Location : Judecca
Re: Criminal Consequences
by Fi Skirata Sat Oct 17, 2015 5:40 am
Mr. Chen
Status: Bang. Bang bang. Click.
Chen grimaced as his guns each clicked empty one after the other, the slides locking back. His spare mags were in his coat and in his hurry he had left his coat on the back of the chair upstairs. A rookie mistake, made because the hitman had gotten ahead of himself, tried to rush the job. He would have to get his men back out, and--
The Jew suddenly stormed out of the door with two of his associates in tow, clicking off rounds blindly in Chen's direction. The Yakuza grimaced, glaring particularly at the woman who shot him. She, too, needed to die, for ruining his shirt. How dare she put a bullet in him...
Chen took a deep breath, positioning himself back away from the incoming fire. He was letting things register on an emotional level. This was unprofessional. Before he could start planning his next move, he picked up the sound of a distant police alarm. And it was getting closer.
Chen sank back behind the car he was positioned near, silently exiting the battle. He would see his way into the building and out a back exist. He knew how to evade the police.
Luka
Status: Not... not too fuckin' good, okay?
Luka's vision blurred, and he tried to blink it off, when he refocused, there was the Nose, like Jesus Fucking Christ himself. Luka couldn't tell if his ears were still ringing from all the gunshots, or if those were police sirens in the background.
"F...Fuck... Okay. Look. We need to leave. Richie.. Rich is dead. This job is bust." Luka passed his Mossberg to Wade, and jammed a new clip into his handgun. "We need to split up. Can't... Can't leave Rich's car here." Luka tucked the handgun into his belt, and rose weakly to his feet, pushing his car keys on Wade as well.
"I... Don't think I'm in any position to drive, mate." Luka grimaced as the sounds of police sirens, definitely not his ears ringing grew closer. "No time to argue. Get Cyrus. W--we gotta go." The Irishman yanked open the back door of his Crown Vic and collapsed onto the seat, pulling the door shut with him.
Status: Bang. Bang bang. Click.
Chen grimaced as his guns each clicked empty one after the other, the slides locking back. His spare mags were in his coat and in his hurry he had left his coat on the back of the chair upstairs. A rookie mistake, made because the hitman had gotten ahead of himself, tried to rush the job. He would have to get his men back out, and--
The Jew suddenly stormed out of the door with two of his associates in tow, clicking off rounds blindly in Chen's direction. The Yakuza grimaced, glaring particularly at the woman who shot him. She, too, needed to die, for ruining his shirt. How dare she put a bullet in him...
Chen took a deep breath, positioning himself back away from the incoming fire. He was letting things register on an emotional level. This was unprofessional. Before he could start planning his next move, he picked up the sound of a distant police alarm. And it was getting closer.
Chen sank back behind the car he was positioned near, silently exiting the battle. He would see his way into the building and out a back exist. He knew how to evade the police.
Luka
Status: Not... not too fuckin' good, okay?
Luka's vision blurred, and he tried to blink it off, when he refocused, there was the Nose, like Jesus Fucking Christ himself. Luka couldn't tell if his ears were still ringing from all the gunshots, or if those were police sirens in the background.
"F...Fuck... Okay. Look. We need to leave. Richie.. Rich is dead. This job is bust." Luka passed his Mossberg to Wade, and jammed a new clip into his handgun. "We need to split up. Can't... Can't leave Rich's car here." Luka tucked the handgun into his belt, and rose weakly to his feet, pushing his car keys on Wade as well.
"I... Don't think I'm in any position to drive, mate." Luka grimaced as the sounds of police sirens, definitely not his ears ringing grew closer. "No time to argue. Get Cyrus. W--we gotta go." The Irishman yanked open the back door of his Crown Vic and collapsed onto the seat, pulling the door shut with him.
Fi Skirata- Knight
- Posts : 883
Join date : 2015-01-08
Age : 30
Location : Despair Academy
Re: Criminal Consequences
by Mr. Fountain Sat Oct 17, 2015 5:52 am
Isaac "The Jew" Rosenberg
Status: On the fucking move.
"Righto," the Jew simply said as Luka pulled open the door. Isaac would have turned around and left right there if he hadn't had another quick thought pop in his head. "Ah, wait." The man grabbed the door of the Crown Vic before the Irishman was able to shut it.
Isaac gave Luka a serious look before saying, "Got Richie's phone. Call me when things calm down, yeah?" And with that, he shut the door himself and walked away with Slim.
The couple walked back over to Richie's car - Slim slipping in the passenger seat and Isaac sitting his shit-covered self in the front. He rolled down all the windows and cut the AC on blast as he pulled out of the parking lot and into the calm, unknowing traffic of the streets.
"Alright, doll," Isaac said - keeping his eyes fixated on the road. "Let's look for a place to change, wash up, and lay low."
Status: On the fucking move.
"Righto," the Jew simply said as Luka pulled open the door. Isaac would have turned around and left right there if he hadn't had another quick thought pop in his head. "Ah, wait." The man grabbed the door of the Crown Vic before the Irishman was able to shut it.
Isaac gave Luka a serious look before saying, "Got Richie's phone. Call me when things calm down, yeah?" And with that, he shut the door himself and walked away with Slim.
The couple walked back over to Richie's car - Slim slipping in the passenger seat and Isaac sitting his shit-covered self in the front. He rolled down all the windows and cut the AC on blast as he pulled out of the parking lot and into the calm, unknowing traffic of the streets.
"Alright, doll," Isaac said - keeping his eyes fixated on the road. "Let's look for a place to change, wash up, and lay low."
Mr. Fountain- Knight
- Posts : 958
Join date : 2015-01-07
Age : 29
Location : Judecca
Re: Criminal Consequences
by Nexeria Sat Oct 17, 2015 8:12 am
Cyrus A. Lee/Wade Campbell
Status: Blitzed out of their fucking minds.
On his way out of the meeting room, Cyrus managed to scoop up a dead Yakuza's Uzi as Wade pulled Luka's Crown Victoria around the fire escape. Cyrus sprinted down the steps, almost tripping over his own feet, before dropping down the ladder and booking it the passenger seat. As soon as Cyrus was seated, Wade floored the accelerator pedal. The wheels screeched against the pavement as the Crown Vic tore out of the parking lot.
"Cy, what the hell happened to you back there, man? You seemed kinda, I don't know, off your fucking rocker! You know, a little more insane than usual!" Wade commented, glancing nervously into the rear-view mirror for any signs of possible tails.
"I... uh... I took a bunch of uppers before we went in," Cyrus replied with a snort, wiping away some white powder stuck to the stubble above his upper lip.
"What the fuck?!" Wade's head snapped towards Cyrus.
"Hey, shut the fuck up! I didn't say shit when you took all that ecstasy during that deal with the Koreans!
"Hey, fuck you! They weren't my goddamn drugs! If you must know, they belonged to that smoking hot karaoke singer!
Cyrus paused, trying to remember who exactly Wade was talking about, before asking, "The Dolly Parton impersonator?"
"What?! No! The young blonde chick dressed up like a cowgirl!" Wade retorted.
"The Dolly Parton impersonator!" Cyrus repeated, far more sure of himself.
"No, man, The Dolly Parton impersonator was like 50 years old!"
"No, she was 57. I know because the last time I went there she kept asking about you!" Cyrus explained very bluntly.
"What? Ah, noooo... really? Are you fucking serious right now?!" Wade let out with a sigh of shame and disappointment as Cyrus simply shrugged.
A few seconds of silence passed before Luka let out a loud, anguished groan. Cyrus examined bleeding Irishman, noticing four distinct bullet wounds across his chest, before turning back to light up a Marlboro cigarette, "We should probably take him to Chekov's. Tell him to bring the Doc."
Wade shifted to his left side, pulling his cellphone out of his right pocket, before beginning to dial Chekov's number. Cyrus then placed the cigarette in his mouth, grabbed a dirty towel from off the floor, and threw it over Luka's face.
"Yo, Luka, do me a favor and don't look at anything for the next 20-30 minutes. Oh, and could you please try to retain most of your blood until we get you some help?" Cyrus asked politely.
Status: Blitzed out of their fucking minds.
On his way out of the meeting room, Cyrus managed to scoop up a dead Yakuza's Uzi as Wade pulled Luka's Crown Victoria around the fire escape. Cyrus sprinted down the steps, almost tripping over his own feet, before dropping down the ladder and booking it the passenger seat. As soon as Cyrus was seated, Wade floored the accelerator pedal. The wheels screeched against the pavement as the Crown Vic tore out of the parking lot.
"Cy, what the hell happened to you back there, man? You seemed kinda, I don't know, off your fucking rocker! You know, a little more insane than usual!" Wade commented, glancing nervously into the rear-view mirror for any signs of possible tails.
"I... uh... I took a bunch of uppers before we went in," Cyrus replied with a snort, wiping away some white powder stuck to the stubble above his upper lip.
"What the fuck?!" Wade's head snapped towards Cyrus.
"Hey, shut the fuck up! I didn't say shit when you took all that ecstasy during that deal with the Koreans!
"Hey, fuck you! They weren't my goddamn drugs! If you must know, they belonged to that smoking hot karaoke singer!
Cyrus paused, trying to remember who exactly Wade was talking about, before asking, "The Dolly Parton impersonator?"
"What?! No! The young blonde chick dressed up like a cowgirl!" Wade retorted.
"The Dolly Parton impersonator!" Cyrus repeated, far more sure of himself.
"No, man, The Dolly Parton impersonator was like 50 years old!"
"No, she was 57. I know because the last time I went there she kept asking about you!" Cyrus explained very bluntly.
"What? Ah, noooo... really? Are you fucking serious right now?!" Wade let out with a sigh of shame and disappointment as Cyrus simply shrugged.
A few seconds of silence passed before Luka let out a loud, anguished groan. Cyrus examined bleeding Irishman, noticing four distinct bullet wounds across his chest, before turning back to light up a Marlboro cigarette, "We should probably take him to Chekov's. Tell him to bring the Doc."
Wade shifted to his left side, pulling his cellphone out of his right pocket, before beginning to dial Chekov's number. Cyrus then placed the cigarette in his mouth, grabbed a dirty towel from off the floor, and threw it over Luka's face.
"Yo, Luka, do me a favor and don't look at anything for the next 20-30 minutes. Oh, and could you please try to retain most of your blood until we get you some help?" Cyrus asked politely.
Last edited by Nexeria on Sat May 21, 2016 8:28 pm; edited 1 time in total
Nexeria- Esquire
- Posts : 392
Join date : 2015-01-11
Age : 108
Location : Fucked
END EPISODE ONE
by Fi Skirata Sat Oct 17, 2015 9:05 am
Inspector Warren J. Michaels
Time to go to work
The Inspector's Altima pulled into the parking lot just as the sun began to set. He stepped out of the car and took in the view.
Clink, clink clink clink...
No sooner than his foot hit the ground, his shoe sent bullet casings spinning across the black top, colliding with each other in a satisfying series of tings. 9mm and .45 auto rounds scattered the lot, punctuated by the occasional blazing-red 12 gauge shotgun shell. It didn't take a trained detective to tell you that there had been a firefight.
Warren shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, his eyes falling on a trail of blood leading from the center of the parking lot to a car in the corner. Or rather, it was quite the reverse, the blood from the car in the corner led to the center of the parking lot, to the location of one of two sets of burnout marks where two vehicles had left in a hurry. The Inspector strolled up to the car. in the corner.
Hood's bashed in from the top. Two blood trails here. So we've got two guys. One's bleeding heavily, going from the hood of the car to the center of the lot and disappearing. The other is much more minor. Just a few drops here and there, with larger concentrations where the wounded individual stopped. Looks like this second guy was behind the same crushed car, and left the opposite direction of our heavy bleeder.
Michaels glanced up from the hood of the car, then towards a Fire Exit on the side of the building.
Two broken windows on the third floor, our heavy bleeder must have fallen through one. Blood specks on the Fire Exit, the other wounded man came out through there. Helping the faller, or coming after him?
The Detective let out a sigh and made his way into the building, pulling a cigarette from his coat, clenching it between his lips as his eyes panned over the lobby desk to a staircase. Time to head to the third floor.
"Hey!" A distinctly Asian accent rang out "No cigalettes!" Engrish at its finest.
Warren marched up to the desk "Anything out of the ordinary happen the last half hour or so?", the Asian lobby attendant simply repeated his demand.
Michaels sighed, pulling his coat back, revealing his NAPD badge, as well as his firearm. He produced an engraved Zippo lighter and lit up his cigarette taking his first drag, exhaling a cloud of thin smoke into the lobby manager's face.
"No smoking! You put out! Need warrant, Mr. Pig!"
Warren held the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, returning his lighter to his coat pocket and drawing his handcannon. "You read English?" He held the gun at arms length, the massive barrel level with the Asian's eyeline. "I think this speaks any language. Custom made, long barreled Taurus Raging Bull, loaded with .454 Casull rimmed cartridges, that's one of the most powerful handgun cartridges in the world. This thing could blow your head off your shoulders with one squeeze of the trigger."
The lobby manager was visibly sweating "Big talk for man who needs such a big gun."
Warren would've chuckled if he were the type of man who laughed. "It's a bit small for my tastes. Had to toss a weight compensator on, damn thing felt so light." The gun looked like it weighed a ton. "Oh, and look what it says here. Can you read that?"
Engraved on the side of the barrel in exotic script was a single word.
"It says 'Warrant'", the Inspector finished, holstering his weapon. The lobby worker looked ready to piss himself, if he hadn't already. "So, since there's clearly nothing out of the ordinary, I'll just have myself a look around the third floor apartment, where I will not find anything, and you'll never have to deal with me again. You follow?"
The Asian man nodded "Well, Mr. Michaels, would you like an ashtray?"
The Inspector took another long drag from his cigarette before flicking ashes from the end of his cigarette onto the carpet. "That won't be necessary.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The inside of the room still smelled freshly of gunpowder. There were bullet holes in a couch off to the side of the room, the bedroom was trashed, the remnants of a fire extinguisher sat on the floor with the foamy white fluid still sticking to the walls and furniture. Oh. And there were the dead chinks.
The dead chinks may as well have been invisible to him. Warren knew the score. The NAPD was due for a bribe from the Yakuza on the very same day, and he knew that as soon as he looked to deep into anything to do with anyone who paid protection, his boss would chew his ass. He frankly wasn't in the mood for it.
But there was a non-Asian body in the center of the room. Warren crouched over the body and gave it a second's once over.
Caucasian male, brown hair. Three gunshots wounds, entry wound on the knee, no exit wound. Entry wound to the upper abdomen, no exist wound. Entry wound to forehead, exit wound from the back of the head. Exit and Entry wounds on head shot don't check out. Bullet didn't pierce the skull. Vic is still drawing breath. Pulse is... fine.
The rat looking man in the suit with the bullet wound to his dead was quite alive. Fine, even, as long as he didn't go into shock, and the concussion that he was sure to have wasn't too bad. The Inspector gave a quick pat to the man's pockets. No cell, no wallet, no ID. He did, however, have a handgun in a chest holster and a string of numbers and letters scribbled on his wrist.
Warren produced a notepad and copied the series of digits down. They were in the format of a license plate. 13N 67C. Likely inconsequential, but nothing could be ruled out.
Michaels next produced his phone, and calmly dialed a number, idly puffing his half-ignored cigarette as he did. "Yeah. It's Michaels, I'm down at the apartments with the shots fired. Got a Caucasian male with multiple gunshot wounds, condition stable."
"Michaels, are you ever going to use proper code for--"
"No."
Warren slammed his dated flip phone closed and shoved it back into his pocket. He planned to be finished investigating the scene by the time the EMS showed. There was still one room he hadn't seen. Tossing his cigarette butt out of the window, the Inspector leaned his head around the doorway to the bathroom.
Oh fucking Christ, what?
One of the Yakuza lay on the bathroom floor, with the remnants of the toilet jammed into his throat and several gunshot wounds in him. Warren halfway didn't want to profile this particular room. None the less.
Clear foot prints of one adult male, dragged another in. Not an attack. Theres a second set of footprints here in the fecal remains, clearly belonging to the dragged individual, plus the gunshot wounds in the 'kuza.
Warren left the room and glanced toward the bed room "Nothing in there but trashed furniture."
A fifth unidentified individual held up in that room, minimum.
Warren glanced out of the broken window to the trashed car beneath him, before going to a wheeled chair and examining a coat hanging off the back of it. Inside the coat pockets were magazines for a .45 caliber handgun, a wallet, and a phone.
Wallet identifies the owner as an Asian male, age 29, full name John Chen. Facial identification doesn't match up with any of the corpses in the room. Phone is locked, programmed to clear all data after three failed unlocks. Magazines are loaded with an incorrect round. Fucking amateur.
After bagging his four pieces of evidence, Warren had seen quite enough. On his way out to his car he passed the EMS, "Call me when he wakes up.". Once inside the car, the Inspector took a moment to replay the scene in his head.
At least five non-Yakuza related individuals, versus our Mr. Chen. Given the survival of rat-man and heavy bleeder, Chen's misloaded .45's were responsible for the wounds on both. Rat-man survived a summary execution, the heavy bleeder was shot multiple times and fell from the window to the car downstairs. Firefight breaks out. Three non-'Kuza individuals remaining. One pulls his friend into the bathroom, the last guy holes up in the bedroom. The Chinks hear my alarm and bail, the non-chinks escape through the fire escape. A lightly wounded 'Kuza goes outside to finish off the heavy bleeding target, but his opponents escape in two seperate vehicles, and he slips out of the back before I show up.
Warren shook his head, lighting another cigarette and leaning his head back on the rest, taking a deep drag and holding it. "Four unaccounted individuals, two confirmed males through footprints, in two vehicles. One witness with a gunshot wound to the head, and one trail to a chink the chief won't let me follow up on. And that's all assuming I've got the facts straight."
Warren layed the four evidence bags in his passenger seat. Chen's wallet, cell, and magazines. And the last piece of evidence. The headshot victim's gun. A Brigadier 92FS Inox. That was a cop gun.
This is going to be an interesting case.
Time to go to work
The Inspector's Altima pulled into the parking lot just as the sun began to set. He stepped out of the car and took in the view.
Clink, clink clink clink...
No sooner than his foot hit the ground, his shoe sent bullet casings spinning across the black top, colliding with each other in a satisfying series of tings. 9mm and .45 auto rounds scattered the lot, punctuated by the occasional blazing-red 12 gauge shotgun shell. It didn't take a trained detective to tell you that there had been a firefight.
Warren shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, his eyes falling on a trail of blood leading from the center of the parking lot to a car in the corner. Or rather, it was quite the reverse, the blood from the car in the corner led to the center of the parking lot, to the location of one of two sets of burnout marks where two vehicles had left in a hurry. The Inspector strolled up to the car. in the corner.
Hood's bashed in from the top. Two blood trails here. So we've got two guys. One's bleeding heavily, going from the hood of the car to the center of the lot and disappearing. The other is much more minor. Just a few drops here and there, with larger concentrations where the wounded individual stopped. Looks like this second guy was behind the same crushed car, and left the opposite direction of our heavy bleeder.
Michaels glanced up from the hood of the car, then towards a Fire Exit on the side of the building.
Two broken windows on the third floor, our heavy bleeder must have fallen through one. Blood specks on the Fire Exit, the other wounded man came out through there. Helping the faller, or coming after him?
The Detective let out a sigh and made his way into the building, pulling a cigarette from his coat, clenching it between his lips as his eyes panned over the lobby desk to a staircase. Time to head to the third floor.
"Hey!" A distinctly Asian accent rang out "No cigalettes!" Engrish at its finest.
Warren marched up to the desk "Anything out of the ordinary happen the last half hour or so?", the Asian lobby attendant simply repeated his demand.
Michaels sighed, pulling his coat back, revealing his NAPD badge, as well as his firearm. He produced an engraved Zippo lighter and lit up his cigarette taking his first drag, exhaling a cloud of thin smoke into the lobby manager's face.
"No smoking! You put out! Need warrant, Mr. Pig!"
Warren held the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, returning his lighter to his coat pocket and drawing his handcannon. "You read English?" He held the gun at arms length, the massive barrel level with the Asian's eyeline. "I think this speaks any language. Custom made, long barreled Taurus Raging Bull, loaded with .454 Casull rimmed cartridges, that's one of the most powerful handgun cartridges in the world. This thing could blow your head off your shoulders with one squeeze of the trigger."
The lobby manager was visibly sweating "Big talk for man who needs such a big gun."
Warren would've chuckled if he were the type of man who laughed. "It's a bit small for my tastes. Had to toss a weight compensator on, damn thing felt so light." The gun looked like it weighed a ton. "Oh, and look what it says here. Can you read that?"
Engraved on the side of the barrel in exotic script was a single word.
"It says 'Warrant'", the Inspector finished, holstering his weapon. The lobby worker looked ready to piss himself, if he hadn't already. "So, since there's clearly nothing out of the ordinary, I'll just have myself a look around the third floor apartment, where I will not find anything, and you'll never have to deal with me again. You follow?"
The Asian man nodded "Well, Mr. Michaels, would you like an ashtray?"
The Inspector took another long drag from his cigarette before flicking ashes from the end of his cigarette onto the carpet. "That won't be necessary.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The inside of the room still smelled freshly of gunpowder. There were bullet holes in a couch off to the side of the room, the bedroom was trashed, the remnants of a fire extinguisher sat on the floor with the foamy white fluid still sticking to the walls and furniture. Oh. And there were the dead chinks.
The dead chinks may as well have been invisible to him. Warren knew the score. The NAPD was due for a bribe from the Yakuza on the very same day, and he knew that as soon as he looked to deep into anything to do with anyone who paid protection, his boss would chew his ass. He frankly wasn't in the mood for it.
But there was a non-Asian body in the center of the room. Warren crouched over the body and gave it a second's once over.
Caucasian male, brown hair. Three gunshots wounds, entry wound on the knee, no exit wound. Entry wound to the upper abdomen, no exist wound. Entry wound to forehead, exit wound from the back of the head. Exit and Entry wounds on head shot don't check out. Bullet didn't pierce the skull. Vic is still drawing breath. Pulse is... fine.
The rat looking man in the suit with the bullet wound to his dead was quite alive. Fine, even, as long as he didn't go into shock, and the concussion that he was sure to have wasn't too bad. The Inspector gave a quick pat to the man's pockets. No cell, no wallet, no ID. He did, however, have a handgun in a chest holster and a string of numbers and letters scribbled on his wrist.
Warren produced a notepad and copied the series of digits down. They were in the format of a license plate. 13N 67C. Likely inconsequential, but nothing could be ruled out.
Michaels next produced his phone, and calmly dialed a number, idly puffing his half-ignored cigarette as he did. "Yeah. It's Michaels, I'm down at the apartments with the shots fired. Got a Caucasian male with multiple gunshot wounds, condition stable."
"Michaels, are you ever going to use proper code for--"
"No."
Warren slammed his dated flip phone closed and shoved it back into his pocket. He planned to be finished investigating the scene by the time the EMS showed. There was still one room he hadn't seen. Tossing his cigarette butt out of the window, the Inspector leaned his head around the doorway to the bathroom.
Oh fucking Christ, what?
One of the Yakuza lay on the bathroom floor, with the remnants of the toilet jammed into his throat and several gunshot wounds in him. Warren halfway didn't want to profile this particular room. None the less.
Clear foot prints of one adult male, dragged another in. Not an attack. Theres a second set of footprints here in the fecal remains, clearly belonging to the dragged individual, plus the gunshot wounds in the 'kuza.
Warren left the room and glanced toward the bed room "Nothing in there but trashed furniture."
A fifth unidentified individual held up in that room, minimum.
Warren glanced out of the broken window to the trashed car beneath him, before going to a wheeled chair and examining a coat hanging off the back of it. Inside the coat pockets were magazines for a .45 caliber handgun, a wallet, and a phone.
Wallet identifies the owner as an Asian male, age 29, full name John Chen. Facial identification doesn't match up with any of the corpses in the room. Phone is locked, programmed to clear all data after three failed unlocks. Magazines are loaded with an incorrect round. Fucking amateur.
After bagging his four pieces of evidence, Warren had seen quite enough. On his way out to his car he passed the EMS, "Call me when he wakes up.". Once inside the car, the Inspector took a moment to replay the scene in his head.
At least five non-Yakuza related individuals, versus our Mr. Chen. Given the survival of rat-man and heavy bleeder, Chen's misloaded .45's were responsible for the wounds on both. Rat-man survived a summary execution, the heavy bleeder was shot multiple times and fell from the window to the car downstairs. Firefight breaks out. Three non-'Kuza individuals remaining. One pulls his friend into the bathroom, the last guy holes up in the bedroom. The Chinks hear my alarm and bail, the non-chinks escape through the fire escape. A lightly wounded 'Kuza goes outside to finish off the heavy bleeding target, but his opponents escape in two seperate vehicles, and he slips out of the back before I show up.
Warren shook his head, lighting another cigarette and leaning his head back on the rest, taking a deep drag and holding it. "Four unaccounted individuals, two confirmed males through footprints, in two vehicles. One witness with a gunshot wound to the head, and one trail to a chink the chief won't let me follow up on. And that's all assuming I've got the facts straight."
Warren layed the four evidence bags in his passenger seat. Chen's wallet, cell, and magazines. And the last piece of evidence. The headshot victim's gun. A Brigadier 92FS Inox. That was a cop gun.
This is going to be an interesting case.
Last edited by Mr. Finale on Mon Oct 19, 2015 4:20 am; edited 1 time in total
Fi Skirata- Knight
- Posts : 883
Join date : 2015-01-08
Age : 30
Location : Despair Academy
Re: Criminal Consequences
by Megantron Sun Oct 18, 2015 1:52 pm
Slim
Slim and the Jew helped Cyrus and Wade fit busted up Luka into one of the cars and the four of them split off.
The Jew rolled the windows down, saying, "Alright, doll. Let's look for a place to change, wash up, and lay low."
"I'm all for that plan," Slim started, pausing. "But seeing as how this job was a complete bust, I highly doubt we'll be getting paid. And now we not only have the Yakuza on us, but possibly anyone else that works for Mr. F."
Slim stared out the windows, highly alert and watchful of any japs or other types of prying eyes. "Our best bet would be to skip town."
Slim and the Jew helped Cyrus and Wade fit busted up Luka into one of the cars and the four of them split off.
The Jew rolled the windows down, saying, "Alright, doll. Let's look for a place to change, wash up, and lay low."
"I'm all for that plan," Slim started, pausing. "But seeing as how this job was a complete bust, I highly doubt we'll be getting paid. And now we not only have the Yakuza on us, but possibly anyone else that works for Mr. F."
Slim stared out the windows, highly alert and watchful of any japs or other types of prying eyes. "Our best bet would be to skip town."
Megantron- Esquire
- Posts : 478
Join date : 2015-01-27
Age : 30
Location : Flo Rida -
START EPISODE TWO
by Fi Skirata Sun Oct 18, 2015 8:29 pm
Vinny
Vehicle: Blue 2005 Subaru Imprezza
Status: In transit, priest in tow
Vinny's boss, Antonio, had ordered him to help Father di Pello get a feel of the town. The Father had evidentally come to execute a hit on someone. That may have sounded weird to most people, but to Vinny is was just another day at the office. He was sure that if a fuckin' priest was here to ice a dude, the guy seriously had to deserve it.
"--and then she's got the nerve to say the kid was mine. And I'm like, 'baby, we both knows you work more than just a stripper pole to make a livin'', you know what I'm talking about right Father?" Vinny finished his story, looking away from the road to Arcangelo's face expectantly. When he got no reaction he deflatedly returned his focus to the blacktop.
"Yeah, wells. That's how I met my kid. I dunno. Maybe my kid." The Sicilian shrugged and grinned from ear to ear "cute lil fucker, I'll tell you what." The whole car ride had been one long string of following New Angeles roads, and Vinny embarrassing himself to a priest who whacked people for a living. Fuckin' lovely. Vinny wondered how he found himself involved in these things.
Vinny pulled into a small parking space and led the Father up to a building. Bad reggae music could be heard even from outside, and Jamaican flags hung up in the windows. "Toni says ya ain't got no gun, on account of the flight over. Can't kills a guys without no shooter." Vinny strolled up to the door and held it open for the Father.
"Guy runs this is a rasta, but he's good people, don't discriminate as long as ya pay." The second the door was open, the smell of stale weed and incense assaulted the senses. Vinny just sort of shrugged awkwardly. "You had to expect this."
Luka
Location: Trenchtown Rock Gold Pawn; Storage Room
Medical Status: Multiple fractures
Luka rolled over uncomfortably on the futon. Even with his shirt off, his chest still felt tight from the bandages wrapped around the torso. He insisted he felt fine, but Rippa, the blackmarket doctor who fixed him up, told him he had to wear the bandages. Something about keeping his ribs stiff so they would heal properly. ... What a pain in the ass.
What the hell kind of doctor calls themselves Rippa? Luka shook his head and sighed. He supposed he should be thankful. Cyrus and Wade had brought him here, and Chekhov has sent for the doc, even footed the medical bill seeing as Luka was dead broke.
But they had kept him here. They were actually really weird and insistent about it. And took his phone. He had been sleeping on a fucking crate for three days before an actual, legal customer pawned a futon, and Chekhov agreed to let Luka live off of it.
Oh right. Legal customer. That was the interesting thing. This place wasn't a real pawn shop. I mean. Yeah. It was. But that wasn't the main business. Up front was the shop, and Chekhov had a little apartment upstairs, and Luka had been staying in the storage area. But in the back of a storage room was a metal door, covered in locks and bolts. Beyond it, was enough fucking guns to arm a third world country.
It was honestly kind of impressive, not that Chekhov had let him in. But he had still snuck a peek or two. No, Luka wasn't allowed in the gun room. But Chekhov was at least willing to let Luka help out upfront, said it would pay for his meals and expenses. Luka grimaced...
It had been two weeks since the apartment shoot out. Before that, Luka was already a month behind on his rent. He knew damn well that even if he got out of here, he didn't have a home to go to anymore. But he couldn't tell that to Chekhov. And certainly not to Cyrus and Wade. They acted weird enough around him, he didn't want to make it worse. Ugh. If his niece could see him now...
Before Luka could get too deep into his own misery, he heard the bell go off in the front room, announcing a customer's arrival. He hoped it was Cy or Wade, just so he would have someone to talk to. Either way, he hopped off of the futon to make his way to greet the potential customer.
Which... in retrospect was a terrible fucking idea. The Irishman almost doubled over, his bones throbbing in pain. He shook it off with a groan and grabbed his leather jacket, sliding it on as he made his way out of the room. He was still shirtless, not too professional. But fuck it. He didn't actually work here.
Once upfront he saw not one but two men come in. Both of some sort of Italian descent. The first was a chubby guy in slacks and an atrociously patterned button up shirt. Luka was more interested in the second man. A Catholic priest. Don't see that everyday. Especially not in a pawnshop-slash-illegal gun dealership.
"Mornin' Father." Luka nodded. After a brief discussion with the chubby Italian, it was clear the two were here to purchase firearms, and had connections to the New Angeles Mafia. Luka called upstairs for Chekhov and told the customers it would be just a moment.
He then spent the time waiting on Chekhov digging around the front desk, trying to find the Jamaican's stash of homerolled marijuana cigarettes. He needed a fucking smoke one way or another, and it was too damn embarassing for a grown man to ask for a cigarette, weed or not.
What Luka didn't know, was that Cyrus and Wade were there. And they were busy upstairs discussing, for what had to have been the millionth time, what to do with the potential cop. They couldn't hold him hostage with no explanation forever.
Warren Michaels
Status: Off-Duty mall shopping
Mood: Papa Bear
The gruff man had just taken a second to look at a new watch. A second. He had to have turned his back for just moment. And when he looked back, Alexia was gone. He had spent half an hour trying to find her. And when he did...
Warren slammed his fist into the face of the punk who had been groping his daughter, the young thug's teeth shattering like glass. It had been an immediate instinct, and the Inspector hadn't stopped to examine the situation first. Now, his daughter had run off and he was surround by at least nine negro thugs, all flying yellow flags.
Yellow Regents, a coloured gang operating out of downtown. They try for petty gun running and drug dealing but they can't get any real hold on this town, since they're to busy having gang wars all the time. Damn punk kids.
Looks like Michaels had just laid out some young OG. The inspector clicked his tongue. If he had brought his gun or hell, just his cuffs, this would be over in a second. Sometimes you just had to do things the hard way.
The first of the thugs grabbed Warren by the collar, and the Inspector brought his forehead down on the bridge of the punk's nose, breaking it with a sickening Crack. The thug clutched his nose and reeled back "Hold this muthafucker!"
Warren's arms were pulled behind his back and the broke-nosed punk sauntered up to him. Did they really think this was how this would go down? Hold him and punch? Fuck, these kids don't know the first thing about a fight.
The Inspector delivered a sharp kick the the broke-nose, twisted his upper body, thowing one of the men holding him off balance, and kicked the man off his feet before bringing his newly freed arm around, slamming a left hook into the face of the other man holding him down.
And then the weapons came out. The next attacker lunged at Warren with a switchblade, only for the much more experienced detective to catch the attacker's arm, hipthrowing the attacker to the ground, and disarming him, breaking the elbow of the would-be stabber.
Warren turned about to face the remaining five attackers with his newly acquired knife, only to come face to face a snubnosed revolver, the cylinder turned, the trigger sliding back, the hammer cocking--
With a practiced movement, the Inspector grabbed the cylinder, holding it tightly. It wouldnt turn. No matter how hard the thug squeezed the trigger, the older man could hold the cylinder in place. "F...Fuck, what are you, man?!"
Warren drove the switchblade home into the gunman's forearm, snatching the firearm as his own just in time to dodge the swing of a lead pipe from one of the unwounded thugs, and bashing the butt of the gun into their collar bone, dropping the assailant to his knees before Warren kicked him to the floor.
Three left. A metal chain sang through the air. People would use anything as a weapon nowadays. Warren leaned back, narrowly avoiding being struck in the face, only for the chain to wrap its way around his arm tightly. "Gotchu now!", the chain's owner yanked on it with mighty tug.
Warren halfway wanted to smile. This was getting sad. The tug didn't budge the older man, and he gave a pull on the chain himself, causing its wielder to be thrown to the ground. The Inspector slammed his boot down on the thug's head, and gave the chain a swing himself lashing a second thug down with it effortlessly before discarding it.
Michaels leveled the snub nosed pistol at the last thug, who summarily pissed himself. "Bang."
The thugs, practically tripping over themselves, turned tail and stumbled away from the middle aged detective as quickly as they could. Warren popped open the cylinder of the revolver, emptying it of cartridges and disposed of it in a nearby bin. He realized fellow mall goers were looking on, shocked.
The detective lit himself a cigarette and produced his badge from his pants pocket "Inspector Warren J. Michaels, NAPD. Move along, the shows over.
Alexia Violet Michaels
The mocha skinned young lady turned a corner as her father picked a fight with the Regents. She had provoked them into molesting her. God... they were so fucking disgusting. She felt unclean. But she was willing to get herself felt up a little if it meant distracting her father long enough to get out of his sight.
Today was the day. The girl mashed Dante's phone number into her phone and held it to her ear. "I'll meet you outside the golf club. F's Caddy said today's the day, right? It's only an hour til his game starts. This might be your only chance. I went through alot trying to help you, sodon'tfuckthisupkay? I'll see you there, okaybyesexy." As she ended the call, she wondered if Dante could hear the sound of her father besting those Regents.
Johnny Chen
Location: Hell. It's hell.
Status: Bored.
The apartment was small. From the entrance, there was a small kitchen with a counter on the right, a couch, coffee table, and a flatscreen tv. On the same side of the room as the living area was a door way to the bedroom, with a full size bed and a small closet, and the tiny bathroom, no tub, just a shower.
This was the apartment Johnny had shared with Tanaka Aito for the last two weeks. And it was fucking unbearable. Chen plopped himself onto the couch with a groan, like a small child. They hadn't left this room for two weeks, and Tanaka barely spoke. "Tanaka-san. Fucking. Shit. Say something." he bitched. He wasn't even sure where in the apartment Tanaka was, or if he could be heard.
Chen wasn't quite as professional when he wasn't on the job. In fact, he was something of a manchild.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
In an adjacent, and identical but mirrored, apartment a smart phone began to ring. This apartment currently housed a Jew, and a woman with no past. The phone? It belonged to neither of them.
Richie's phone lay on the coffee table, the display reading "Unknown Caller" with no number displayed.
Vehicle: Blue 2005 Subaru Imprezza
Status: In transit, priest in tow
Vinny's boss, Antonio, had ordered him to help Father di Pello get a feel of the town. The Father had evidentally come to execute a hit on someone. That may have sounded weird to most people, but to Vinny is was just another day at the office. He was sure that if a fuckin' priest was here to ice a dude, the guy seriously had to deserve it.
"--and then she's got the nerve to say the kid was mine. And I'm like, 'baby, we both knows you work more than just a stripper pole to make a livin'', you know what I'm talking about right Father?" Vinny finished his story, looking away from the road to Arcangelo's face expectantly. When he got no reaction he deflatedly returned his focus to the blacktop.
"Yeah, wells. That's how I met my kid. I dunno. Maybe my kid." The Sicilian shrugged and grinned from ear to ear "cute lil fucker, I'll tell you what." The whole car ride had been one long string of following New Angeles roads, and Vinny embarrassing himself to a priest who whacked people for a living. Fuckin' lovely. Vinny wondered how he found himself involved in these things.
Vinny pulled into a small parking space and led the Father up to a building. Bad reggae music could be heard even from outside, and Jamaican flags hung up in the windows. "Toni says ya ain't got no gun, on account of the flight over. Can't kills a guys without no shooter." Vinny strolled up to the door and held it open for the Father.
"Guy runs this is a rasta, but he's good people, don't discriminate as long as ya pay." The second the door was open, the smell of stale weed and incense assaulted the senses. Vinny just sort of shrugged awkwardly. "You had to expect this."
Luka
Location: Trenchtown Rock Gold Pawn; Storage Room
Medical Status: Multiple fractures
Luka rolled over uncomfortably on the futon. Even with his shirt off, his chest still felt tight from the bandages wrapped around the torso. He insisted he felt fine, but Rippa, the blackmarket doctor who fixed him up, told him he had to wear the bandages. Something about keeping his ribs stiff so they would heal properly. ... What a pain in the ass.
What the hell kind of doctor calls themselves Rippa? Luka shook his head and sighed. He supposed he should be thankful. Cyrus and Wade had brought him here, and Chekhov has sent for the doc, even footed the medical bill seeing as Luka was dead broke.
But they had kept him here. They were actually really weird and insistent about it. And took his phone. He had been sleeping on a fucking crate for three days before an actual, legal customer pawned a futon, and Chekhov agreed to let Luka live off of it.
Oh right. Legal customer. That was the interesting thing. This place wasn't a real pawn shop. I mean. Yeah. It was. But that wasn't the main business. Up front was the shop, and Chekhov had a little apartment upstairs, and Luka had been staying in the storage area. But in the back of a storage room was a metal door, covered in locks and bolts. Beyond it, was enough fucking guns to arm a third world country.
It was honestly kind of impressive, not that Chekhov had let him in. But he had still snuck a peek or two. No, Luka wasn't allowed in the gun room. But Chekhov was at least willing to let Luka help out upfront, said it would pay for his meals and expenses. Luka grimaced...
It had been two weeks since the apartment shoot out. Before that, Luka was already a month behind on his rent. He knew damn well that even if he got out of here, he didn't have a home to go to anymore. But he couldn't tell that to Chekhov. And certainly not to Cyrus and Wade. They acted weird enough around him, he didn't want to make it worse. Ugh. If his niece could see him now...
Before Luka could get too deep into his own misery, he heard the bell go off in the front room, announcing a customer's arrival. He hoped it was Cy or Wade, just so he would have someone to talk to. Either way, he hopped off of the futon to make his way to greet the potential customer.
Which... in retrospect was a terrible fucking idea. The Irishman almost doubled over, his bones throbbing in pain. He shook it off with a groan and grabbed his leather jacket, sliding it on as he made his way out of the room. He was still shirtless, not too professional. But fuck it. He didn't actually work here.
Once upfront he saw not one but two men come in. Both of some sort of Italian descent. The first was a chubby guy in slacks and an atrociously patterned button up shirt. Luka was more interested in the second man. A Catholic priest. Don't see that everyday. Especially not in a pawnshop-slash-illegal gun dealership.
"Mornin' Father." Luka nodded. After a brief discussion with the chubby Italian, it was clear the two were here to purchase firearms, and had connections to the New Angeles Mafia. Luka called upstairs for Chekhov and told the customers it would be just a moment.
He then spent the time waiting on Chekhov digging around the front desk, trying to find the Jamaican's stash of homerolled marijuana cigarettes. He needed a fucking smoke one way or another, and it was too damn embarassing for a grown man to ask for a cigarette, weed or not.
What Luka didn't know, was that Cyrus and Wade were there. And they were busy upstairs discussing, for what had to have been the millionth time, what to do with the potential cop. They couldn't hold him hostage with no explanation forever.
Warren Michaels
Status: Off-Duty mall shopping
Mood: Papa Bear
The gruff man had just taken a second to look at a new watch. A second. He had to have turned his back for just moment. And when he looked back, Alexia was gone. He had spent half an hour trying to find her. And when he did...
Warren slammed his fist into the face of the punk who had been groping his daughter, the young thug's teeth shattering like glass. It had been an immediate instinct, and the Inspector hadn't stopped to examine the situation first. Now, his daughter had run off and he was surround by at least nine negro thugs, all flying yellow flags.
Yellow Regents, a coloured gang operating out of downtown. They try for petty gun running and drug dealing but they can't get any real hold on this town, since they're to busy having gang wars all the time. Damn punk kids.
Looks like Michaels had just laid out some young OG. The inspector clicked his tongue. If he had brought his gun or hell, just his cuffs, this would be over in a second. Sometimes you just had to do things the hard way.
The first of the thugs grabbed Warren by the collar, and the Inspector brought his forehead down on the bridge of the punk's nose, breaking it with a sickening Crack. The thug clutched his nose and reeled back "Hold this muthafucker!"
Warren's arms were pulled behind his back and the broke-nosed punk sauntered up to him. Did they really think this was how this would go down? Hold him and punch? Fuck, these kids don't know the first thing about a fight.
The Inspector delivered a sharp kick the the broke-nose, twisted his upper body, thowing one of the men holding him off balance, and kicked the man off his feet before bringing his newly freed arm around, slamming a left hook into the face of the other man holding him down.
And then the weapons came out. The next attacker lunged at Warren with a switchblade, only for the much more experienced detective to catch the attacker's arm, hipthrowing the attacker to the ground, and disarming him, breaking the elbow of the would-be stabber.
Warren turned about to face the remaining five attackers with his newly acquired knife, only to come face to face a snubnosed revolver, the cylinder turned, the trigger sliding back, the hammer cocking--
With a practiced movement, the Inspector grabbed the cylinder, holding it tightly. It wouldnt turn. No matter how hard the thug squeezed the trigger, the older man could hold the cylinder in place. "F...Fuck, what are you, man?!"
Warren drove the switchblade home into the gunman's forearm, snatching the firearm as his own just in time to dodge the swing of a lead pipe from one of the unwounded thugs, and bashing the butt of the gun into their collar bone, dropping the assailant to his knees before Warren kicked him to the floor.
Three left. A metal chain sang through the air. People would use anything as a weapon nowadays. Warren leaned back, narrowly avoiding being struck in the face, only for the chain to wrap its way around his arm tightly. "Gotchu now!", the chain's owner yanked on it with mighty tug.
Warren halfway wanted to smile. This was getting sad. The tug didn't budge the older man, and he gave a pull on the chain himself, causing its wielder to be thrown to the ground. The Inspector slammed his boot down on the thug's head, and gave the chain a swing himself lashing a second thug down with it effortlessly before discarding it.
Michaels leveled the snub nosed pistol at the last thug, who summarily pissed himself. "Bang."
The thugs, practically tripping over themselves, turned tail and stumbled away from the middle aged detective as quickly as they could. Warren popped open the cylinder of the revolver, emptying it of cartridges and disposed of it in a nearby bin. He realized fellow mall goers were looking on, shocked.
The detective lit himself a cigarette and produced his badge from his pants pocket "Inspector Warren J. Michaels, NAPD. Move along, the shows over.
The mocha skinned young lady turned a corner as her father picked a fight with the Regents. She had provoked them into molesting her. God... they were so fucking disgusting. She felt unclean. But she was willing to get herself felt up a little if it meant distracting her father long enough to get out of his sight.
Today was the day. The girl mashed Dante's phone number into her phone and held it to her ear. "I'll meet you outside the golf club. F's Caddy said today's the day, right? It's only an hour til his game starts. This might be your only chance. I went through alot trying to help you, sodon'tfuckthisupkay? I'll see you there, okaybyesexy." As she ended the call, she wondered if Dante could hear the sound of her father besting those Regents.
Johnny Chen
Location: Hell. It's hell.
Status: Bored.
The apartment was small. From the entrance, there was a small kitchen with a counter on the right, a couch, coffee table, and a flatscreen tv. On the same side of the room as the living area was a door way to the bedroom, with a full size bed and a small closet, and the tiny bathroom, no tub, just a shower.
This was the apartment Johnny had shared with Tanaka Aito for the last two weeks. And it was fucking unbearable. Chen plopped himself onto the couch with a groan, like a small child. They hadn't left this room for two weeks, and Tanaka barely spoke. "Tanaka-san. Fucking. Shit. Say something." he bitched. He wasn't even sure where in the apartment Tanaka was, or if he could be heard.
Chen wasn't quite as professional when he wasn't on the job. In fact, he was something of a manchild.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
In an adjacent, and identical but mirrored, apartment a smart phone began to ring. This apartment currently housed a Jew, and a woman with no past. The phone? It belonged to neither of them.
Richie's phone lay on the coffee table, the display reading "Unknown Caller" with no number displayed.
Last edited by Fi Skirata on Sat Aug 20, 2016 11:01 am; edited 2 times in total
Fi Skirata- Knight
- Posts : 883
Join date : 2015-01-08
Age : 30
Location : Despair Academy
Re: Criminal Consequences
by Thade Sun Oct 18, 2015 9:08 pm
Jack Godwin
The man called 'Dante' slid the phone back into his pocket without so much as a sigh. His hands gripped the steering wheel tight, and his jaw was set. He pushed down on the gas a little harder, not for fear of being late, but in the vain hope that going faster would calm him down. He wiped the sweat from his brow before it dripped into his eyes. With one hand he patted his suit pockets. Flask, check. Gun, check. Knife, check. Cigarettes... check.
It had been a rough two weeks.
Jack parked the vehicle across the street from the golf course. Forty-five minutes early. He lit a cigarette and rolled down the window, trying to calm his unsteady hands. Now just to wait for the girl, Violet. A fake name, he was sure. But he hadn't stopped her from calling him Dante, as much as that name was starting to eat at him. He had gone too far. Jack wasn't the one who carved his name into that man's chest, Dante was. Dante was the one who got himself arrested in New York. Dante was the one who ratted out his friends.
Jack sighed, and Dante tossed his cigarette out the window. He hoped the girl would show up soon.
The man called 'Dante' slid the phone back into his pocket without so much as a sigh. His hands gripped the steering wheel tight, and his jaw was set. He pushed down on the gas a little harder, not for fear of being late, but in the vain hope that going faster would calm him down. He wiped the sweat from his brow before it dripped into his eyes. With one hand he patted his suit pockets. Flask, check. Gun, check. Knife, check. Cigarettes... check.
It had been a rough two weeks.
Jack parked the vehicle across the street from the golf course. Forty-five minutes early. He lit a cigarette and rolled down the window, trying to calm his unsteady hands. Now just to wait for the girl, Violet. A fake name, he was sure. But he hadn't stopped her from calling him Dante, as much as that name was starting to eat at him. He had gone too far. Jack wasn't the one who carved his name into that man's chest, Dante was. Dante was the one who got himself arrested in New York. Dante was the one who ratted out his friends.
Jack sighed, and Dante tossed his cigarette out the window. He hoped the girl would show up soon.
Thade- Esquire
- Posts : 396
Join date : 2015-01-11
Age : 105
Re: Criminal Consequences
by Fi Skirata Sun Oct 18, 2015 10:31 pm
Inspector Michaels
Doesn't believe in days off
After getting a text from his daughter stating that she would find her own way home, Warren took the car and headed for the hospital. Working was a better way to spend his time than shopping or sitting at home.
But this morning he had gotten a call. The John Doe he found in the apartments had woken up. And Warren had questions. The ballistics report on the JD's bullet wounds confirmed the rounds used were the same as the rounds found in John Chen's coat.
Warren was led to the vic's hospital room by a nurse. The young nurse didn't drop the bombshell until they were already standing outside of the room. "The patient is showing a quick recovery. He'll be fine in the long run, motor and language skills are intact but..."
"But."
"The patient has amnesia. You won't accomplish anything by questioning him. If you want to see if you can make him remember something, go ahead, but if this proves too problematic for the patient, you'll have to leave."
"I see." This has got to be a fucking joke.
Once inside, the nurse told the patient he had company, and helped him sit up, before seeing herself out. Warren sat himself on a chair next to the hospital bed and glanced over the man in front of him.
The guy had been unconscious for two weeks. He looked like shit. Not that he looked so great before. But he had already gotten thinner, his skin several shades paler, his head still wrapped in bandages.
"I'm Inspector Warren with the New Angeles Police Department. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
The patient stared at the badge Warren flashed and nodded "I don't know what help I'll be. I've already told the doctors I don't remember anything."
Warren barraged the poor man with questions. Inquiring about his name, where he lived, who he know, if he remembered the events of two weeks ago. Nothing. The man simply seemed more and more distraught as the questioning went on. It didn't take long before Warren realized he'd done nothing but reach another dead end.
Warren sighed, sketching in his memo pad idly. This was a waste of time. There wasn't any information to be gained this way. It was time for a new approach. "Well, I'll tell you everything I know about you, if you'd like a refresher."
The patient looked nervous "Th-The doctor said it may not be such a good idea for me to kn--"
"Two weeks ago you were found face down in a pool of your own blood."
"I..I know that much."
"They tell you what your concussion was caused by, kid?" The patient shook his head. "Kid, you were in a gang hideout riddled with bullet holes when I found you. You were executed."
The patient looked panicked. The sound of a previously rhythmic heart monitor sped up. "W...Why? Why would that happen to me? I don't..."
Warren produced an evidence bag with Chen's magazines inside and layed on the table beside the patient. "With these. You weren't even given a quick death. These rounds are the wrong caliber for the handgun you were shot with. You were nearly killed by an amateur who can't load his own gun correctly."
The patient wriggle on the spot, visible uncomfortable looking at the magazines.
Warren pulled Chen's wallet from another evidence bag and produced the ID from it. "This is the guy. John Chen, age 29. Look familiar? Try picturing him with a gun to your head."
The patient began to sweat, clutching his head "F...fucking chink put a bullet in my head when I called him John. Said I was racist..."
Warren stood up shoving the ID closer to the patients face. "You remember. What's your name? Who were you with? Why were there? Why would you be in a gang shooting?"
The heart monitor went crazy, the patient started shaking, clutching at the bandages on his head, panting. Warren continued his questioning. Repeating them, demanding answers.
"I don't KNOW!"
Warren sighed, lighting a cigarette as the nurse came in, hounding him about being too rough with the patient, how he couldn't smoke around the equipment, that he should leave. Warren ignored her. He scooped up the evidence bags and replaced them in his coat. "If you remember anything. You tell your doctor to call me."
Violet
Timing: Fashionably late
Clad in jeans and a leather jacket, Violet was dressed somewhat more modestly than most days Dante had seen her. She had arrived on a Kawasaki motorcycle, and even asked Dante what he thought of it. Dante didn't seem in the mood for talking. She wondered if he was miffed at her being late.
She stood beside him "The guy show up yet? DidImissthegoodpart?"
Doesn't believe in days off
After getting a text from his daughter stating that she would find her own way home, Warren took the car and headed for the hospital. Working was a better way to spend his time than shopping or sitting at home.
But this morning he had gotten a call. The John Doe he found in the apartments had woken up. And Warren had questions. The ballistics report on the JD's bullet wounds confirmed the rounds used were the same as the rounds found in John Chen's coat.
Warren was led to the vic's hospital room by a nurse. The young nurse didn't drop the bombshell until they were already standing outside of the room. "The patient is showing a quick recovery. He'll be fine in the long run, motor and language skills are intact but..."
"But."
"The patient has amnesia. You won't accomplish anything by questioning him. If you want to see if you can make him remember something, go ahead, but if this proves too problematic for the patient, you'll have to leave."
"I see." This has got to be a fucking joke.
Once inside, the nurse told the patient he had company, and helped him sit up, before seeing herself out. Warren sat himself on a chair next to the hospital bed and glanced over the man in front of him.
The guy had been unconscious for two weeks. He looked like shit. Not that he looked so great before. But he had already gotten thinner, his skin several shades paler, his head still wrapped in bandages.
"I'm Inspector Warren with the New Angeles Police Department. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
The patient stared at the badge Warren flashed and nodded "I don't know what help I'll be. I've already told the doctors I don't remember anything."
Warren barraged the poor man with questions. Inquiring about his name, where he lived, who he know, if he remembered the events of two weeks ago. Nothing. The man simply seemed more and more distraught as the questioning went on. It didn't take long before Warren realized he'd done nothing but reach another dead end.
Warren sighed, sketching in his memo pad idly. This was a waste of time. There wasn't any information to be gained this way. It was time for a new approach. "Well, I'll tell you everything I know about you, if you'd like a refresher."
The patient looked nervous "Th-The doctor said it may not be such a good idea for me to kn--"
"Two weeks ago you were found face down in a pool of your own blood."
"I..I know that much."
"They tell you what your concussion was caused by, kid?" The patient shook his head. "Kid, you were in a gang hideout riddled with bullet holes when I found you. You were executed."
The patient looked panicked. The sound of a previously rhythmic heart monitor sped up. "W...Why? Why would that happen to me? I don't..."
Warren produced an evidence bag with Chen's magazines inside and layed on the table beside the patient. "With these. You weren't even given a quick death. These rounds are the wrong caliber for the handgun you were shot with. You were nearly killed by an amateur who can't load his own gun correctly."
The patient wriggle on the spot, visible uncomfortable looking at the magazines.
Warren pulled Chen's wallet from another evidence bag and produced the ID from it. "This is the guy. John Chen, age 29. Look familiar? Try picturing him with a gun to your head."
The patient began to sweat, clutching his head "F...fucking chink put a bullet in my head when I called him John. Said I was racist..."
Warren stood up shoving the ID closer to the patients face. "You remember. What's your name? Who were you with? Why were there? Why would you be in a gang shooting?"
The heart monitor went crazy, the patient started shaking, clutching at the bandages on his head, panting. Warren continued his questioning. Repeating them, demanding answers.
"I don't KNOW!"
Warren sighed, lighting a cigarette as the nurse came in, hounding him about being too rough with the patient, how he couldn't smoke around the equipment, that he should leave. Warren ignored her. He scooped up the evidence bags and replaced them in his coat. "If you remember anything. You tell your doctor to call me."
Violet
Timing: Fashionably late
Clad in jeans and a leather jacket, Violet was dressed somewhat more modestly than most days Dante had seen her. She had arrived on a Kawasaki motorcycle, and even asked Dante what he thought of it. Dante didn't seem in the mood for talking. She wondered if he was miffed at her being late.
She stood beside him "The guy show up yet? DidImissthegoodpart?"
Fi Skirata- Knight
- Posts : 883
Join date : 2015-01-08
Age : 30
Location : Despair Academy
Re: Criminal Consequences
by Thade Sun Oct 18, 2015 10:52 pm
Jack Godwin
Jack barely turned his head as the girl rode up. He was leaning back against his car, staring unblinkingly at the gates.
"Oh he's in there alright. Showed up a few minutes ago with a couple of buddies. Which means we're going with Plan B." Jack took a step forward. He had recognized Mr. F the minute he saw him. Luckily had had time to duck behind his car, and avoid getting shot by the very man he was trying to kill.
The fact that F had a couple friends along made it more tricky. Jack couldn't just kill him in the parking lot like he had planned, he had to go in. And with his backup-backup plan in jeans, it would be a little hard to sneak into an incredibly expensive country club.
"We're going in. In the back of my car there's a bag. Please put on what's in it. This place is a little more classy than jeans and a leather jacket."
Jack barely turned his head as the girl rode up. He was leaning back against his car, staring unblinkingly at the gates.
"Oh he's in there alright. Showed up a few minutes ago with a couple of buddies. Which means we're going with Plan B." Jack took a step forward. He had recognized Mr. F the minute he saw him. Luckily had had time to duck behind his car, and avoid getting shot by the very man he was trying to kill.
The fact that F had a couple friends along made it more tricky. Jack couldn't just kill him in the parking lot like he had planned, he had to go in. And with his backup-backup plan in jeans, it would be a little hard to sneak into an incredibly expensive country club.
"We're going in. In the back of my car there's a bag. Please put on what's in it. This place is a little more classy than jeans and a leather jacket."
Thade- Esquire
- Posts : 396
Join date : 2015-01-11
Age : 105
Re: Criminal Consequences
by Mr. Fountain Mon Oct 19, 2015 12:14 am
Isaac "The Jew" Rosenberg
Location: Near Hell
Status: Glistening
Isaac lathered his hair - which had grown out a bit during these past two weeks - up with a large concoction of hand soap, body wash, and the suds he had found at the bottom of an off-brand shampoo bottle. Yes, times were rough. The Jew continued to rub his fingers into his scalp and began to think about the events of the last couple of weeks - he'd been taking a shower almost twice a day since getting the piss and shit off of him.
After driving away from the lot, Isaac managed to convince Slim to lay low with him until things cooled down - he had explained that he still had his own job in the city to find the woman named V. The pair had hoped that they would get paid, but a call from Bossman Fairbanks told them otherwise. The conversation ended there. They cruised around until they found this place - the shit-covered Isaac sending Slim in first to secure an apartment for them.
Then came the next problem: money. That was quickly solved by robbing small gas stations and convenience stores - using Richie's car as the getaway vehicle. After securing enough cash to relax for a few months, Isaac ditched Richie's car - paying off the manager of a dumpsite to crush it and making sure that he did it right. Then, the Nose bought the most usable piece-of-shit vehicle he could find on short notice so that they'd at least have some kind of ride.
And now, there was a goddamn phone ringing. Isaac opened the plexiglass door of the shower and stuck his soapy head out.
"Slim! The phone!" the Jew called out and waited for a moment. Still ringing. "Skinny! The- Fuck. The phone, Slim! Get the phone! Goddammit..."
Isaac stepped out of the shower and placed a wet foot cautiously on the bathroom tile. He grabbed a white towel from the rack and haphazardly wrapped it around his waist as he stepped outside and into the bedroom. His wet, shoulder-length hair was pulled back over his scalp and behind his ears. His belly was almost as flat as a board - the faintest hint that he might be getting abs was appearing. No, he didn't have large muscles, but he wasn't out of shape either - his whole body, limbs, torso, and all were lithe and tight.
Slim was sprawled out on the bed - a pair of headphones in her ears. Goddammit. The nearly-nude Jew walked towards the lamp table that was next to the head of the bed.
"Hey, Twig, I said there's a phone- Ah, oh..." Isaac let out when he saw that it was Richie's phone that was ringing. He was actually surprised that it still had a charge. Quickly, he snatched the thing up and answered it.
"Yea- shit, dammit!" the Jew answered but was interrupted when his towel began to fall. "God-fucking-shit." He managed to keep it from falling onto the floor completely, but he only succeeded in bunching the cloth up against his crotch - maintaining his dignity to be sure.
Isaac quickly pinned the phone against his wet ear and shoulder as he repositioned the towel. "Yeah?" he finally answered.
Location: Near Hell
Status: Glistening
Isaac lathered his hair - which had grown out a bit during these past two weeks - up with a large concoction of hand soap, body wash, and the suds he had found at the bottom of an off-brand shampoo bottle. Yes, times were rough. The Jew continued to rub his fingers into his scalp and began to think about the events of the last couple of weeks - he'd been taking a shower almost twice a day since getting the piss and shit off of him.
After driving away from the lot, Isaac managed to convince Slim to lay low with him until things cooled down - he had explained that he still had his own job in the city to find the woman named V. The pair had hoped that they would get paid, but a call from Bossman Fairbanks told them otherwise. The conversation ended there. They cruised around until they found this place - the shit-covered Isaac sending Slim in first to secure an apartment for them.
Then came the next problem: money. That was quickly solved by robbing small gas stations and convenience stores - using Richie's car as the getaway vehicle. After securing enough cash to relax for a few months, Isaac ditched Richie's car - paying off the manager of a dumpsite to crush it and making sure that he did it right. Then, the Nose bought the most usable piece-of-shit vehicle he could find on short notice so that they'd at least have some kind of ride.
And now, there was a goddamn phone ringing. Isaac opened the plexiglass door of the shower and stuck his soapy head out.
"Slim! The phone!" the Jew called out and waited for a moment. Still ringing. "Skinny! The- Fuck. The phone, Slim! Get the phone! Goddammit..."
Isaac stepped out of the shower and placed a wet foot cautiously on the bathroom tile. He grabbed a white towel from the rack and haphazardly wrapped it around his waist as he stepped outside and into the bedroom. His wet, shoulder-length hair was pulled back over his scalp and behind his ears. His belly was almost as flat as a board - the faintest hint that he might be getting abs was appearing. No, he didn't have large muscles, but he wasn't out of shape either - his whole body, limbs, torso, and all were lithe and tight.
Slim was sprawled out on the bed - a pair of headphones in her ears. Goddammit. The nearly-nude Jew walked towards the lamp table that was next to the head of the bed.
"Hey, Twig, I said there's a phone- Ah, oh..." Isaac let out when he saw that it was Richie's phone that was ringing. He was actually surprised that it still had a charge. Quickly, he snatched the thing up and answered it.
"Yea- shit, dammit!" the Jew answered but was interrupted when his towel began to fall. "God-fucking-shit." He managed to keep it from falling onto the floor completely, but he only succeeded in bunching the cloth up against his crotch - maintaining his dignity to be sure.
Isaac quickly pinned the phone against his wet ear and shoulder as he repositioned the towel. "Yeah?" he finally answered.
Mr. Fountain- Knight
- Posts : 958
Join date : 2015-01-07
Age : 29
Location : Judecca
Re: Criminal Consequences
by Megantron Mon Oct 19, 2015 12:56 am
Slim
It had been two weeks since that failure of a job, and now Slim was holed up with the Jew. The two of them had robbed banks Bonnie & Clyde [OOC: lol] style in order to supply themselves with enough cash in order to bide their time.
Slim wasn't too thrilled though. Having to stay in one place for too long made her antsy. She'd always been one for painting the town red and then moving on to the next before any actual consequences caught up with her. That's partially how she's stayed under the radar for as long as she has.
With headphones in and the world blocked out, Slim sprawled herself out while letting the hypnotic binaural beats wash over her, relaxing both mind and body. At one point in time, she used to have complete control of her mind, spending days off in deep meditation in order to regain some semblance of balance in her life.
Out of the corner of her eye, the Jew's figure appeared. Partially in the nude. What's with boys and their incessant need to never wear clothes? She piped up though when she saw what was in his hands. Richie's phone. Yanking her headphones out in one motion, she crept over to him to listen in on the conversation.
It had been two weeks since that failure of a job, and now Slim was holed up with the Jew. The two of them had robbed banks Bonnie & Clyde [OOC: lol] style in order to supply themselves with enough cash in order to bide their time.
Slim wasn't too thrilled though. Having to stay in one place for too long made her antsy. She'd always been one for painting the town red and then moving on to the next before any actual consequences caught up with her. That's partially how she's stayed under the radar for as long as she has.
With headphones in and the world blocked out, Slim sprawled herself out while letting the hypnotic binaural beats wash over her, relaxing both mind and body. At one point in time, she used to have complete control of her mind, spending days off in deep meditation in order to regain some semblance of balance in her life.
Out of the corner of her eye, the Jew's figure appeared. Partially in the nude. What's with boys and their incessant need to never wear clothes? She piped up though when she saw what was in his hands. Richie's phone. Yanking her headphones out in one motion, she crept over to him to listen in on the conversation.
Megantron- Esquire
- Posts : 478
Join date : 2015-01-27
Age : 30
Location : Flo Rida -
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