Post by The Collective on Mar 12, 2017 1:06:33 GMT
OOC: WORD COUNT 1954
It’s amazing how you can love a state so much, yet hate a majority of the cities that constitute it. Buffalo, Queens, and of course Red Hook all held a special place in Tony Tira’s heart. To go to anywhere else in New York was either a pain in the ass or boring, sometimes a little of both.
Enter Manhattan. An overabundance of culture, people clogging the streets, no parking, and everything is expensive. Every time Tony had to go into Manhattan he took the subway, refusing to drive five hours and scream for what should be a fairly painless half hour trip. Earbuds filled with 90’s metal blocked out the pedestrians waxing idiotic on the trip there. It wasn’t until he arrived at his art studio, Trapiche Gallery that he took out the bluetooth buds and scooped them into his black ‘Gracie Barra’ hoodie pocket. Heads zipped by him on the street as he took a look at his girlfriend and co-owner from afar, Cherise. Tall, slender, pale complexion. A few tattoos in the right places, not enough to trash her up. Sleek black dress cut off at the mid thigh, showing off her killer legs. She could feel his eyes, bringing her dark browns to his and smiling with those rose red lips of hers. A smile cracked out of Tony’s serious demeanor, but that smile quickly dropped as a familiar man entered from the back.
The lemon colored sweater vest, the feminine walk, the shiny face. Martin Pescado beamed at Cherise, bringing her to smile back and present her hand for a handshake. He went to shake with his left on instinct, but then remembered his hand injury and shook with his right. Gauze mummified his left hand, especially covering his ring and index finger. Just seeing the damage done brought a chuckle on from Tony. “I think I should go introduce myself.”
Tony pushed through the front door to the studio, sending the bell ringing and giving him the attention of Martin and Cherise. Martin’s ultra white smile quickly dissipated, leaving a shocked open mouthed frown as stared at the smirking thug walking towards him. Tony walked up and kissed Cherise, then put his hand around her hourglass waist as he turned to see the mortified Martin looking to the ground. “I don’t know, I coulda swore we met before or somethin’. What’s ya name?”
“Martin…” He mumbled, barely audible. This lead Tony to lean in, making sure Martin felt his breath on his face.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“Martin….my name is Martin.”
“Alright there Marvin, good to meet ya again. Say there, what happened to ya hand?”
The urge to jet out of there was strong. A deep breath drew from Martin, then a fake excuse. “I jammed it in my car door. I’m really late for a meeting, I must go, nice meeting you!”
Martin then awkwardly turned and shuffled out the door, not looking back once as his scared face stared at the sidewalk. A chuckle came from Tony as he couldn’t help but soak in seeing another man’s fear. “What’s with that guy?”
“I dunno, he’s been a little off the last month. Seems ever since he broke his fingers in his car door he’s been more nervous than usual.”
“Poor guy. Is he making you good money out there?”
A playfully absurd look from Cherise. “Are you kiddin’ me? Fags get the best stuff. He’s been bringin’ me top paintings all month.”
“Good...good. Glad he’s helpin’ this place prospa’. I need a lucrative front.”
“I know Tony, I know.” Cherise drew close to him, giving him a hug. She leaned into his ear, whispering softly. “I just hope this pro wrestling thing works out for ya. I just wanna see ya make an honest living.”
Tony kissed her lips, then backed up from the hug as he intended to make his point. “I hope so too honey. But doin’ dirt is giving us a comfortable life. You want that, right?”
A sigh came from Cherise followed by a sheepish nod. Talking about the grimy aspect of her life always put her in an uncomfortable situation. She wanted nothing more than for Tony to get out of the mob game so they could lead a normal life. However with a stubborn boyfriend like him, this was no simple task. But like most women, Cherise felt she could change Tony with time. After five and a half years together, that time was running out for her.
“Look hon, I don’t like seein’ ya like this. I’ll try my best at wresslin’, I promise ya baby. Now how about ya close up early and we go shopping?”
First came the smile, then came the look up, then came the nod. What woman can refuse shopping in Manhattan?
One of the many benefits of organized crime is the ability to take over a small business, even while that establishment is supposed to be closed. Such is the case with Red Hook Championship Boxing Gym, owned by old man Sal, otherwise known as Salvadore Russolino. Sal knew Tony every since he was seventeen years old, and over the years had seen him rise to prominence in Red Hook, becoming a local legend. It was out of respect, not fear that Salvadore gave Tony a spare set of keys to his gym. Which is why on the beginning of March 10th at 12:35 am the boys decided to get in a sparring session after a couple hours of clubbing. They weren’t overly drunk, the gym was by the clubs, seemed like an ideal thing to do with such a big match around the corner.
An hour went by and all three were drenched with sweat, leaking out their vodka tonics through their pores. Frankie’s right arm at this point was completely useless, dangling as he danced around the sluggish swings of Geno. A couple exhausted whiffs went by before Tony clicked his stopwatch and yelled “STOP!!”
Since he was near a corner, Frankie dropped down and sat with his back to the bottom turnbuckle. With his good left hand he loosened up both boxing gloves and shoved them off in front of him. Geno put a hand to the ropes, standing and gasping for air as Tony surveyed his friends. “Look at this shit!!! Geno, you’re about to keel over and die!! Frankie, you’ve been fightin’ with one arm for the past forty five minutes!!”
As much as Frankie wanted to rip into him, he was too exhausted to do so. His focus went into getting oxygen into his lungs and slowing down his drum machine heart. “Bro!!.....I caught a fuckin’ slug…..in the shoulda!!!”
“That ain’t an excu…”
Frankie wasn’t done. “Bro!! A slug….in the shoulda!!! I need…..to fuckin’ heal!!!”
Tony laughed about it, having taken more than his fair share of bullets in his time. “No what ya need ta do is lift more weights!!! If ya had some muscle in those spaghetti strings ya wouldn’t still be hurt!!”
As much as Frankie wanted to stand and tough guy it up in Tony’s face, his tired body wouldn’t let him. His mouth would have to fight this battle. “What….and be a slow fuck ….like you? Talk about pasta...you need to lay off the linguini...fat boy!!”
“Yeah well this fat boy can still fight!!! Unlike you, gettin’ ya fuckin’ ass kicked by a brain dead foreigner!!”
“Yeah well….you ain’t gonna look so good...when the tranny and big titted bitch kick ya ass!! You are weighin’ down the team!! Geno should go solo!!!”
“ENOUGHHHHHHH!!!” The bellowing voice of reason quieted the two, and brought them to a point of listening. “We’re a team. Let’s act like it.”
A few words from the giant was always the trick to get the gangsters back on the same page. Tony walked over to Frankie, offering him a hand. At first Frankie looked at it, looked away, then decided to take Geno’s advice and take the hand. Tony pulled him up with a grunt, then patted Frankie on his good shoulder. “I’ll get ya some juice for that injury. It’ll help ya heal quicker.”
Frankie looked down and grimaced. “Fuck man. I ain’t about to lose again, and I know you ain’t either. Let’s show these fucks what we got.”
“Amen brotha.” Tony slap hugged Frankie, leading to an air of calm through the sweaty, empty gym.
“So is the plan still on tomorrow?” Geno’s thick voice echoed out, bringing on a nod and smirk from Tony.
If there’s one thing Tony loves to do with opposition, it’s making them think they got off the hook. Making them think that Tony had ‘bitched out’. Back at the tail end of January the 7th Street Gang stole a hijacked shipment from Tony in Manhattan. Being it happened out of his jurisdiction, he wasn’t there to see it. However, Martin Pescado was, and chose to keep his mouth shut until Tony discovered security cam footage of Martin being threatened by one of 7th’s Street’s thugs outside of the Trapiche Gallery. This brought on the interrogation, and brought forth the intel needed for Tony to plot his revenge. If they were gonna mess with his business, he was going to mess with theirs.
Enter Applewood Whiskey Distillery, one of the top distilleries in Queens and one of the top fronts for the 7th Street Gang. Security was tight at night for all of February, the gang fully expecting an after dark ambush. Then March hit, and the security went back to being short staffed. Just one foolish man who spent most of his guard shift watching porn on his Samsung Galaxy and eating Fritos.
Sneaking past the guard was easy. He took his first break at 2 am sharp, leaving the main floor unattended. As soon as he went in the bathroom to take his early morning dump, the Italian trio crept in through a diamond cut side window, avoiding the door security alarms. Five gasoline containers were passed through the window, then the mobsters entered in all black and grabbed the cans, getting to pouring. Trails of shimmering gasoline sparkled in the full moonlight pouring through the distillery windows. Veins of trickling fuel coated the waxed pine floors, leading a liquid pipeline to each of the full cask stacks ready to ship. In less than thirty seconds they had coated the half acre long production room and emptied the cans, causing Tony to rush them out as soon as possible. Once all three men were safely outside, Tony lit a match.
“Now this is how ya send a message…” With his cheesy one liner in place, Tony threw the match over his shoulder no look style through the open window. As soon as the spark hit the ground a wall of fire licked up behind Tony’s back, giving him a satisfied smirk as he casually walked away from the impending explosion. Thing is, he probably should’ve walked a little faster. The gasoline and high proof liquor caused a glass shattering explosion, knocking all three men on their face from the impact. Bits of glass and debris showered around them as they lay on the pavement.
“Yeah, maybe we shoulda ran.” Tony said as he winced and flicked a glass chunk off his cheek.
“Well it’s not too late…” Frankie’s out of breath statement motivated the men to crawl up to their feet and run to their van. Just as they did another explosion went off behind them, putting a little kick to their step. The three men darted to their black van where they piled in, hearing the screams of the security guard just as the double doors closed. Geno sped off as Tony and Frankie stared out the back window, watching in sadistic wonder as the gasoline and liquor fueled blasts lit up the night sky.
It’s amazing how you can love a state so much, yet hate a majority of the cities that constitute it. Buffalo, Queens, and of course Red Hook all held a special place in Tony Tira’s heart. To go to anywhere else in New York was either a pain in the ass or boring, sometimes a little of both.
Enter Manhattan. An overabundance of culture, people clogging the streets, no parking, and everything is expensive. Every time Tony had to go into Manhattan he took the subway, refusing to drive five hours and scream for what should be a fairly painless half hour trip. Earbuds filled with 90’s metal blocked out the pedestrians waxing idiotic on the trip there. It wasn’t until he arrived at his art studio, Trapiche Gallery that he took out the bluetooth buds and scooped them into his black ‘Gracie Barra’ hoodie pocket. Heads zipped by him on the street as he took a look at his girlfriend and co-owner from afar, Cherise. Tall, slender, pale complexion. A few tattoos in the right places, not enough to trash her up. Sleek black dress cut off at the mid thigh, showing off her killer legs. She could feel his eyes, bringing her dark browns to his and smiling with those rose red lips of hers. A smile cracked out of Tony’s serious demeanor, but that smile quickly dropped as a familiar man entered from the back.
The lemon colored sweater vest, the feminine walk, the shiny face. Martin Pescado beamed at Cherise, bringing her to smile back and present her hand for a handshake. He went to shake with his left on instinct, but then remembered his hand injury and shook with his right. Gauze mummified his left hand, especially covering his ring and index finger. Just seeing the damage done brought a chuckle on from Tony. “I think I should go introduce myself.”
Tony pushed through the front door to the studio, sending the bell ringing and giving him the attention of Martin and Cherise. Martin’s ultra white smile quickly dissipated, leaving a shocked open mouthed frown as stared at the smirking thug walking towards him. Tony walked up and kissed Cherise, then put his hand around her hourglass waist as he turned to see the mortified Martin looking to the ground. “I don’t know, I coulda swore we met before or somethin’. What’s ya name?”
“Martin…” He mumbled, barely audible. This lead Tony to lean in, making sure Martin felt his breath on his face.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“Martin….my name is Martin.”
“Alright there Marvin, good to meet ya again. Say there, what happened to ya hand?”
The urge to jet out of there was strong. A deep breath drew from Martin, then a fake excuse. “I jammed it in my car door. I’m really late for a meeting, I must go, nice meeting you!”
Martin then awkwardly turned and shuffled out the door, not looking back once as his scared face stared at the sidewalk. A chuckle came from Tony as he couldn’t help but soak in seeing another man’s fear. “What’s with that guy?”
“I dunno, he’s been a little off the last month. Seems ever since he broke his fingers in his car door he’s been more nervous than usual.”
“Poor guy. Is he making you good money out there?”
A playfully absurd look from Cherise. “Are you kiddin’ me? Fags get the best stuff. He’s been bringin’ me top paintings all month.”
“Good...good. Glad he’s helpin’ this place prospa’. I need a lucrative front.”
“I know Tony, I know.” Cherise drew close to him, giving him a hug. She leaned into his ear, whispering softly. “I just hope this pro wrestling thing works out for ya. I just wanna see ya make an honest living.”
Tony kissed her lips, then backed up from the hug as he intended to make his point. “I hope so too honey. But doin’ dirt is giving us a comfortable life. You want that, right?”
A sigh came from Cherise followed by a sheepish nod. Talking about the grimy aspect of her life always put her in an uncomfortable situation. She wanted nothing more than for Tony to get out of the mob game so they could lead a normal life. However with a stubborn boyfriend like him, this was no simple task. But like most women, Cherise felt she could change Tony with time. After five and a half years together, that time was running out for her.
“Look hon, I don’t like seein’ ya like this. I’ll try my best at wresslin’, I promise ya baby. Now how about ya close up early and we go shopping?”
First came the smile, then came the look up, then came the nod. What woman can refuse shopping in Manhattan?
One of the many benefits of organized crime is the ability to take over a small business, even while that establishment is supposed to be closed. Such is the case with Red Hook Championship Boxing Gym, owned by old man Sal, otherwise known as Salvadore Russolino. Sal knew Tony every since he was seventeen years old, and over the years had seen him rise to prominence in Red Hook, becoming a local legend. It was out of respect, not fear that Salvadore gave Tony a spare set of keys to his gym. Which is why on the beginning of March 10th at 12:35 am the boys decided to get in a sparring session after a couple hours of clubbing. They weren’t overly drunk, the gym was by the clubs, seemed like an ideal thing to do with such a big match around the corner.
An hour went by and all three were drenched with sweat, leaking out their vodka tonics through their pores. Frankie’s right arm at this point was completely useless, dangling as he danced around the sluggish swings of Geno. A couple exhausted whiffs went by before Tony clicked his stopwatch and yelled “STOP!!”
Since he was near a corner, Frankie dropped down and sat with his back to the bottom turnbuckle. With his good left hand he loosened up both boxing gloves and shoved them off in front of him. Geno put a hand to the ropes, standing and gasping for air as Tony surveyed his friends. “Look at this shit!!! Geno, you’re about to keel over and die!! Frankie, you’ve been fightin’ with one arm for the past forty five minutes!!”
As much as Frankie wanted to rip into him, he was too exhausted to do so. His focus went into getting oxygen into his lungs and slowing down his drum machine heart. “Bro!!.....I caught a fuckin’ slug…..in the shoulda!!!”
“That ain’t an excu…”
Frankie wasn’t done. “Bro!! A slug….in the shoulda!!! I need…..to fuckin’ heal!!!”
Tony laughed about it, having taken more than his fair share of bullets in his time. “No what ya need ta do is lift more weights!!! If ya had some muscle in those spaghetti strings ya wouldn’t still be hurt!!”
As much as Frankie wanted to stand and tough guy it up in Tony’s face, his tired body wouldn’t let him. His mouth would have to fight this battle. “What….and be a slow fuck ….like you? Talk about pasta...you need to lay off the linguini...fat boy!!”
“Yeah well this fat boy can still fight!!! Unlike you, gettin’ ya fuckin’ ass kicked by a brain dead foreigner!!”
“Yeah well….you ain’t gonna look so good...when the tranny and big titted bitch kick ya ass!! You are weighin’ down the team!! Geno should go solo!!!”
“ENOUGHHHHHHH!!!” The bellowing voice of reason quieted the two, and brought them to a point of listening. “We’re a team. Let’s act like it.”
A few words from the giant was always the trick to get the gangsters back on the same page. Tony walked over to Frankie, offering him a hand. At first Frankie looked at it, looked away, then decided to take Geno’s advice and take the hand. Tony pulled him up with a grunt, then patted Frankie on his good shoulder. “I’ll get ya some juice for that injury. It’ll help ya heal quicker.”
Frankie looked down and grimaced. “Fuck man. I ain’t about to lose again, and I know you ain’t either. Let’s show these fucks what we got.”
“Amen brotha.” Tony slap hugged Frankie, leading to an air of calm through the sweaty, empty gym.
“So is the plan still on tomorrow?” Geno’s thick voice echoed out, bringing on a nod and smirk from Tony.
If there’s one thing Tony loves to do with opposition, it’s making them think they got off the hook. Making them think that Tony had ‘bitched out’. Back at the tail end of January the 7th Street Gang stole a hijacked shipment from Tony in Manhattan. Being it happened out of his jurisdiction, he wasn’t there to see it. However, Martin Pescado was, and chose to keep his mouth shut until Tony discovered security cam footage of Martin being threatened by one of 7th’s Street’s thugs outside of the Trapiche Gallery. This brought on the interrogation, and brought forth the intel needed for Tony to plot his revenge. If they were gonna mess with his business, he was going to mess with theirs.
Enter Applewood Whiskey Distillery, one of the top distilleries in Queens and one of the top fronts for the 7th Street Gang. Security was tight at night for all of February, the gang fully expecting an after dark ambush. Then March hit, and the security went back to being short staffed. Just one foolish man who spent most of his guard shift watching porn on his Samsung Galaxy and eating Fritos.
Sneaking past the guard was easy. He took his first break at 2 am sharp, leaving the main floor unattended. As soon as he went in the bathroom to take his early morning dump, the Italian trio crept in through a diamond cut side window, avoiding the door security alarms. Five gasoline containers were passed through the window, then the mobsters entered in all black and grabbed the cans, getting to pouring. Trails of shimmering gasoline sparkled in the full moonlight pouring through the distillery windows. Veins of trickling fuel coated the waxed pine floors, leading a liquid pipeline to each of the full cask stacks ready to ship. In less than thirty seconds they had coated the half acre long production room and emptied the cans, causing Tony to rush them out as soon as possible. Once all three men were safely outside, Tony lit a match.
“Now this is how ya send a message…” With his cheesy one liner in place, Tony threw the match over his shoulder no look style through the open window. As soon as the spark hit the ground a wall of fire licked up behind Tony’s back, giving him a satisfied smirk as he casually walked away from the impending explosion. Thing is, he probably should’ve walked a little faster. The gasoline and high proof liquor caused a glass shattering explosion, knocking all three men on their face from the impact. Bits of glass and debris showered around them as they lay on the pavement.
“Yeah, maybe we shoulda ran.” Tony said as he winced and flicked a glass chunk off his cheek.
“Well it’s not too late…” Frankie’s out of breath statement motivated the men to crawl up to their feet and run to their van. Just as they did another explosion went off behind them, putting a little kick to their step. The three men darted to their black van where they piled in, hearing the screams of the security guard just as the double doors closed. Geno sped off as Tony and Frankie stared out the back window, watching in sadistic wonder as the gasoline and liquor fueled blasts lit up the night sky.