Criminal Consequences

Vinny
Location: Vinny's apartment.

It was an agonizing hour. The girl that dropped Jack off had left in hurry for some reason, all to quick to get out of dodge. Father Angelo had of course specifically insisted on staying to pray for poor old Jack. But ole Doc Rippa did good work. And not just on Jack, but on the other guy. The guy they found on the side of the road.

When Jack came to, the doctor, a black woman with dreads, complained as she dropped a bullet fragment into a petri dish "You know pigs use hollow point rounds. I charge extra for every fucking fragment. A ballistics would be cheaper, but if you morons want to keep paying my grandkid's college, go ahead." She shook her head, cleaning and wrapping Jack's wound.

"She said you'll be good Jackie boy!" Vinny grinned. "And you ain't the only one! We found this big lug on the side of the road, someone shot him in the eye, can you believe?"

Seated in a chair on the opposite side of the room was the same Detective that had tried to commandeer Jack's car to begin with, unconscious.

Vinny was not a smart man.


Luka Ferguson

Luka shook his head at the tv "Someone's coochie coo'd the president. This is national news? I hol-- holy shit how fuckin' high am I?"

Noticing Cyrus staring at him, the Irishman raised an eyebrow "There a turd on me face, or do you not like me stink?"

Cyrus casually unfolded a police badge. "You a cop?"

Luka stared at it blankly. His gaze flickering occasionally between Cyrus and the badge. Cyrus. The Badge. The Badge. Cyrus. Wade. The Badge. Muted footage of the President being coochie coo'd. Cyrus.

"Oh, well. That's what all this is about then. Aye, I'm a blue. Been a blue all me life. Me grandpappy was a blue. Til a serial killer chopped him up and drank 'is brains out of skull. With a straw. Had to follow in his footsteps I did."

Luka paused.

"No, I'm not a bloody fucking pig, do I smell like bacon to you? This look like The Departed? Fuck, you should've asked me sooner, I'm not the cop. Richie was the cop."

When Cyrus made a face, Luka shrugged "Okay, not a cop. He was undercover as cop. So he wasn't really a cop either, but that's his badge. The one that proves he's supposedly a cop, which I guess he's not. It's complicated, can we not speak ill of the dead? I don't need ghosts in me bed sheets, lads. If you ever see fit to give to me bed sheets."

Luka rubbed his bandaged torso. "It's like this, see. Richie was pretendin' to be a cop, I dunno whys exactly, but he wanted the actual cops to think he was pretending to be a crooked cop so he could catch the crooked cops being shitty cops so he could make the rest of the cops capable of being good cops. But 'e 'imself was not a cop. Some alphabet agency or sumthin'. No concern to you lads."

Luka sighed "I knew 'im as lads, he helped raised me niece after her brother... ah..." Luka put his finger to his head and mimed pulling the trigger "'is self and his dad. So when Richie comes 'round, says 'oi, ye wanker, I needs some help with the cops.', well I help with the cops, 'es me boyo, yeah?"

Luka rolled his eyes when it seemed he wasn't being followed very well. "I'm not a cop, its not my badge. It's Richie's badge, who is also not a cop. Is any of this making any sense? Hell, you're the one with the badge now, are you a cop?" Luka indicated towards Wade "Is that why he's crying? Cuz yer a cop? That'd break me heart, Cy."

"You know what else is breakin' me heart? I haven't talked to me family in two weeks and me shits in a dumpster halfway across the city cuz you fuckin' idgits couldn't ask if I was a cop two fuckin' weeks ago! So if ya'd kindly, I'd like my phone and wallet so I can go real estate shopping for a nice alley to build my cardboard mansion in, you feel me lads?"

Jack Godwin

Jack opened his eyes to a world of blurriness. He blinked, a vain attempt at making the brownish blob in front of him more distinct. He felt a hard surface beneath him… the road? A table? Memories swirled in his mind. He was at a golf course… He could see Violet undressing, not at all hidden behind a bush… then… he couldn’t remember.

“The fuck...” he made to rub the world into focus, but a pain shot down his arm as he tried to lift it more than an inch off the table.

“You know pigs use hollow point rounds. I charge extra for every fucking fragment. A ballistics would be cheaper, but if you morons want to keep paying my grandkid's college, go ahead."

Everything clicked as he heard the clink of metal into a dish. The job, killing the chief of police, getting shot. Violet gunning down another cop on the highway. He was pissed.

"She said you'll be good Jackie boy! And you ain't the only one! We found this big lug on the side of the road, someone shot him in the eye, can you believe?"

“...Vinny you fuckin’... you fuckin’ ass,” Jack said, his voice hoarse. He managed to sit up a bit and mutter a word of thanks as the good doctor dressed his wound. He rubbed his eyes and turned to face the man who got him shot, noticing for the first time the detective sat in the chair next to him.

The man from the car. The man Violet had shot. The cop Violet had shot. Anger started to boil inside him and he attempted to stand, only for the doctor to shove him back to his seated position on the table and resume applying the bandages.

“...Vinny you fuckin’ ass! That's a fuckin' cop you dumb cunt! Violet fuckin' shot him, and you bring him here?! Are you tryin' to get me killed? Not to mention her. Wait, the fuck did she go anyway?"

Cyrus A. Lee/Wade Campbell
Location: Trenchtown Rock Gold Pawn; Safehouse

"Yeah, okay," Cyrus replied, stuffing the badge back into his pocket before tossing Luka his phone and wallet. "Sorry I didn't ask sooner, man. I woke up this morning and realized jail wasn't that bad today. So, cop or no cop, I'll take a chance on ya and help you to find a new place. I'll even spot you the cash for a bed and some appliances. Don't really know what else I'm gonna spend it on, so why the hell not? Anything to get out of this dump for a few hours."

"Hey, Wade!" Cyrus shouted at the back of his friend's head. "Luka's not a cop, I guess. We'll probably be leaving real soon. You coming?"

Wade lifted his right hand and gave a thumbs up. He was still crying like a little bitch though.

"Okay, cool. You wanna drive?" Cyrus asked, jangling his car keys in front of Luka's face.

Vinny

Vinny looked at the cop "Oh." he flatly said before shrugging. "We'll put your Beretta on the guy, and deliver him to the 5-0 ourselves, claiming we caught the man who killed the Police Chief. I just literally helped you get away with murder, you should be happy!" the fat fuck chuckled. "It'll all work out."

The doctor, Rippa, shoved a handful of pills into Jack's mouth and forced him to swallow it down with a glass of water. She set down the bottle of painkillers beside him "Take however many of these you damn well please, whatever keeps you from bitching and calling me about hurting. Don't OD. You look like repeat business, and I don't need customers dying."

The priest who had been silently praying spoke up. "Your friend, Violet you called her? She left after dropping you off. Didn't even help carry you in, not a helpful soul that one, alas. She said to call her when you were back on your feet. Hello, by the way. I am Father Arcangelo di Pella, I am a... problem solver for the Family, not unlike you. A pleasure meeting you, my child."


Luka

Luka snatched the keys "Oh hell yes, anything to get outta here ey? Just the thought's got me moister than a underbaked turkey on thanksgivin' day. Lead the way, Mr. Serious Lee."

For the first time, Luka chose to actually acknowledge the fact that Wade hadn't stopped crying since Luka had entered the room "Oi, what's the story here? You steal candy from 'im Cy?" Luka raised a hand "Ah. Don't answer yet. Walk and talk, boyo, I'm like a rat in a shoe box in here, lead the way and tell Uncle Luka aaaaaaaalllllll 'bout it, eh?"

Cyrus A. Lee/Wade Campbell
Location: Trenchtown Rock Gold Pawn

Cyrus quickly nudged Luka out of the room, closing the door behind them, giving them a brief moment of privacy. Scratching the back of his head, Cyrus very bluntly answered, "Someone killed his girlfriend."

"Jaysus fuck--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah! I know." Cyrus replied, shoving his hand over the Irishman's mouth. "Look, man, I'm sorry to bum you out with this by bringing him along, but we work in a fuckin' gun shop for Chrissakes, so I don't wanna leave him here all on his lonesome just so he can go shopping for the perfect double-barrel to blow his own head off with, because I can assure you we've got an earnest selection of Hemingway's downstairs."

Cyrus lowered his hand from Luka's face and continued to talk, "Yeah, so we're gonna babysit him for a while. I apologize in advance for any of his future blubbering, but we're just gonna ha--"

Cyrus quickly shuts up as the door opens. Out steps Mr. Campbell, his face stoic with an absence of tears. Donning a pair of aviator shades, Wade brushes between the two, "Let's go. Luka needs a house."

Cyrus glanced back at Luka, "Or... not."

Jack Godwin

Jack wasn’t happy. He just killed the fucking police chief. Forget the Yakuza, or the Russians, they’d eventually give up if you ran far enough. There wasn’t a place in the entire country he could run from the feds.

“...You stupid motherfucker.” Standing from the table, he grabbed the dish containing the bullet fragments and flung it at Vinny’s head. “We haven’t gotten away with shit! I just killed a police chief because of you! And I ain’t goin’ back to jail ya fu-” Jack was interrupted as a handful of painkillers were painfully shoved down his throat. He looked sideways, face contorted in confusion and slight betrayal at the woman who had patched him up. She then brought a glass of water to his lips and poured it down his throat.

A coughing fit later he turned back to Vinny, raising a finger and taking a breath only to be interrupted by a religious looking man who Jack hadn’t even noticed was kneeling near the table the entire time.

“Who the fuck…” he murmured under his breath. He was getting tired of this shit.

"Your friend, Violet you called her? She left after dropping you off. Didn't even help carry you in, not a helpful soul that one, alas. She said to call her when you were back on your feet. Hello, by the way. I am Father Arcangelo di Pella, I am a... problem solver for the Family, not unlike you. A pleasure meeting you, my child."

Jack sat back down on the table. Everybody needed to shut up for half a goddamn second. He took a breath and rubbed his temple.

“...Okay...You,” he pointed to Vinny, “I ain’t even close to done with you. You fucked me over. Now you, “ he pointed to the doctor, “Can I drink while on these?" he held up the medication before shoving them in his pocket. "And finally, you,” he pointed to the priest, “ I don’t really give a rat’s ass who you are. Although, you fuckin’ call me ‘my child’ again and I’ll blow your brains out. And keep that religious mumbo jumbo outta my death bed next time, will ya? Can’t have God thinkin’ I’m a decent guy, 'cause I ain't, and neither are you.”

He rose and went over to his sports coat, draping it over his shoulders and shoving his gun in his waistband. "Now if any of you fuckers have anything else to say, I'm all ears. Otherwise I gotta track down a witness, commit arson, and then leave the fuckin' country."

Vinny

The metal dish that once held bullet fragments wedged within Jack's fleshy body sailed through the air, colliding sharply with Vinny's fool head. He shouted in pain, kicking his couch with enough force to jolt the cop awake. Like a bolt out of the blue, the pig grabbed his gun from under his coat with one hand, and his badge with the other "NAPD Detective Warren!"

Nobody seemed terribly shocked at his outburst, even as he trained the sight of his side arm on Vinny's considerable gut. Rippa crossed over to him "Morning Warren."

"Laticia." He addressed her like an old friend. "Can't see out of my left eye."

"It's still there. It wasn't exactly shot, muzzle flash burned it. I'll spare you the details." She replied, holding a small mirror up for him to observe his eye.

"When will it recover?"

"It wont."

Vinny cursed and kicked the dish that had collided with his skull across the room. "You got worse than your eye to worry about. We got you as the assassin of the Police Chief, Mr. Warren."

"That so?" Warren pulled the trigger on his gun, and the hammer clicked unsatisfactorially.

Vinny shook his head "You think we're dumb enough to leave you a loaded gun in our own turf? I unloaded that piece when we found you."

Warren moved to lunge at Vinny only for Father Angelo to give a disapproving "tisk", in his hand was an open bible, and ever so well hidden in the palm of his hand with a small pistol. Warren sank back into the couch with a sigh.

Jack having finished a small tirade, Rippa responded "I'd not advise taking the painkillers with alcohol, but I doubt you'll listen. Do as you damn well please, just don't complain to me about the hangover or your liver."

Vinny retrieved some drinks from his fridge, "Tell us about this witness," he said, cracking one open. "That seems like a bigger problem. Beer, detective?"

"No."

"Don't be a hard ass, take the damn beer."

Warren accepted the drink bemusedly, replying with a flat "Thanks."

"You, Jackie boy?" Vinny held up a Luke warm can towards Jack.


Luka Ferguson

In a few brief moments, Luka and co. were out the door of Trenchtown, and in the car. Luka produces his own pair of sunglasses, not unlike Wade's, donning them against the harsh afternoon sun.

Luka veered the vehicle across lanes, weaving in and out of traffic like it didn't exist, all the while staring over his shades at his beaten smart phone, typing an apologetic message to his niece. UN responsive to any efforts to talk, he soon pulled up onto a sidewalk, leaning out of his window and snatching a paper from an entitled looking teenager and speeding away.

Shoving the paper at his shotgun rider, Cyrus, Luka continued his negligent driving, all the while peering over at the real estate section of the paper. He held the phone to his ear "'ello? Yeh. Yeaaaah. This is mister Ferguson. Yeh. I'm calling on account of my late balance on my lease. Yes. Yessur. Yes well, I was just calling to tell you I never liked you very much and you're not a nice man. Thas right, go Fook yerself." He hung up the phone.

"Alright lads, I can't take the pressure, the elephant on the room is weighin' down the car so much I can barely steer her. What in the bloody fuck happened to yer lady, Wade-man?"

Cyrus A. Lee/Wade Campbell

"Alright lads, I can't take the pressure, the elephant on the room is weighin' down the car so much I can barely steer her. What in the bloody fuck happened to yer lady, Wade-man?"

Cyrus shuffled uncomfortably in his seat upon hearing Luka's question. He then leaned over, placing a hand on the Irishman's shoulder, and cautiously said, "Luka, the man doesn't have to tell us shit. Don't press him."

"No," Wade spoke up from the back seat, "No, it's fine, Cyrus. I'd be curious too. Hell, curious is all I am right now! I mean, how the fuck could something like this happen?! If it was me, with all the bad shit I've done, I'd understand, but her?! She didn't do a fucking thing wrong, Cyrus! She was nothing like those two-bit fucking selfish whores I grew up with! She helped people! Alicia was a good person!"

"I know, man. I know." Cyrus replied, turning his head ever so slightly until Wade was in his peripheral.

"I-I just... I just fuckin' saw her yesterday, Cyrus! She was breathing, she was happy, she was alive!" Wade punched the back of Cyrus' chair in frustration. "It's fucking bullshit, man..."

"You mind if I ask how you got the news?" Cyrus responded.

Wade sighed, leaned back in his chair, lit up a smoke in an attempt to calm his nerves and replied, "Her sister, Abby, called me about four hours ago. She was absolutely crushed, I could hear it in her voice. She said something had happened at the hospital, but no one would give her the details. I had to call up her co-workers to get the full story. Apparently, some 'John Doe' fucking nutjob she was overseeing strangled her to death with his bare hands! And the guard, some help he was, they found that dumb motherfucker knocked out cold and restrained by his own goddamn handcuffs!

"Fuck..." Cyrus shook his head in disappointment.

"He fucking strangled her, man! What kinda person does that to someone like her?! Someone who was just trying to help him! That fucking inbred savage caveman piece of shit! I need to kill him, Cyrus! I need to fucking put a bullet in his skull!"

"Wade, you know me, brother," Cyrus glanced up at his friend, "I'll help anyway I can."

"Appreciate it," Wade whispered and turned his attention to the passing streets outside the window.

Turning his attention back toward the road ahead, Cyrus asked, "So, Luka, does that answer your question?"

Jack Godwin

Jack stared in mild disbelief at the fat fuck offering him a warm, piss poor beer. He pulled a shining metal flask out of the blazer that he had carefully put on, and without losing eye contact, drained it to the last drop before returning it to its place.

“...The witness is the girl you let run off after dumping me on the street. The girl I’ve been keepin' in my line of sight at all times. The one who knows my name, where I live, and who helped me kill the fuckin’ police chief.” With every word he inched a little closer to Vinny, murder in his eyes. “The girl that saw me carve my fuckin' name into a guy’s chest. You know, the mochaccino lookin’ one with the annoying voice and the colorful hair? You met her, I’m sure of it.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “That witness.”

Jack stepped back and straightened his blazer with one hand. “So anyway, witness, some minor arson, Belize. Or maybe Costa Rica. You can deal with the detective here, I’m done. Tell the Don to deliver my payment to the usual dead drop, I’m outta the game.”

Vinny

"Jack. Jackieeee! Baby, c'mon, you can't be out. You just did the Family a huge one, if they'll make a fuck like me a fuckin' Capo, boy. You're a made man, a shoe-in. Guaranteed. Then it's the fast track to the top, money, women, everything you want! Made, Jackie, ya can't leave. We got a fall guy, cmon!"

"And what are you two discussing?" The priests interruption drew the other Italian's information to Warren and Rippa, who was apparantly named Laticia, who had been holding a hushed conversation.

"Did this girl have a tattoo if a Roman Numeral on her neck?"

"Laticia, no."

"Roman Numeral?" Vinny scratched his head with his beer can.

"Like the letter V. That's the child. Like Mr. Jack said, she had an... interesting dialect. Whole sentences in half as many syllables."

Rippa glanced knowingly at Warren "That's the kid, alright."

"Laticia."

"Look, the fuck is goin' in here, who's the dame?"

Warren glared down Rippa with his one good eye, silently demanding her to not speak.

"Sorry, Warren. I don't take sides." Rippa addressed the others "the girl who's been following Jack around. Mocha skinned, dyed hair, the... lingo. The tattoo..."

"Yeah, fuckin' get to it, doc." Vinny tossed his beer can at the trash can in the corner, missing the can by several feet. "The girl who shot the Detective, yeah?"

"Warren's daughter."

"What the fu--"

Jack Godwin

"Jack. Jackieeee! Baby, c'mon, you can't be out. You just did the Family a huge one, if they'll make a fuck like me a fuckin' Capo, boy. You're a made man, a shoe-in. Guaranteed. Then it's the fast track to the top, money, women, everything you want! Made, Jackie, ya can't leave. We got a fall guy, cmon!"

“Listen ya halfwit, I don’t want anything to do with the Family anymore. All they’ve done is fuck me over at every turn. I went to prison for the Five, and I ain’t fallin’...prey… to...” Jack stopped talking as Vinny stopped listening. The conversation had turned to the girl. Violet. Pretty little thing that she was. He gave up trying to convince Vinny that he was out. He’d prove it later.

The girl was a more interesting problem. And if the detective knew something, that was valuable. He turned his gaze to the conversation that Vinny had so rudely just interrupted.

"Did this girl have a tattoo if a Roman Numeral on her neck?"

"Roman Numeral?"

"Like the letter V.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. How did Warren know she had a tattoo? Such a curious little design too… he had seen it in a haze of booze and self pity as he brushed aside her hair, her clothing either half off or on the floor already. Was that a week ago? Two? Hard to say. His mind was elsewhere that night, in gunfire and death, but he saw her slender form on his bed, then on him. He had looked up at her, at her soft features and her seductive smile. He pushed her off, falling to the floor himself. “Not now,” he murmured into the booze stained carpet, “it won’t stop...”

"Warren's daughter."

The recently retired mafioso snapped back to the present. The girl. The detective. The girl. Warren’s daughter.

The girl was a cop’s daughter.

“...Oh fuck me,” he turned back to Vinny, “I gotta fuckin’ shoot her now, don’t I? If she was a whore, I coulda gotten her to keep quiet, get her some protection somehow. But now I gotta fuckin’ shoot her! Fuck me…” Jack started pacing the room, subconsciously pulling his gun out and gesturing with it. “I don’t really wanna shoot her, but she’s a cop’s fuckin’ daughter… Jesus fuckin' Christ…”

Jack rubbed at the base of his neck before falling back into a chair. For a split second, the room was silent. "...I don't really want to kill her..." he concluded solemnly, gun hanging lose in his only good hand.

Inspector Warren J Michaels

His face had sunk into his hands. He knew she had a tendency to get involved in some bad crowds, to act out ever since her mother died, but this was extreme. He wanted to scream. To throw the coffee table in front of him across the room, to hit that damn Catholic casually holding a gun towards him.

She shot him. His own daughter. Not with a real bullet, she had some standard of what she would and wouldn't do apparantly, but she had shot him. It was a blank, the muzzle was right in his eye but he only sustained burns on his eye.

He'd never see out of his right eye again, because what, Alexia had daddy issues? And now the fucking mob stood a good chance of killing her. If not the men in front of him, then someone else. Unless he did drastic damage control.

"There's another option, but it's severe. Alot harder than throwing me to the cops and shooting a kid, but there's alot in it for you." Warren stood to his feet, the priest pulled back the hammer on his gun. Warren only gave an annoyed glance before speaking.

"The Mob did a hit on the Chief of Police. Not happy with the status quo, the way of things. And who's to be surprised? Until two days ago, they were in the Yakuza's pocket. The Japs are the biggest competition your Family has. But when a new Chief is elected, who's to say they won't support a rival of yours?"

"You think we didn't know this you fuck? Calculated risk."

"Hear me out, Vincent." Warren continued "Don't turn me in, don't touch my kid. I'll get myself assigned to the investigation of the Chief's murder, and I'll stall. Indefinitely. Set up a scapegoat if I have to."

"That's a shit deal, we can use you as a scape goat right now!"

"I'm not done. There's going to be an election for a new Chief. If I make it, I'm going to remember my friends. The Mob doesn't touch drugs, and hopefully they don't shoot kids. You'll have the support of the Chief of Police. You could run this town, and I could Crack down on the other gangs, clean the city up."

"And what if you're setting us up?"

"For what? If you wanted me or my family dead, you clearly have enough hitmen."

"And what do you get out of it?"

"I don't go to jail and you don't shoot my daughter for one."

"For two?"

"You fund my election campaign."

"Ah, fuck man, this is a big city, and the Family isn't going to swing for a million dollar campaign or however fucking much."

"You're criminals. Go out of town and rob a bank, that's not my problem."

"Oh I'll give you a fucking problem." Vinny pulled a piece off the counter and waved it dramatically at the Detective.

"Too gun happy to pull a bank job? I'll help." Warren indicated towards Jack "we could take extra. Enough money for you to change your whole identity. New cards, new life, you could live it up anywhere in the world, right here even, and no one could touch you. I have the connections to make it happen."

"Or we could fucking shoot your kid, fuck you, and take our chances. I aint fuckin' doin a job, cmon!"

"Listen here you greasy fat fuck--"


Luka Ferguson

The Irishman took a sharp curve around a corner, nearly hitting another car, slamming on the horn and flinging then the bird "Aye, it answer me question." He was uncharacteristically silent for several blocks.

"What kind of fuck," he started "just strangles a fookin' nurse? Jaysus Christ. Look 'ere, Wadey." Luka turned in his seat, looking back at Wade and ignoring the road entirely "You boys are me only friends in this god forsaken town. You need help dishin' out a little Red Hood vigilante bang bang style justice, I'm yer fuckin' man. We'll fuckin' find em. We got that badge still?"

Luka thought for a moment, facing front again just in time to dodge a pedestrian crossing the street "I's bet we could pretend to be cops. Run a little investigation, get a description of the guy who killed yer lady. What do you say, Bruce Wade and Robin?"

Someone had gotten a hold of a comic book stash back at Chekhovs, clearly.

Johnny Chen

Chen gripped the steering wheel what he had thought to be an abandoned van in frustration. The machine pistol dug into the back of his skull hard enough to make his head pound. "Well. Would you look at that, I seem to have gotten in the wrong car, if you'll just excuse me I'll--"

The gun was butted against his head with a dull crack "[Where the fuck were you going, fool?]" The voice behind him was distinctly female, speaking in Japanese. Chen didn't feel the need to return the courtesy of the language.

"Out. Stretch my legs, you know. Boss send you to watch me? Look, I'll be a good boy, and go back inside, I'll watch some Jeopardy with Tanaka, or make a noose out of my tie or something. Can I go now?"

"[Look at me. Look at me!]"

Turning his head was an effort given the gun pushed to his head. When he turned, he saw his aggressors form. Distinctly Japanese facial features, but pale skin, light hair. And judging by the boots, bared midriff, and furry coat, definitely a prostitute.

"Hey there, hafu , I'm not looking for any fun, see, so--"

The machine pistol went off, putting two fresh holes in the floor board "[Fuck you, hypocrite. You're mixed too. Look at my hair, this look familiar? I look fucking familiar, Mr?]" The woman's hair was dirty blonde. Chen stared at it for what had to have been nearly a minute, wonder what the fuck that had to do with him.

Then it clicked. One of the goons at the apartments two weeks ago. Blonde hair, Uzi, definitely a resemlence there. "Oh fuck me, ywhat, you're Blondie's sister? Last time I saw your brother he had half a toilet rammed down his throat."

The woman in front of him was seething. "[He had debts. I have to work them off because of you. Because you got him killed!]"

"I didn't fucking kill him! Look, lady, that's a real fuckin' shame but he knew the risks, and I guess he put your pale ass up as collateral. That, is not on me. I was doing my job, same as him."

"[Badly.]"

"Same as him, like I said. Can I have those keys?"

The woman pulled them back out of reach "[No.]"

"Aaaalright. You gotta name?"

"[No.]"

Chen sighed. "Do you speak English?"

"No." Replied she, in heavily accented English.

"Hilarious. Look, I don't want to be ventilated, you don't want to hook, let's make a deal. I can get us outta aaaaallllll our problems, you just gotta listen to Papa Chen, okay? I'll make all of it go away, but first you gotta get the gun outta my face, okay Milky?"

"[Don't call me Milky.]" The gun lowered.

"Whatever you say, Vanilla."

Isaac "Rosie" Rosenberg
Status: Makin' Bacon

Isaac had already ripped the charger out of it's pack and was shoving it in his pocket when Slim pulled up beside him on her motorcycle. Wait, her motorcycle? "Hey, uh, two things. One... I found my bike! Two... we need to get out of here. Now."

"What?" Isaac asked. Then, in the parking lot across the street, he saw a cop car fling a dead Russian off of its hood as it turned violently towards them. He mouthed obscenities as the turned back to Evella Knievel with squinted eyes. Through gritting teeth, Isaac muttered to Slim, "Don't do shit until I say."

The Jew began approaching the car even before it came to a complete stop. One of the cops opened the passenger door, producing his sidearm and badge "Hey! You two!" the officer shouted at the pair of them. "NAPD, don't move!" He started walking towards Isaac at the same pace Isaac was approaching him.

His friend opened the driver side door and aimed his gun at Isaac from behind it. "What he said!" this one shouted.

Isaac suddenly widened his eyes and raised his hands above his head. He lowered and raised them and raised and lowered them. The Nose shouted out, "Ach, naziści! Nie strzelać!" Keeping up the facade of a Polish tourist who didn't quite know how to act around American police, Isaac continued approaching Guy with a bewildered look on his face. "Proszę czekać! Turystyczny, turystyczny! Ah..! Ah..! Too-reest!"

Guy stared blankly, "What the, what in the actual fuck? Is he, what is that, what is he saying to me?"

The other cop got out of the car, circling Isaac and moving towards Slim. "He looks Jewish, is that Jew language? Hey, lady, don't move. Got questions."

The first cop kept his gun trained on Isaac. "I don't fucking know what Jews speak! Look, pal, English. Keep your hands up, don't fucking... don't give me this shit."

"Nie angielskim! Nie angielskim! Tylko Polski," Isaac replied, still walking towards the officer, and tried to sound as confused as possible. "Lubisz naziści mówią Polski? Nie? Nie Polski? Ah! Identyfikacja? Tak? Eye-dee?" 

The Jew lowered his hands to his shoulders as if he was going to slowly pull out his wallet. Suddenly, his eyes flicked down and locked onto Guy's gun. His hands shot forward to grab the weapon. He slipped a finger deftly behind the trigger so that the gun could not fire. He pushed the gun towards the officer to loosen his grip before yanking it back as hard as he could to rip it from the officer's vice. Stepping back a couple of paces, he held his aim on the officer. The entire scene flew by in only a couple of seconds.

"Mogę pop co najmniej dw-! Ah, wait... I can pop at least two rounds into your guy's chest before you even turned around!" he turned to and shouted at the other cop that had walked passed him to get to Slim. "You've got three seconds to drop your gun before I start firing, pal!" Isaac tuned his sights back on the first officer.

Guy cursed cursed a loud "Fuck!" And raised his hands. "I fell for this shit?"

Buddy spent several long seconds perfectly still before noting his hand was on his gun and casually lifting the tip to aim at Slim. "But like... I could shoot her? Sooooo..."

"Oh come on, you'd run the risk of letting me get shot?"

"You ate the last donut, Guy. It's a risk I'm willing to take, okay?"

Isaac turned the gun away from Guy and towards Buddy instead after hearing this comic relief. "Fine. Now, you've got the barrel of a police-issued Glock 22 pointed at you instead. It's your life now. Two seconds."

Just as Buddy lowered his gun, Guy tackled Isaac full force, toppling him to the ground and causing the gun to fire off harmlessly into the air as the two fell to the ground.

Buddy slammed his foot against the Kawasaki, toppling it to the ground to prevent Slim's escape, and aiming his gun at her. "You're both under arrest! Fuck! Goddamn. Jew, just fucking quit, man, you can't fight the cops! We're, we, we're the fuckin cops!"

Isaac was forced down into the dusty asphalt with a curse. The gun went off harmlessly. The cop began trying to wrench it from his hand! This was all going to shit! The Jew jerked his free fist into the side of the guy's face a couple of times. Failing to have any effect from that, he decided the best course of action was a quick head butt into the bridge of the cop's nose. 

Pig-blood covered Isaac's brow and the cop's hands went to his face. The Jew collided the butt of the Glock into the man's temple - knocking him to the side. Isaac flipped to his side and straddled the cop. A heavy punch to the gut with his free hand and the cop opened his mouth to groan in pain. Seizing the opportunity, Isaac violently shoved the barrel of the gun into the man's open mouth. "Twitch and I pull, motherfucker!" Isaac shouted. 

"Stick, you pull your gun the second you get the chance. Alright, then, second verse, same as the first. You get me, buddy?! Guns on the motherfucking ground!" Isaac shouted - spit flew into Guy's face - without taking his eyes off the cop under him. "Three! Two! ... "

Biker

Russian gunmen rushed into the 8th floor of the building from the staircase, spreading out. The door they entered through slammed shut, and the spun on their heels to face the helmeted assailant, a fire ax hanging loosely from his grip, blood dripping from his lean muscles.

A shout to open fire. But the men were frightened. A second too slow. The Biker had already dug the ax into a victim, he had been clad in ballistics armor, but it did no good against the ax' bladed head. Shielding himself from the gunshots with the man's body, The Biker waited until the gunshots stopped, the Russians fumbled to reload their guns.

The problem with out numbering someone is you assume that numbers alone when the fight. A person is smart, quick on his feet. People are slow and stupid. The Biker seized the submachine gun hanging from a strap attached to his meat shield, slamming the stringer down and panning the gun side to side. The Russians that didn't drop dead on the spot scattered across the office.

He dropped his shield and wrenched his ax from the cadavers chest, hurling it at a cubicle he saw an enemy take cover behind. The ax collided with the cubicle wall, and a sickening squelch was tell tale enough that it sunk deep enough to strike home.

The rest fell one by one, scared prey is easy prey. It was so goddamned boring and typical that it passed in a flash. But the last man proved interesting. The last Russian, scared and pants stained with piss, held a revolver in hand. The Biker could see the shots in the chamber from where he was standing.

Biker held up his fingers. Five digits. The Russian swallowed saliva and fear, pulling the trigger. One miss, wide. Two miss, bits of cubicle fragments flew against the Biker. The helmeted assailant moved slowly towards the Russian, raising his hand again. 3 digits.

The next shot struck close, nearly hitting him, a finger went down. Shot number four was a glance, the visor of the helmet cracked, revealing the beady eye of the face within.

The Russian fell onto his ass, the Biker kneeling in front of him, holding up a single forefinger. The trigger on the gun was squeezed back. The cylinder turned. The hammer clicked unsatksfactorially.

The Biker waggled his finger disapprovingly. He lied.

Strong hands grasped the Russians the throat, his last words before his wind pipe crumpled, as he stared into the Biker's single beady black eye?

"Likho nie śpi"

Jack Godwin

“We’re not shootin’ her, Vinny. Whatever we’re doing, it ain’t that,” Jack said, turning his gaze to the men bickering. “--Don’t get excited Warren. I’ll still gladly shoot you.”

He rubbed gently at his shoulder, feeling the padding of gauze and cloth, no doubt already partially soaked through with his blood. The wound was inches from his heart.

Jack sighed.

“ I can’t say I’m particularly happy with that proposal, detective. Banks don’t pay out much unless ya hit the vault. And I’m not interested in a Reservoir Dogs type situation.”

He looked down at his gun. It looked intimidating when you were staring down the barrel, but a closer look revealed scratches, dings. Small wounds from a million small battles. The serial number had long been filed off, he’d replaced the grip at least twice, and the safety liked to switch itself off. But it still shot just as well at the day it was issued to him. Better, even. It comforted him.

A job, then Belize. That would work.

Dante ejected the magazine from his pistol and counted the bullets. He had a box full in the glove compartment. Not to mention the stash of weapons and booze back at his apartment. Plenty to go around. He slid the magazine back into his gun and rose from the chair, making for the door. He needed to make a stop. Kevlar this time.

“Fine. But I ain’t bein’ Mr. Pink,” he said, pulling open the door.

Slim

Everything was happening both incredibly fast and a bit too slow. Between Isaac's command of "Don't do shit until I say" and the whole altercation between Isaac and the two police officers didn't give Slim a whole lot of time to react accordingly. Being the planning ahead type of person, Slim cursed herself for being so impulsive when it came to something as useless as a material possession. If she hadn't gone over to get the bike, they could have been well on their way. But thinking about "what if's" doesn't help you with what's presently happening.

Isaac had a cop--Guy--on the ground, while the other cop--Buddy--had kicked over her reclaimed ride and now had a gun aimed at her, while yelling obscenities at Jewface. "Stick, you pull your gun the second you get the chance. Second verse, same as the first. Three! Two!..."

Slim took her chance. In the question of Fight or Flight? It appeared flight was off the table. All that was left was Kill or Be Killed. Keeping an eye on Buddy the Bozo Cop, she waited for the moment his eyes weren't on her and took her move, crouching low, she hurdled her left shoulder forward into Buddy's gut, hoping there was just enough 'oomph!' to make him lose his balance. At the same time, her right arm was behind her back, pulling her gun and bringing it around to where she could use it to knock Buddy's gun to the ground all in one motion. The metal clank of the two guns hitting each other sent one swift shiver down Slim's spine.

Buddy had a better grip on the gun than she thought he would, but at least now she had her gun aimed at him, which was the ultimate goal.

Slim's movement wasn't strong enough to disarm Buddy, but it threw his aim off, and with the woman's gun in his face, the man was ready for a change of heart. Buddy dropped the gun with a muted "Fuck."

Buddy looked back and forth between Slim and the Nose with a gun before two and two added together in his head. "Oh fuck me, it's the Bonnie and Clyde robbers, Guy!"

Guy gave a gagged "Uh-huh" from around the gun barrel.

Buddy kicked his gun away from him in frustration "Boy, I'd really appreciate not getting shot, but if you're anything like your Biker buddy, I guess I'm fucked."

Buddy gave up, tossing his gun onto the ground, kicking it away from him. Huh. Easier than I thought this would go. "Boy, I'd really appreciate not getting shot, but if you're anything like your Biker buddy, I guess I'm fucked."

"Dude, I don't even know that guy. I've been looking for my bike for weeks," Slim let out an exasperated sigh. "Besides, I'd never be seen with someone that didn't dress along the black to white spectrum."

Isaac suddenly began patting Guy down with his free hand. He removed his taser, radio, and wallet - stuffing them all into his pockets haphazardly before getting off of the cop and taking a few steps back. "Huh... So, you fuckers gave us nicknames? That's cute..." he said. "Bonny, take his shit."

Slim kept her gun aimed at Buddy as she watched Isaac take Guy's belongings. "Bonny, take his shit." Slim turned back to Buddy and held her hand out to him. "Well? You heard the Jew."

Buddy emptied his pockets, handing over his gear and wallet "Hey, beautiful, I got my number on a card in there if you wanna give me a uhh-- ya know what never mind, not getting shot is a great first date, forget it."

Slim stuffed as much of the items into her pants as she could. The evil men that designed women's clothes obviously didn't include functionality in their plans. "You know, just because you called me beautiful. I'll let you pick my bike back up for me. How's that for a first date?"

Buddy hefted the bike back up onto it's kickstand, and even buffed out the boot print he left on its sheeny exterior "Good as new, see? Wouldn't you hate to shoot me and get blood splattered all over this beautiful bike?"

Slim thought about it for a moment. "You know... the blood of my enemies might make for an intimidating aesthetic, but I think I'll hold off on having a guy with a name like 'Buddy' as my first blood trophy." Slim cocked the gun in hand. "So, why don't you back up a couple winks for me?" She asked with a smile on her face.

"Alright, alright, that's enough, lovebird," the Jew said suddenly. He took Buddy by the shoulder and guided him to stand next to his partner. He kept his gun trained on them. A long moment of silence passed as he stared down at them. "Obviously, we're in a situation that only hurts both of us. If we leave now without resolving this, you'll probably become the laughing stock of your department while also picking out our faces on a spreadsheet of criminals or providing a very good sketch of us. Pretty shitty for all involved, yeah?"

No one answered.

"Well, fuck yeah it is," Isaac replied after the pause. He rubbed his large nose briefly with one hand and pulled some stray strands of hair back behind his ears. "Here's what I'm thinking. We'll drop off your guns, radios, and wallets and shit under a trashcan at that SunBucks coffee on the corner of Fourth and Eleventh Street. Y'know the one. You could walk there from here. No embarrassment. No sketches of my face on the nightly news. A return to state zero. In return, you just don't mention this. It never happened. Ya dig?"

The two cops shrugged and grumbled in defeat.

"I'm giving you a break here, guys," the Jew said. He frowned slightly. "I mean, I could say that if I see my face on television, I'll hunt down your families. Starting with cousins, then uncles and aunts. More and more thoroughly removing the people that bring you joy from your life. And I could do that, definitely. I've got all the information I need in your wallets." He shrugged simply. "But, you know, I'm not a dick. I've never killed anyone that wasn't shooting at me."

"Okay... okay, man, shit. Let's just... let's go, Guy." Guy stood for a few long moments staring at the Jew before Buddy pulled him along back to their ruined squad car.

Once Guy was seated in the passenger seat, before getting in the car, Buddy half shouted, "Hey, when you get sick of the Nose, give me a call, Scary-Robber-Bike-Lady-Of-My-Dreams!" Prompting Guy to grab him and yank him into the car.

Slim kept her gun aimed at Buddy until both cops were in the car and far out of sight. She pulled out the junk from the cop's pockets and the gear she had to drop at her feet, stashing it away in Isaac's car.

She turned to the Jew. "So, now that that's over with. Did you ever actually manage to get a charger?"

Isaac's face suddenly twisted into a disgusted grimace as he remembered acquiring the charger. "Yeah..." he said. "Yeah, so, let's head back to the place and hurry up and charge this thing."

"What happened in that store anyway?" Slim looked back at the tinted windows. "You know what? I don't wanna know." Swinging a leg over the bike, she sat up and tied her hair back as best as she could. No helmet? No problem. The bike purred to life underneath her. "Race you back?"

Isaac shook his head and shrugged. "Gotta drop this shit off. I'll meet you back at the place." The Jew then made his leave in their car before any other crazy shit could happen.

Father Angelo

Mr. Godwin left the apartment, taking the sour detective with him. Dr. Laticia followed after receiving an exorbitant payment from Mr. Vincent, and with a word of parting, Angelo decided it was best that he be on his way as well.

"Yeah, you have a nice day at work, Father! Go with God and all that, have a good one." Vinny had said, shutting the apartment door practically in the priest's face as he left.

The walk to the church was long, and crossed some of the worst parts of town. Lookers on eyeballed the fancy metal case he carried. He kept his hand firmly upon the Holy Word, and the gun concealed within, the entire walk. Though by the grace of the heavenly Father, he walked his path unobstructed.

Once outside, observing the Chapel's stained glass windows and pristine facade, the assassin began to question his methods. Within lied the target, a traitor to the family, and the man he was sent all the way to America to eliminate. For this purpose, Mr. Vincent had supplied him with the sniper rifle oh-so-delicately concealed within the case he carried. He had been warned that the target was exceedingly dangerous, and that a long range solution would be preferable.

Angelo sighed, laying the case on the sidewalk next to him, and marching to the entrance of the Church without it. A bullet from afar may be the easy solution, but the easy way out is never the right way. He had to speak to the man first, to give him a last chance to repent. It was only right.

The Church was empty, despite wandering between the elegant pews and through long halls, Angelo only occasionally caught sight of a child running, or an elderly custodian dusting an already pristine cross. Once, he swore he passed a nun, dressed in an asymmetrical black cocktail dress and a habit, like a bad Halloween costume, a pale imitation of proper clothing.

The halls were eerily silent, Angelo would have liked to spend more time within them, but from a window he could see children playing, under the watchful eye of an elderly nun. He had intended to ask her where might the man he was looking for be, but as he turned on his heel to find the exit to the courtyard, he found himself face to face with another man.

The man was dressed in a wrinkled suit, his priest's collar crooked, his hair unkempt, and his gaze distant and tired. In one hand a New American Bible. Angelo normally would have scoffed at the newer translation, but we was thoroughly distracted by the fact that his fellow priest had his other had behind his back, concealing something. "Do you need something, Father?" He asked in a soft voice, "I'm afraid you've already missed my sermon, perhaps another day?"

"I... I'm here to seek confession, Father." Angelo replied.

"Oh? What for, exactly? What is it you have done in God's eyes?"

"Not mine. Yours." Angelo's Bible fell open in his hand, and he seized his suppressed Makarov from the compartment inside its pages.

"And what would I confess?" The man before him swept his arm in front of him, revealing a handgun with the words Grader .45 Single Hand engraved down the side.

"I'm looking for Father Jean-Baptiste Rosario, are you he?"

"Me? I'm a hunter of peace, chasing the illusive mayfly of love. Or something like that, I suppose." Father Rosario smiled tiredly.

"The Commission finds you guilty in the eyes of God of betraying the Family. May he have mercy on your soul."

The two priest's guns lit up like the light of the heavenly Father as they flashed blindingly, illuminating the hallway in a display of righteous passion, every loud retort a sermon of violence.

Jack sat with one hand on the wheel and the other on his gun, the detective next to him on the blood stained seat. Somebody had suggested a pawn shop run by a man named Chekov. But the real reason he’d dragged the detective along wasn’t booze or Kevlar, but to have a little chat. At the very least he wanted the girl’s real name.

“...So how long you been in the force, Detective?”

Warren was staring straight ahead, moving his finger to different places in front of his face, testing the limits of his now impaired peripheral vision. He grunted at Jack's attempt at conversation.

"Two decades. Longer, depending on how you count." He paused, lowering his hand away from his face "Want to know my sign too, Godwin?" Warren mocked in a humorless tone.

Jack watched the road without a word, his expression inscrutable. He drummed his fingers on the wheel and sighed. “Sorry for tellin’ your daughter to shoot ya,” the Italian man said. “Adrenaline, ya know.”

Warren stared at Godwin for a long time with as much spite as his single could eye could muster, before clicking tongue and looking out the window "Don't worry. Something she wanted to do for a long time, I'm sure." The silence was awkward, practically palpable.

“...Right. Well, just so ya know, I didn’t sleep with her.” He turned the wheel sharply to the left. “Just… almost slept with her,” Jack finished carefully as his grip tightened on his pistol. Where the fuck was this place? He wracked his brain for what it was even called. Trench something?

Warren's gaze slowly turned back on Jack with an expression of incredulity "That supposed to make me feel better? Stay away from my daughter, Jack.", an 'or else' carried itself silently behind Warren's words.

Jack opened his mouth only to shut it again. He couldn’t help but be a little afraid of the grizzled cop sitting next to him. But part of him pitied Warren, trying to wrangle a daughter who hung out with thugs and hitmen. He’d never had kids for a reason.

He turned into a parking lot. Trenchtown Rock Gold Pawn was scrawled across a sign hanging on a innocuous looking building. That was close enough, he thought, finding a spot and cutting the engine. There was a cutting silence as neither man spoke. After an eternity, Jack sighed and returned his gun to his waist band.

“She’ll never be the person you want her to be,” he said quietly, before opening the car door and starting towards the pawn shop.
They entered the shop, which appeared almost deserted. ‘Chekov’ was nowhere to be found. Jack approached the counter and rung the bell resting on it. Glancing back at Warren, he rang it a few more times.

Chekhov
Location: Trenchtown Rock Gold Pawn; Front Desk

Suddenly, the door to the back room swung open and a tall Jamaican man came stumbling out, wearing a pair of safety goggles over his shades, while holding a child-sized butterfly net in his right hand. He glanced around the corners of the ceiling nervously before looking at the two men standing before him. "Greetings, breddas!"

"What... uh..." Chekhov glared over the men's shoulders as if he saw something move, "I'm Chekhov. Welcome to mi shop. Sorry fa da strange look, it's jus' dat, uh, Bruce is on da loose. Keep yuh eyes open, but not too wide! Bobby Ringo say he like da eyes!"

"Okay, okay, okay, bizness time," Chekhov said, placing the butterfly net down on the desk. "Wa yuh breddas want?"

Jack Godwin

Jack stood frozen in place with ever increasing incredulity, eyes glancing nervously around the room as if someone with a camera and a microphone would pop out and reveal that his entire life had been an elaborate hidden camera show. That would be almost preferable to this lunacy.

“...I’m sorry, clearly we got the wrong place. We were lookin’ for a Mr. Chekov?” he said as he shifted uneasily, looking back to Warren as if he had any more of a clue what was going on or who the everloving hell Bruce or Bobby Ringo was. "Unless... that's... you?"