Post by Cerberus on Mar 14, 2009 20:09:09 GMT -5
Right then, I started this story a week or so ago on another board and think I may as well continue it on both boards. I was experimenting with writing style and trying to find a nice balance of detail without clogging it up itself. This basically is a prologue and what you could call a teaser of things to come.
Disclaimer: This story will contain extreme amounts of violence, gore, and profanity. Definitely rated R and you will probably find:
-Extreme Violence
-Extreme Gore
-Profanity
-References to Narcotics abuse
-References to Alcohol/Tobacco
-Possible erotic references and erotic events.
That aside, read on, and I hope you enjoy. Please feel free to post critique of any form. If you think it was an atrocious abomination of literature that caused your eyes to hemorrhage, then by all means, let me know and give advice on how to improve it, or at the very least, how to make your eyes bleed a tad less. Many thanks. Note: I apologize for minor grammatical errors, letters left off the end of sentences, etc. I try to proof read but I still miss things.
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Prologue: Execution
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The cigarette glowed brightly as the Russian took one final drag on it and let it fall to the asphalt where it was lost in the collection of newspapers and garbage bags. The pungent stench of the cheap hand-rolled fag wasn't enough to even remotely mask the reek that dominated the narrow shadow filled alley. Large garbage bins were spaced here and there, the sour and fetid rot of food and God knew what else mixed in with traces of piss and vomit, remnants of hobos and vagrants.
The brick walls were littered with graffiti, sprayed and re-sprayed many times. Some idiot would paint some nonsense only to have some other idiot be offended and put some other type of nonsense over it. It was gang turf afterall, and rather turbulent. In some places along the walls the tags had been sprayed over again and again so many times that you could sink a pin into the image and never have it reach the brick.
There was only light to be found in the alley, a dim and long-dying bulb stuck into one of the bricks with exposed strands of copper wire sticking out like some bizarre form of bed hair. The Russian was standing directly underneath the bulb, leaning against one of the old and rusted dumpsters that littered alleyways like this all over the city.
The City of Angels they called it.... Angeles, Spanish for 'reason' wasn't it? The sour expression that dominated the mans face only curdled further as he considered the title and the actual nature of the city. If this was the City of Angels then truly there was no hope for a peaceful afterlife one way or the other.
The rest of the alley was enshrouded with darkness and silence save for the occasional scratch of a rat's paws rooting around in the trash, looking for a scrap of rotted flesh to feast upon. Out of the darkness came a loud squeak and a muted thump of someone kicking at a brick. A growl laced with Slavic accent floated along the alley. "Fucking charming..." And then all was silent again. The Russian stood, and waited, considering whether or not to light another cigarette and thought better of it.
----
The arrival of the other party was announced by the blaring abomination of music known as 'rap' half a minute or so before the actual car turned into the alley, its headlights flooding the path with burning white light. The car was cheap, common, and disposable, the rumble of the engine desperately begging for an oil change. The city was saturated with such rolling rust heaps, one could be found on virtually ever corner. Easy to steal, easy to ditch.
It rolled through the inches of collected trash slowly, only a few feet of clearance on either side of the vehicle. It stopped just five feet short of the Russian, who hadn't taken so much as a step forward. The passenger side door swung open and an apotheosis of 'Gangsta' stepped out of it. Clothes three sizes too big, pants sagging down past his pelvis, and his sexual organs in severe danger of permanent castration from the pistol that was stuffed into the waistband of his underwear. A piss colored bandanna, cheap (and probably gilded) gold chains jangling around his neck. Simple white t-shirt with a black vest tossed over it, bulky blue jeans. To complete the image, his gait was nothing short of a Gorilla walk, not a hint of grace or elegance but rather an indication of a pure brawler, and not too mention he slouched so much that a fellow might think that this specimen of humanity was missing a few sections of his spine.
The gangster took one step back from the car door, reaching out to close it behind him, when a huge pressure wave of pure noise flowed through the alley. Every corner, every nook, every minor crack in the mortar of the walls was instantly filled with it, the Russian's ear drums instantly ringing and deafened.
The Gangster's skull was shattered, the back splatter painting the car window a grisly and chunky crimson. Two large and ragged holes had been punched through his torso. One bullet had ripped through his bowels, sending blood and ragged scraps of intestine out of his gut. The other one had slammed straight through his sternum, turning the thick bone into a cloud of small and razor sharp slivers that tore his lungs and central nervous system apart. By pure chance the bullet was knocked off angle by the impact and didn't exit out of his body. Instead it skipped off of one of the spinal vertebrae and was sent spiraling to the side, ripping through vessels and sinews along the way. It blew out from his side, just beneath the armpit, but not before it had ripped through his heart and turned it into little more then a liquid slop inside the chest cavity. The bullet continued its spiraling and misdirected path through the air for two more milliseconds and then its journey ended in the middle layer of a brick.
The Gangster had been killed six times over in the space of one second, over 60% of his vital organ and nervous systems utterly devastated. His body slammed into the side of the car, spreading a slick layer of blood along the metal, and then it slid down into a collapsed heap of clothes, flesh, and blood. The remaining half of his skull rested against the stinking rubber of the rear tire, his one intact and unfocused eye staring directly at a piece of quartz embedded in one of the tire treads.
While the first 7.62 round was busy turning the Ganster's small amount of brains into soup, an entire barrage of high powered assault rounds riddled the car. They slammed through the metal, blew the windows apart in clumps of sticky safety glass, destroyed the guts of the car beneath the hood.
The three occupants of the vehicle jerked and danced with the impacts, pink mist filling the entire cabin like some kind of demonic fog. Blue and white sparks cascaded from the framework, briefly illuminating the shadows in a dancing pattern of light and darkness. The rear window was turned into a wet and dripping red blanket, until a spare round blew it apart as well. Bullets crushed through the bricks, the trash bags, innocent rats being blown away into bloody clouds, scraps of paper and rotten food blown up into the air only to slow drift back down again.
The entirety of the assault lasted six seconds, and then complete and total silence descended upon the alley. A metallic stench of blood and cordite had been added to the collection of odors that had already been present in the alley. Twisting and dancing streams of pale gunsmoke flowed from the darkness into the light, where they rapidly dispersed into the night air.
The car itself had been turned into a fine analogy of Swiss Cheese. Small and somehow puckered holes dominated the entire framework, jagged clumps of glass still sitting around the edges of the destroyed windows. Huge amounts of blood painted the entire inside, the seats, the dashboard, the ceiling, the wheel. Pools of it were rapidly streaming from the warm corpses and collecting in puddles on the floor. Bone that had been found originally in the men's skeletons was now found in shattered fragments all over the car, several pieces swimming in the dark blood like vegetables floating in a pot of borsch. Bits of muscle and scraps of skin completed the gruesome spectacle.
Needless to say, the three occupants of the vehicle were not in what you'd call a healthy condition. They were little more then ragged and deflated crimson messes, entire areas of their body turned into nothing but pulverized ragged holes. Skin blown away, muscle and sinew ripped from the bone, organs turned into liquid slop, piss and shit evacuating the bowels upon death. The driver was slumped over in his seat, the brow (a quarter of it at any rate,) resting on top of the wheel. By cruel coincidence, the two in the back had winded up with the ragged remains of their faces against one another, their bodies pressed together in a disturbingly erotic image.
The Russian who had been standing under the streetlight lit another cigarette as he walked towards the car. Another one appeared out of the darkness of the alley, materializing into view like a ghostly spirit, a Kalashnikov assault rifle clutched in his hands. Two muffled thwumps were heard as another two men leapt from their firing positions on the fire escapes and landed in the thick trash at the bottom of the alley.
Identical rifles were also in their hands, thin wisps of smoke still rising from the hot barrels. All were similarly dressed, leather jackets and jeans, Slavic faces. The three armed ones reloaded as they closed the small distance to the car, slipping the empty magazines into their jacket pockets and sliding fresh ones into the breeches.
The Russian ( the first one we were introduced to,) leaned into the car through the driver side window, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the stench that was now rolling from the corpses and collecting in the confined space of the cabin. He didn't take any longer then necessary to perform his business and get his head out of the car. He took a deep drag on the cigarette in an attempt to surround himself with the smell of tobacco rather then the stench of shit and blood. And then he turned back down the alley, wading through the trash. A scratched and scuffed brown suitcase was now clutched in one hand.
The others followed , melting into the darkness, and leaving the shattered wreck of the vehicle behind, along with its grisly cargo. The result of one hundred and eighty high powered 7.62 x .39 assault rounds. A few minutes later, once they had ascertained that the coast was clear, the rats made their way to the car, their thin and starving bodies frail, their mouths salivating at the warm smell of fresh meat.
Disclaimer: This story will contain extreme amounts of violence, gore, and profanity. Definitely rated R and you will probably find:
-Extreme Violence
-Extreme Gore
-Profanity
-References to Narcotics abuse
-References to Alcohol/Tobacco
-Possible erotic references and erotic events.
That aside, read on, and I hope you enjoy. Please feel free to post critique of any form. If you think it was an atrocious abomination of literature that caused your eyes to hemorrhage, then by all means, let me know and give advice on how to improve it, or at the very least, how to make your eyes bleed a tad less. Many thanks. Note: I apologize for minor grammatical errors, letters left off the end of sentences, etc. I try to proof read but I still miss things.
-------
Prologue: Execution
-------
The cigarette glowed brightly as the Russian took one final drag on it and let it fall to the asphalt where it was lost in the collection of newspapers and garbage bags. The pungent stench of the cheap hand-rolled fag wasn't enough to even remotely mask the reek that dominated the narrow shadow filled alley. Large garbage bins were spaced here and there, the sour and fetid rot of food and God knew what else mixed in with traces of piss and vomit, remnants of hobos and vagrants.
The brick walls were littered with graffiti, sprayed and re-sprayed many times. Some idiot would paint some nonsense only to have some other idiot be offended and put some other type of nonsense over it. It was gang turf afterall, and rather turbulent. In some places along the walls the tags had been sprayed over again and again so many times that you could sink a pin into the image and never have it reach the brick.
There was only light to be found in the alley, a dim and long-dying bulb stuck into one of the bricks with exposed strands of copper wire sticking out like some bizarre form of bed hair. The Russian was standing directly underneath the bulb, leaning against one of the old and rusted dumpsters that littered alleyways like this all over the city.
The City of Angels they called it.... Angeles, Spanish for 'reason' wasn't it? The sour expression that dominated the mans face only curdled further as he considered the title and the actual nature of the city. If this was the City of Angels then truly there was no hope for a peaceful afterlife one way or the other.
The rest of the alley was enshrouded with darkness and silence save for the occasional scratch of a rat's paws rooting around in the trash, looking for a scrap of rotted flesh to feast upon. Out of the darkness came a loud squeak and a muted thump of someone kicking at a brick. A growl laced with Slavic accent floated along the alley. "Fucking charming..." And then all was silent again. The Russian stood, and waited, considering whether or not to light another cigarette and thought better of it.
----
The arrival of the other party was announced by the blaring abomination of music known as 'rap' half a minute or so before the actual car turned into the alley, its headlights flooding the path with burning white light. The car was cheap, common, and disposable, the rumble of the engine desperately begging for an oil change. The city was saturated with such rolling rust heaps, one could be found on virtually ever corner. Easy to steal, easy to ditch.
It rolled through the inches of collected trash slowly, only a few feet of clearance on either side of the vehicle. It stopped just five feet short of the Russian, who hadn't taken so much as a step forward. The passenger side door swung open and an apotheosis of 'Gangsta' stepped out of it. Clothes three sizes too big, pants sagging down past his pelvis, and his sexual organs in severe danger of permanent castration from the pistol that was stuffed into the waistband of his underwear. A piss colored bandanna, cheap (and probably gilded) gold chains jangling around his neck. Simple white t-shirt with a black vest tossed over it, bulky blue jeans. To complete the image, his gait was nothing short of a Gorilla walk, not a hint of grace or elegance but rather an indication of a pure brawler, and not too mention he slouched so much that a fellow might think that this specimen of humanity was missing a few sections of his spine.
The gangster took one step back from the car door, reaching out to close it behind him, when a huge pressure wave of pure noise flowed through the alley. Every corner, every nook, every minor crack in the mortar of the walls was instantly filled with it, the Russian's ear drums instantly ringing and deafened.
The Gangster's skull was shattered, the back splatter painting the car window a grisly and chunky crimson. Two large and ragged holes had been punched through his torso. One bullet had ripped through his bowels, sending blood and ragged scraps of intestine out of his gut. The other one had slammed straight through his sternum, turning the thick bone into a cloud of small and razor sharp slivers that tore his lungs and central nervous system apart. By pure chance the bullet was knocked off angle by the impact and didn't exit out of his body. Instead it skipped off of one of the spinal vertebrae and was sent spiraling to the side, ripping through vessels and sinews along the way. It blew out from his side, just beneath the armpit, but not before it had ripped through his heart and turned it into little more then a liquid slop inside the chest cavity. The bullet continued its spiraling and misdirected path through the air for two more milliseconds and then its journey ended in the middle layer of a brick.
The Gangster had been killed six times over in the space of one second, over 60% of his vital organ and nervous systems utterly devastated. His body slammed into the side of the car, spreading a slick layer of blood along the metal, and then it slid down into a collapsed heap of clothes, flesh, and blood. The remaining half of his skull rested against the stinking rubber of the rear tire, his one intact and unfocused eye staring directly at a piece of quartz embedded in one of the tire treads.
While the first 7.62 round was busy turning the Ganster's small amount of brains into soup, an entire barrage of high powered assault rounds riddled the car. They slammed through the metal, blew the windows apart in clumps of sticky safety glass, destroyed the guts of the car beneath the hood.
The three occupants of the vehicle jerked and danced with the impacts, pink mist filling the entire cabin like some kind of demonic fog. Blue and white sparks cascaded from the framework, briefly illuminating the shadows in a dancing pattern of light and darkness. The rear window was turned into a wet and dripping red blanket, until a spare round blew it apart as well. Bullets crushed through the bricks, the trash bags, innocent rats being blown away into bloody clouds, scraps of paper and rotten food blown up into the air only to slow drift back down again.
The entirety of the assault lasted six seconds, and then complete and total silence descended upon the alley. A metallic stench of blood and cordite had been added to the collection of odors that had already been present in the alley. Twisting and dancing streams of pale gunsmoke flowed from the darkness into the light, where they rapidly dispersed into the night air.
The car itself had been turned into a fine analogy of Swiss Cheese. Small and somehow puckered holes dominated the entire framework, jagged clumps of glass still sitting around the edges of the destroyed windows. Huge amounts of blood painted the entire inside, the seats, the dashboard, the ceiling, the wheel. Pools of it were rapidly streaming from the warm corpses and collecting in puddles on the floor. Bone that had been found originally in the men's skeletons was now found in shattered fragments all over the car, several pieces swimming in the dark blood like vegetables floating in a pot of borsch. Bits of muscle and scraps of skin completed the gruesome spectacle.
Needless to say, the three occupants of the vehicle were not in what you'd call a healthy condition. They were little more then ragged and deflated crimson messes, entire areas of their body turned into nothing but pulverized ragged holes. Skin blown away, muscle and sinew ripped from the bone, organs turned into liquid slop, piss and shit evacuating the bowels upon death. The driver was slumped over in his seat, the brow (a quarter of it at any rate,) resting on top of the wheel. By cruel coincidence, the two in the back had winded up with the ragged remains of their faces against one another, their bodies pressed together in a disturbingly erotic image.
The Russian who had been standing under the streetlight lit another cigarette as he walked towards the car. Another one appeared out of the darkness of the alley, materializing into view like a ghostly spirit, a Kalashnikov assault rifle clutched in his hands. Two muffled thwumps were heard as another two men leapt from their firing positions on the fire escapes and landed in the thick trash at the bottom of the alley.
Identical rifles were also in their hands, thin wisps of smoke still rising from the hot barrels. All were similarly dressed, leather jackets and jeans, Slavic faces. The three armed ones reloaded as they closed the small distance to the car, slipping the empty magazines into their jacket pockets and sliding fresh ones into the breeches.
The Russian ( the first one we were introduced to,) leaned into the car through the driver side window, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the stench that was now rolling from the corpses and collecting in the confined space of the cabin. He didn't take any longer then necessary to perform his business and get his head out of the car. He took a deep drag on the cigarette in an attempt to surround himself with the smell of tobacco rather then the stench of shit and blood. And then he turned back down the alley, wading through the trash. A scratched and scuffed brown suitcase was now clutched in one hand.
The others followed , melting into the darkness, and leaving the shattered wreck of the vehicle behind, along with its grisly cargo. The result of one hundred and eighty high powered 7.62 x .39 assault rounds. A few minutes later, once they had ascertained that the coast was clear, the rats made their way to the car, their thin and starving bodies frail, their mouths salivating at the warm smell of fresh meat.