Post by Don Ben Costello on Sept 3, 2011 8:25:20 GMT -5
Ben had dispatched one of his top enforcers, Jack Schiavelli, to whack some dealer's hired muscle and extort him. The small-time dealer, Pablo was hanging out with some local neighbourhood thugs he'd paid off to guard him within some rundown basketball courts.
Jack was shown to be proudly sporting a dark-blue polo shirt, a musty black and white varsity jacket, a pair of remarkably freeing blue denim jeans and some red-low tops. He had pop-idol boyish looks, with finely cropped blonde hair, startlingly dormant electric-blue eyes and a fine athletic build.
The man glanced over to Pablo, who proudly wore his lack of intelligence rather like a badge of honour. He had a nauseating buzz-cut which made him look the part of an illiterate convict, a scar on his left cheek, interestingly soothing emerald green eyes and a hefty torso - an extremely muscular one, mind you. Jack walked over to him.
Jack: Mr. Pablo?
Pablo: The fuck are you, ese?
Jack: It's only business.
Jack drew a silenced handgun and fired at his two guards, effortlessly perforating their vulnerable foreheads, as blood came gushing out and a cloying smell of rotting flesh tainted the once-fresh air.
Pablo: Shit!
Pablo fumbled for his pistol, but Jack's proficiency with a firearm was such that he quickly shot him in the leg before he could even locate his weapon. Pablo was screaming in complete pain and agony, nursing his shot leg.
Pablo: You bastard!
Jack lowered himself vertically so as to directly face the man.
Jack: From now on, you pay us 50% of your weekly earnings to keep your operation safe. Otherwise, we could go crazy on you, y'know?
Pablo: Screw you...
Jack fired a couple of deafening shots into the air which ruthlessly taunted Pablo.
Pablo: Jesus, alright!
Jack: Good...
Frisking the Hispanic thug, Jack discovered a fairly bulky manila envelope containing $2000 in rolled-up notes. The man proceeded to fleeing the vicinity of the basketball courts before the cops arrived, driving away in his busted-up Idaho.
Jack was shown to be proudly sporting a dark-blue polo shirt, a musty black and white varsity jacket, a pair of remarkably freeing blue denim jeans and some red-low tops. He had pop-idol boyish looks, with finely cropped blonde hair, startlingly dormant electric-blue eyes and a fine athletic build.
The man glanced over to Pablo, who proudly wore his lack of intelligence rather like a badge of honour. He had a nauseating buzz-cut which made him look the part of an illiterate convict, a scar on his left cheek, interestingly soothing emerald green eyes and a hefty torso - an extremely muscular one, mind you. Jack walked over to him.
Jack: Mr. Pablo?
Pablo: The fuck are you, ese?
Jack: It's only business.
Jack drew a silenced handgun and fired at his two guards, effortlessly perforating their vulnerable foreheads, as blood came gushing out and a cloying smell of rotting flesh tainted the once-fresh air.
Pablo: Shit!
Pablo fumbled for his pistol, but Jack's proficiency with a firearm was such that he quickly shot him in the leg before he could even locate his weapon. Pablo was screaming in complete pain and agony, nursing his shot leg.
Pablo: You bastard!
Jack lowered himself vertically so as to directly face the man.
Jack: From now on, you pay us 50% of your weekly earnings to keep your operation safe. Otherwise, we could go crazy on you, y'know?
Pablo: Screw you...
Jack fired a couple of deafening shots into the air which ruthlessly taunted Pablo.
Pablo: Jesus, alright!
Jack: Good...
Frisking the Hispanic thug, Jack discovered a fairly bulky manila envelope containing $2000 in rolled-up notes. The man proceeded to fleeing the vicinity of the basketball courts before the cops arrived, driving away in his busted-up Idaho.