Post by The Collective on Aug 23, 2017 3:57:55 GMT
It had been a success, or so he heard. The Cuban Underground had successfully infiltrated the 7th Street Gang, gaining access to many secrets within their evil circle. A sexy woman can entice anything out of a man, especially if it’s any sort of weaknesses the 7th Street Gang might have. In this case, a certain sexy woman enticed a young and dumb member of the 7th Street Gang back to her lair, Jorge’s Crab Dive. A party shack of a bar located by the pier in Red Hook, and well known as a hangout for the Cuban Underground. It’s there that this poor fly laid, trapped in the web spun for him by a thick thigh endowed temptress.
Frankie just so happened to walk in at the right time. He was scheduled to meet Jorge in the backroom at 1:30am on the dot to find out the plans. What he didn’t hope for was that the extraction process was still taking place.
“Jesus Christ man what the hell!?”
What he walked into was a scene from a horror movie. Every finger on the man’s hands, mangled and twisted into gnarled, misshapen claws. Knife wounds covering his white t-shirt, completely soaking it in a burgundy hue. The man already looked to be on the verge of death, but that wasn’t enough for Jorge Castillo. A firm hand laid on the gang members tongue, causing his fear laden eyeballs to widen at the sadistic possibilities. Luckily he was granted a short reprieve as Jorge looked up to see Frankie enter the keg stacked backroom.
“Frankie my friend! You came just in time for the show!”
Even though Frankie could feel the acid churning in his stomach and rising up, he swallowed it down with a grimace and looked to Jorge. “Who’s the sap?”
An enthusiastic yellow toothed grin formed over Jorge’s mustache mug. “This is Deuce 22. A white boy from the hard streets of Albany. Somehow he found himself a rough crowd to roll with, and now that choice is coming back to bite him in the ass. Deuce, do you know what a Columbian necktie is?”
Muffled sounds of panic came out of his forced open mouth, his head rocking slightly as a tear streamed down his sun tanned face. Seeing that tear brought on a hearty laugh from Jorge, who was just having the time of his life soaking in this man’s agony. “It’s where I cut a hole in your neck. A thick hole, thick enough to poke a finger through. Then I take your tongue, and I pull it through the hole. Giving you a nice wet necktie. Would you like that?”
“UURRRRRRGGGHHHHHH!!!”
“Hey hey ease up there Jorge. What you got left to extract outta this Eminem lookin’ prick?”
“He won’t tell me Dante’s plans for your gang. I got a head count of the gang, and all of the operations they run. But he won’t tell me the plans for you and your boys.”
“URRRRRGGGHHHH!!! URRRRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!”
While Frankie didn’t mind inflicting serious acts of gore on the occasional bad guy, he felt that a Columbian necktie was just a little bit too excessive. Especially considering this poor guy was duped here by a prostitute. “Jorge, buddy, ease up on him. Let go of his tongue, let’s see if this birdie will chirp.”
Releasing the young man’s tongue causing him to go into a coughing fit as his tongue retracted. After clearing his throat and breathing heavy, wet breaths, a few sentences croaked out in whimpering form. “They backed off. They don’t consider you guys a threat.”
Jorge’s boys took a break from holding down the poor young man to look up to Frankie with a pair of laughs. Seeing that the 7th Street Gang was no longer on their radar brought a relieved chuckle to Frankie, who couldn’t wait to tell the news to his boys. He didn’t appreciate Jorge’s goons laughing at his perceived lack of a threat, but he wasn’t about to slap around people who could help him out. Instead he wiped the anxiety sweat from his forehead and looked to Jorge. “So what we do now with this mook?”
“This.”
What followed was Jorge whipping out a 10mm automatic glock from his waistband, aiming it at the young man, then dumping three hot shells right in the center of his forehead. Smoke poured out of the three wounds as young Deuce laid there mouth agape with his fear plastered eyes locked on the ceiling fan above. Frankie turned to Jorge in a panic, screaming at his business partner. “SHIT!!! C’MON MAN WHAT THE FUCK!!!”
Jorge, as calm as ever placed a patient hand on Frankie’s shoulder after tucking back in his piece. “Think about it my friend. This little rat piece of shit would’ve gone back to Dante and spilled the beans on our little deal. I don’t need that shit, and I know you don’t need that shit.”
Hearing that obvious truth was what Frankie needed to calm down. Sometimes death was necessary, and in a case like this there was no other choice.
“So what are ya gonna do with the body?”
“Wrap him up with bed sheets. Dip his legs in concrete. Then I’m gonna take him out into the Atlantic and dump him when we go fishing. Which reminds me…” Jorge turned to the two greasy thugs and smiled. “Boys wrap him up and put him in the freezer. I don’t need him bleeding all over my office.”
The henchmen did as they were told, and started unfolding two black bed sheets that were left on Jorge’s office table. As they got to work disposing of the body, Jorge scooped Frankie away from the tragic scene with an arm wrapped around his shoulder. “I hate that you had to see that my friend. But sometimes it takes a little longer to squeeze wine out of a grape.”
“It’s fine Jorge. Ain’t nothin’ I haven’t seen before.”
“HAHA that’s my Frankie. So Frankie….about my payment…”
Frankie figured it would eventually come to the numbers. It always does. “Name it, I’ll get it.”
“Three kilos of white. Uncut bricks. Will that be a problem?”
The smirk and short chuckle from Frankie told Jorge all he needed to know. “When is it ever a problem?”
“HAHAHA my man!! Now let’s get some liquor in you and ladies on you!!”
Shots of tequila awaited the two old friends as they left Dante’s foot soldier to be cocooned and thrown in a freezer. Glamorous as it may be, the life of a gangster is unpredictable as poor Deuce 22 found out this cruel early morning.
Oh now will you look at this horseshit. Seems Johnny Rebel doesn’t like me helpin’ out my good buddies in their wrestling matches. He says it’s unfair, he says it’s not right for me to be stickin’ my nose where it doesn’t belong. I think personally the rubber faced old fuck should mind his own fuckin’ business and focus on makin’ a good show instead of fuckin’ with one of the three men that brings ratings to PW. We’re greener than a farmers market, but everyone, and I mean EVERYONE knows who the fuck we are, and they should. There isn’t anyone like the Collective in professional wrestling, and for good reason. Men stand out among a bunch of pathetic nerds. We weren’t raised on XMen, we were raised on gang beatdowns. We didn’t spend our time wasting away in front of video games, we hustled and got rich young. That’s why people watch us, because we’re the real fuckin’ deal. Yes, real gangsters in a world full of shitty actors. It’s hard to believe but it’s true, swear on my mother’s grave.
But it seems like there’s a lot on this roster that don’t appreciate the tactics that I was raised in. One person in particular is a lovely lady by the name of Aurora. This woman, I can tell you for a fact hates my fuckin’ guts. She hates the collective guts of all the Collective to be quite honest. And that’s cool. I know we’re dicks. We pride ourselves on being dicks and doing whatever we can to win. The thing about that is it tends to make people want to kill us, which for us is the expected outcome. We like bringing that emotion we get in the streets to the ring. That’s why every chance I get to piss off a top dog around here, I do it and I do it quite well. I want them to remember my name and the name of the Collective. I want them to sit up at night, grittin’ their teeth and thinking about how great it would be to curb stomp us. I don’t know a whole lot about pro wrestling, but I do know that making an emotional connection with the wrestlers and the fans is important. We know the fans hate our fuckin’ guts, and spend good money to see us get our asses kicked. We know that Aurora and Masaru want nothing more than a cancer like us to be cut off the body of PW. We also know we could never be loved, so why not just embrace the hate? Either way we make money.
So fans, please hate me. Aurora, please hate me too. That hate is putting food on my plate, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. To be gettin’ this match against ya Aurora isn’t a punishment to me. If anything it’s an opportunity to step the fuck up and show my worth around here. While I don’t have a problem being the deal sealer for the Collective, I like to shine on my own every once in awhile. At Redemption 111 I get to shine against the brightest star in Phoenix, Aurora. To me toots this is equivalent to getting a shot at the PW Rebirth Championship. Ain’t no way in hell Slaine or Rebel would give me a shot at Cassius. But to even be getting any champion, be it non-title is not a punishment, it’s a reward. I know it ain’t that for Aurora, more like an inconvenience. You’re tired of dealin’ with my type. You’re tired of those no good italian thugs constantly fuckin’ up your parade. I can’t blame ya, but at the same time Aurora I want that passion when we fight on the 29th. I want you to come at me guns blazing, giving me everything you got.
I know exactly what I’m asking for Aurora. I want a good match. What I’ll get is an ass kickin’ more than likely, but if you think this is a squash match Aurora ya dead wrong. I may have two bum wings but let me tell ya Rori this bird will fly, and he will fly much faster than you. I will dropkick you as hard as I fucking can in the chest to knock the wind out of you. I will stomp your head in, hoping for a knockout. My talented and coordinated feet will give you the fight of your life miss Aurora. Treat this as a mere warm up and you could very well be walking away with the L. I ain’t coming in there just to lay down for the queen. You’re gonna have to get up off that nice keister of yours and slay the dragon.
OOC: WORD COUNT 1882
Frankie just so happened to walk in at the right time. He was scheduled to meet Jorge in the backroom at 1:30am on the dot to find out the plans. What he didn’t hope for was that the extraction process was still taking place.
“Jesus Christ man what the hell!?”
What he walked into was a scene from a horror movie. Every finger on the man’s hands, mangled and twisted into gnarled, misshapen claws. Knife wounds covering his white t-shirt, completely soaking it in a burgundy hue. The man already looked to be on the verge of death, but that wasn’t enough for Jorge Castillo. A firm hand laid on the gang members tongue, causing his fear laden eyeballs to widen at the sadistic possibilities. Luckily he was granted a short reprieve as Jorge looked up to see Frankie enter the keg stacked backroom.
“Frankie my friend! You came just in time for the show!”
Even though Frankie could feel the acid churning in his stomach and rising up, he swallowed it down with a grimace and looked to Jorge. “Who’s the sap?”
An enthusiastic yellow toothed grin formed over Jorge’s mustache mug. “This is Deuce 22. A white boy from the hard streets of Albany. Somehow he found himself a rough crowd to roll with, and now that choice is coming back to bite him in the ass. Deuce, do you know what a Columbian necktie is?”
Muffled sounds of panic came out of his forced open mouth, his head rocking slightly as a tear streamed down his sun tanned face. Seeing that tear brought on a hearty laugh from Jorge, who was just having the time of his life soaking in this man’s agony. “It’s where I cut a hole in your neck. A thick hole, thick enough to poke a finger through. Then I take your tongue, and I pull it through the hole. Giving you a nice wet necktie. Would you like that?”
“UURRRRRRGGGHHHHHH!!!”
“Hey hey ease up there Jorge. What you got left to extract outta this Eminem lookin’ prick?”
“He won’t tell me Dante’s plans for your gang. I got a head count of the gang, and all of the operations they run. But he won’t tell me the plans for you and your boys.”
“URRRRRGGGHHHH!!! URRRRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!”
While Frankie didn’t mind inflicting serious acts of gore on the occasional bad guy, he felt that a Columbian necktie was just a little bit too excessive. Especially considering this poor guy was duped here by a prostitute. “Jorge, buddy, ease up on him. Let go of his tongue, let’s see if this birdie will chirp.”
Releasing the young man’s tongue causing him to go into a coughing fit as his tongue retracted. After clearing his throat and breathing heavy, wet breaths, a few sentences croaked out in whimpering form. “They backed off. They don’t consider you guys a threat.”
Jorge’s boys took a break from holding down the poor young man to look up to Frankie with a pair of laughs. Seeing that the 7th Street Gang was no longer on their radar brought a relieved chuckle to Frankie, who couldn’t wait to tell the news to his boys. He didn’t appreciate Jorge’s goons laughing at his perceived lack of a threat, but he wasn’t about to slap around people who could help him out. Instead he wiped the anxiety sweat from his forehead and looked to Jorge. “So what we do now with this mook?”
“This.”
What followed was Jorge whipping out a 10mm automatic glock from his waistband, aiming it at the young man, then dumping three hot shells right in the center of his forehead. Smoke poured out of the three wounds as young Deuce laid there mouth agape with his fear plastered eyes locked on the ceiling fan above. Frankie turned to Jorge in a panic, screaming at his business partner. “SHIT!!! C’MON MAN WHAT THE FUCK!!!”
Jorge, as calm as ever placed a patient hand on Frankie’s shoulder after tucking back in his piece. “Think about it my friend. This little rat piece of shit would’ve gone back to Dante and spilled the beans on our little deal. I don’t need that shit, and I know you don’t need that shit.”
Hearing that obvious truth was what Frankie needed to calm down. Sometimes death was necessary, and in a case like this there was no other choice.
“So what are ya gonna do with the body?”
“Wrap him up with bed sheets. Dip his legs in concrete. Then I’m gonna take him out into the Atlantic and dump him when we go fishing. Which reminds me…” Jorge turned to the two greasy thugs and smiled. “Boys wrap him up and put him in the freezer. I don’t need him bleeding all over my office.”
The henchmen did as they were told, and started unfolding two black bed sheets that were left on Jorge’s office table. As they got to work disposing of the body, Jorge scooped Frankie away from the tragic scene with an arm wrapped around his shoulder. “I hate that you had to see that my friend. But sometimes it takes a little longer to squeeze wine out of a grape.”
“It’s fine Jorge. Ain’t nothin’ I haven’t seen before.”
“HAHA that’s my Frankie. So Frankie….about my payment…”
Frankie figured it would eventually come to the numbers. It always does. “Name it, I’ll get it.”
“Three kilos of white. Uncut bricks. Will that be a problem?”
The smirk and short chuckle from Frankie told Jorge all he needed to know. “When is it ever a problem?”
“HAHAHA my man!! Now let’s get some liquor in you and ladies on you!!”
Shots of tequila awaited the two old friends as they left Dante’s foot soldier to be cocooned and thrown in a freezer. Glamorous as it may be, the life of a gangster is unpredictable as poor Deuce 22 found out this cruel early morning.
But it seems like there’s a lot on this roster that don’t appreciate the tactics that I was raised in. One person in particular is a lovely lady by the name of Aurora. This woman, I can tell you for a fact hates my fuckin’ guts. She hates the collective guts of all the Collective to be quite honest. And that’s cool. I know we’re dicks. We pride ourselves on being dicks and doing whatever we can to win. The thing about that is it tends to make people want to kill us, which for us is the expected outcome. We like bringing that emotion we get in the streets to the ring. That’s why every chance I get to piss off a top dog around here, I do it and I do it quite well. I want them to remember my name and the name of the Collective. I want them to sit up at night, grittin’ their teeth and thinking about how great it would be to curb stomp us. I don’t know a whole lot about pro wrestling, but I do know that making an emotional connection with the wrestlers and the fans is important. We know the fans hate our fuckin’ guts, and spend good money to see us get our asses kicked. We know that Aurora and Masaru want nothing more than a cancer like us to be cut off the body of PW. We also know we could never be loved, so why not just embrace the hate? Either way we make money.
So fans, please hate me. Aurora, please hate me too. That hate is putting food on my plate, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. To be gettin’ this match against ya Aurora isn’t a punishment to me. If anything it’s an opportunity to step the fuck up and show my worth around here. While I don’t have a problem being the deal sealer for the Collective, I like to shine on my own every once in awhile. At Redemption 111 I get to shine against the brightest star in Phoenix, Aurora. To me toots this is equivalent to getting a shot at the PW Rebirth Championship. Ain’t no way in hell Slaine or Rebel would give me a shot at Cassius. But to even be getting any champion, be it non-title is not a punishment, it’s a reward. I know it ain’t that for Aurora, more like an inconvenience. You’re tired of dealin’ with my type. You’re tired of those no good italian thugs constantly fuckin’ up your parade. I can’t blame ya, but at the same time Aurora I want that passion when we fight on the 29th. I want you to come at me guns blazing, giving me everything you got.
I know exactly what I’m asking for Aurora. I want a good match. What I’ll get is an ass kickin’ more than likely, but if you think this is a squash match Aurora ya dead wrong. I may have two bum wings but let me tell ya Rori this bird will fly, and he will fly much faster than you. I will dropkick you as hard as I fucking can in the chest to knock the wind out of you. I will stomp your head in, hoping for a knockout. My talented and coordinated feet will give you the fight of your life miss Aurora. Treat this as a mere warm up and you could very well be walking away with the L. I ain’t coming in there just to lay down for the queen. You’re gonna have to get up off that nice keister of yours and slay the dragon.
OOC: WORD COUNT 1882