It is about time that there was another writing competition around here, preferably one that wasn’t rigged before it even begins. We’ll start off small and simple enough, two million for first place, one million for second and five hundred thousand for third. 

The prompt is easy enough as well, write about a contract that you took on, whether you failed or succeeded. The only thing is that the hit must take place at the docks in Waterfront, Seattle. No limit on how long or short you would like it to be. 

The contest will run until Wednesday or Thursday depending on the number of applicants.

Best of luck and happy writing.

Ronnie sat in his car, wearing his usual black leather jacket, he held a 380. Revolver in his palm. The cylinder open, he placed two bullets in and snapped it back. Ronnie was getting ready. 

You see afew days ago his boss told him some saddening news. A guy who they both grew up with was seen leaving a police station, stuffing a brown envelope into his jacket. Only two people leave a police station with a brown envelope. Cops. And snitches. Now this man definitely wasn’t a cop when he and Ronnie stuck up a bank in the sticks. 

No. This man was a friend of the family, he wasn’t both feet in, obviously, so clarkson never let him in. He was always on the outside, not wanting to have the rules of the family to burden him. He was an associate, he brought things to the crew, took a piece and kept quiet for the most part.

The car door opened and a Man jumped into the passenger seat. “Hows it going Mick?” Ronnie says, leaning over and hugging the man. “Well Ronnie, it’s been going great, I’ve got something in the works for you boys.” Mick says pulling a cigarette from his coat and lighting it up, taking a few drags. Ron nods and starts the engine, driving around Seattle. 

“You know why Clarkson asked us to meet him in Seattle? I thought you boys where from Vegas?” Mick says, adjusting in his seat. “No sir, I heard he had a job planned out awhile ago, could be it. You know Clarkson, ever since we were kids he’s always had a lick planned.” Ronnie said with a chuckle. 

Men like Ronnie are similar to the Stones you’ll find in your backyard. Cold. He was sat in a car driving around with an old friend, knowing full well his brains were to be cleaned up soon...It’s how the world spins. 

Ronnie pulled into Waterfront docks, rain poured over the night sky, patting on the rooftop as the car slowed to a stop, Ronnie took his hands off the wheel and gave out a deep sigh, moving his hand towards his revolver he turns to Mick. “Why Mick?” He says now pointing the barrel of the gun in his friends face. “It’s just business old friend.” Ron says before BANG. BANG. He splatters Micks brain all over the window. Taking out a $100 note he stuffs it down Micks throat. He opens the car door as a nearby cars engine starts. 

In this life. It’s the family over anything. Taking the famed oath means you now belong to the family. If your mother is on her deathbead and the family needs you. You pick La Costa Nostra.

Stood aboard a rickety old fishing boat, about a mile out to sea from Seattle Waterfronts docks, Wheeler pulls the collar of his coat up to ward against the bitter cold of the wind and rain blowing in from the north. He strikes a match, cupping it defiantly in his right hand, trying to will it into living long enough to light the thrice damned cigarette clasped between his lips.

Finally, managing to light the bloody thing, he returns to staring broodily out into the distance and trying to keep the downpour from extinguishing it for a second time as he takes a drag.

"This weather is fucking abyssmal." He mutters into the darkness. The precious, bitter smoke wisping away on his breath as he does so. 

Then, like a spiteful ex lover, crushing his hopes and dreams, a droplet lands directly on the cherry, extinguishing the newly smouldering cigarette he had fought so hard to light.

He wasn't getting paid enough for this bullshit.

Defeated, he flicks the barely smoked cigarette into the sea.

The weather really is fucking abyssmal.

Somberly, he turns to survey the deck as a particularly large wave threatens to capsize the poxy boat on which he stands. Blood and fish guts slosh around it in a stinking deluge. And, nestled in amongst the gore, he notes, a drowned rat floating, serving as an omen of things to come.

His Italian leather shoes will definitely be ruined after this fiasco. Not to mention his bespoke, tailored suit trousers. And in the middle of the deck, crying, begging, hogtied and generally just struggling not to drown in the rancid mix is Giovanni Patrazi.

"Shut the fuck up will you Gio?" Wheeler growls, before stalking over to kneel beside him. "You know, I never did much like you. But a rat? Even I wouldn't have expected that. Especially with your old pops having been such a stand up guy."

Wheeler ruminates as he approaches "You're a fucking disgrace. I bet he's turning in his shallow grave. And your poor mother, about to lose her only son."

Wheeler shakes his head in feigned sympathy. He'd done this too many times now. Murdered too many sons, widowed too many wives and orphaned too many children. After a while, you get used to it.

Despite what some might say, the more you kill, the more accustomed to killing you become.

"Right then Giovanni old boy. Shall we get on with it then?"

As wheeler stands, pulling Giovannis struggling body onto his shoulder, the begging turns to threatening, then, as they approach the edge of the deck, attempts at bribing, Giovanni frantically saying anything in the hopes that he could prolong his pathetic rat life by a few more days.

Wheeler, reaching the spot where moments ago he had stood attempting to smoke, lowers giovanni from his shoulder, holding him out to lean over the side, and keeping a firm grip on him.

"Now Gio, I'm not a monster, I could just drop you over here and leave you to drown as you sink to the bottom. But for the love I had for your father, and the love I am no doubt going to have for that pretty, soon to be widow of yours, atleast, for a while anyway, I'm going to make it quick. Not to mention... I really wanna make sure you're dead!"

Giovannis response, comes in the form of unintelligible screaming.

Satisfied at this, Wheeler pulls his custom M1911 and puts two rounds right into the base of Giovanni's skull. Then, with a gentle push, the rat bastard goes on to crash into the swell below.

MacArthur sits in his office in Chicago, looking through various newspapers. He is hoping to find the whereabouts of a long-time enemy of his. He means to take him down for good.

An aid runs in to the office waving a telephone book. "General, I may have found him. This phone book just arrived from Seattle in the mail, and his alias is here."
 

MacArthur takes the book and looks where the aid is pointing. "Ah, yes. That's the alias he used back in the early 20s. Perhaps he thought I'd forget it."

The aid nods. "Shall I call the hitmen, General?" MacArthur thinks for a moment, then says, "No, thank you. This is a decade in the making; I want it myself." The aid looks amazed; his commander has never dealt with someone himself. "Yes, sir. Our contacts in Seattle tell me that they know where he is living. You can be on a plane in an hour." "Good," MacArthur says. "Buy the tickets and pack my things."

Douglas gets off the plane seven hours later in the usual Seattle drizzle. He has a suitcase with some work in it, and other than that only the clothes he's wearing and the gun in his belt. This will be a short trip.

The general arrives at his hotel room about ten minutes later. It is about six o'clock. MacArthur eats a sandwich he made the cabby buy for him in a small cafe on the way; he doesn't want his target to know he's here in Seattle. Around eight, he departs on foot. He walks the back alleys to Pioneer Square, where he stops to chat with some friends in Mr. Curtis' family before continuing to Waterfront, where his target is hiding.

MacArthur arrives at the boarding house where the man lives. He opens the back door and goes up the back stairs to the second floor. He quickly finds room 207, where his target should be asleep by now. MacArthur looks at the dimensions of the hall, then exits again. Out back, he props a ladder against the building and mounts it. In a few moments he is outside the window of 207. The window has metal bars across it, but they're held by rusty screws that are easily taken out. After pulling out his revolver, Douglas takes a deep breath and jumps through the window. He raises his gun and aims for the bed, but stops himself. The bed is empty. 

A quick search proves that the man Douglas is seeking is not there. Disappointed, Douglas turns to leave. Suddenly, the door opens. Douglas whirls about, and sees a teenager in the door. The boy turns to flee, but MacArthur catches his coat and slams him on the floor, gun against his head. "Please...please..." the boy whispers. "Where is he?" Douglas demands. "Where...where...who?" the boy stammers. "Your employer. You know who I mean. Tell me! Now!" MacArthur is impressed with the kid's strength so far. "Never mind!" the boy yells. MacArthur points the gun and the boy's foot and fires. Blood leaps out. "Tell me!" MacArthur shouts. The writhing boy finally says, "The docks." MacArthur grins. "Ah, a good place for him too. Soon he'll be under them." 

MacArthur climbs out the window, leaving the boy to the landlord who can be heard running up the steps.

It is now after eleven. The target must be doing a deal at the docks. Douglas knows he has a slim chance of catching him now, but try he must. He arrives at the docks and looks around. He sees a sailor loading boxes onto a steamship, and quietly says, "You seen a guy who looks rich?" The sailor looks Douglas up and down before saying, "Besides you? Yeah, he asked for the Wright dock. Down five piers." Doglas gives the man a ten dollar bill and quickly walks to the correct dock. He sees two men towards the end. He can tell one of the is his target; the other seems to be a drug dealer.

Douglas notices a shotgun nearby. "Guess the dealer'll have to go too. They're a sorry lot anyway." he thinks. Douglas kneels behind some crates, and aims for the dealer's head. He pulls the trigger, and the dealer falls backwards. The target starts, then runs for the end of the dock. "You won'g get there!" MacArthur yells. He grabs the shotgun as he runs past the dying dealer and then chases the target. As they near the end, Douglas gains, and the stops. He raises the gun and fires. The target falls, wounded by the blast. Douglas runs up to him and yanks him onto his feet. "Remember me?" he says. The man, excessively angry, nods. "Well, you tried to kill me, so you should. I got away, and now I'm back. You told me the sight of my face sickened you. Sorry to say that my face is the last thing you're going to see."

With that, Douglas pushes the man to the edge of the docks, slaps him in the face, aims his revolver at his brain, and fires. As the man's body falls backwards into the sea, Douglas fires the other four bullets into him as well.

Anton looks at himself in the mirror.  He beings to think...

"I live on Wabash Street. My name is Anton. I'm 40 years old. I believe in taking care of myself, and a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise routine. In the morning I do my stomach crunches. I can do a thousand now. There is an idea of an Anton, some kind of notion, but there is no real me.  I simply am not there."

Anton, as empty and bereft as usual, decides to murder someone to try to fill the inescablable void at the heart of his existence.  He had done it before.  Enjoyed it.  The man's name was PhilipMarleau.  He deserved to die.  He was a punk.  A puta.  He died well though, with a bewildered look.  Anton enjoyed that, a lot.  He'd killed a lot of men.  Some in wars, some in duels.  Some he killed because he enjoyed killing them.  He had killed one man for simply wearing better trousers than him.  He didn't like that.

At fate would have it, at that very moment, a man walked past, wearing better trousers than Anton.  Enraged Anton followed the man and, even thought he was in Chicago, he followed him all the way to the docks in Waterfront, Seattle.  The man was a fucking stevodore, and he stood there on a soapbox, talking to some men.  The handsome trousered bastard!  He seemed to be some kind of union rep, the way he was rambling on and on.  Anton's rage grew and grew.

The man, his name was Billy, Anton learned, eventually stopped speaking and talked into a container.  Inside, the container contained some papers, and a photo on the wall, with lots of darts sticking out of it.  Written underneath, someone had written HAHAHA, I AM GLAD THAT YOU ARE DEAD!  

Anton's jaw dropped.  He recognised the man in the photo.  A villainous man, a man that Anton had loved.

Anton walked into the container and pointed his pistol at the man, saying:

"Billy, I came for your trousers.  But now, I need to take more than that.  You see that man, the man you threw darts at and laughed about being dead?  That man, that man is a man I love.  Or should I say loved."

Billy took off his trousers and gave them to Anton.  Anton froze.  He had wanted the trousers, but now he wasn't sure.  He thoughts for a moment, and then said:

"Billy, I need to try these trousers on.  But I don't trust you.  I need you to knock yourself out.  Bang your head off the side of the container until you tall unconscious.  Do it now"

Anton tried the trousers on.  They fit perfectly.  In a strange moment of happy trousered serenity, interrupted only by the frantic sound of Billy hammering his head into the side of a solid metal container, suddenly, Anton didn't want to kill the man.  Billy's head thrashed against the metal with a hypnotic rhythm.  Anton, with the good trousers on, closed his eyes and imagined the joy that his life would not contain, with some handsome leg coverings.  He drifted off, into a blissful trance.  I love these trousers, CRASH, I love these trousers CRASH, I love these trousers, CRASH...

On and on it went, until Anton became aware that the crashing stopped.  He walked over to Billy and tried to wake him up, wake him up to tell him that he wasn't going to kill him.

But Billy was a bloody mess.  He had pulped his own head.  He was dead.  He died without any trousers on.

Anton sighed before saying "them's the breaks" before walking back to The Loop.

It had been a good day.

Before I take the time to actually read through all these stories, I am wondering..

It's a bit of a dilemma, as I am willing to judge, like Anton requested, but I cannot say that my ruling won't be rigged, as Billy_Russo requested.. On the other hand, I must say that I am not corrupt befo..

Wait..

I am corrupt. BUT!

I am not predecided on who will win. The best money story would prevail if I would be selected to be the judge..

I am fairly sure that if I got asked to judge this competition the winner would be whoever sent me the most incentive. With that said I would be more than willing to help out in this process. Willing enough to do it for, lets say, 1 mil for each entry.

Let me know if that sounds fair.

I am the only judge of this competition. There will be no pay offs or bribes or any of that nonsense. There really is no reason for it. The top three, best written entries will win, simple as that. 

I hate that I actually have to say this. 

If you did need a judge I’d be happy to help out here. Unless you’re a hippie. You’re not a hippie are you, Billy?

Thanks for the offer Rick_Dalton but not looking for a judge.

If so, I would be happy to step up and help out. 

It was a perfect day. She was triumphantly standing in front of her target - a despicable scum named Joe. He had caused unnecessary trouble in a place he was not supposed to be and now he must pay with his life. Beetle had the gun aimed straight towards the lowlife. After waiting enough to see him grovel for his life, she had decided to pull the trigger. 

But unexpectedly the bullet won't come out. There were a couple of sharp clicking noises and complete silence. Not the usual explosive sound. Soon enough both party realized what just happened when the crook grinned at her and disappeared into the nearby alley, running as fast as his legs would carry. Instinctively Beetle tried to pursue him but there was the sound of siren all around. Cops came howling from every other direction and soon enough she was apprehended and taken away.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

That incident happened 4 years ago.

Beetle had continued on her path into the thing of theirs and earned success, money and respect. She was living the high life, in the lap of luxury. Every now and then before going to bed, Beetle would recollect random events from her life so far. Many a times she would remember the ugly face of the lowlife grinning at her. No matter how much she would try, she could not forget that face oozing pure mockery and disrespect towards her.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Back in Philadelphia, Beetle was seated in the lounge of the headquarters. While sipping some delicious coffee, she was studying the folder given by the boss when she was interrupted. An young and shy new face hesitatingly informed her that there was a call for her. She picked up the receiver saying "Hello?"

There was complete silence on the other side.

"Who's this?" she asked eagerly waiting for an answer. Still no answer.

She was about to put down the receiver when just in the nick of time someone finally spoke.....

"Waterfront, Seattle. Drunken Monkey. 8 pm"

"Who's this?" she inquired unable to make any sense of the words just spoken to her. But the person had already put down the receiver and the line went dead.

Beetle spent an entire day debating what to do with this information. She had no idea if this was even an information or a trap. 

Finally she made up her mind to head for Seattle preparing herself for the worst.

Having contacts in Seattle, it didn't take her long to locate the place. Seattle weather didn't surprise her either. Usual rain. It was 7.50 pm and she had positioned herself in close proximity to the Drunken Monkey bar. It was relatively crowded- people of different ages kept coming in and out. Beetle's eyes kept affixed on the main glass door to check for every person. Even then she had no idea.

It started raining heavily and the line of sight was getting hazy so Beetle crossed the road and stood in front of the door itself. She checked her watch. The arrow just hit 8 pm. 

A car stopped in front of the pub. A man accompanied by two women came out. Beetle couldn't believe her eyes. The hair was much longer, the face more fatter however retained the same level of ugliness as that of four years ago. It was Joe himself. Merrily he went inside the pub with beautiful company. Beetle was stunned.

Who? Why? How?

She would have liked many questions to be answered.. But perhaps it was better to just ask none.

She lighted a cigarette and continued standing beside the main door. She had no desire of going inside whatsoever. The scene would get out of control. She was alone and wanted to be discreet about it. She kept thinking of the best course of action.

After what seemed like hours, out came Joe, slumped against his two escorts, heavily drunk. For some unknown reason, his face maintained the same grin which was a good thing for Beetle. It helped her focus the anger towards him.

She wanted to put an end to this immediately. She wanted to remove this ugly lowlife scum from the face of the earth. She wanted to make sure his face would not be able to curl into that annoying grin again. Her body was shaking with hatred and demanded action.

The sight of a pistol pointed straight at a person could generate a lot of chaos and disarray. No one wanted to get shot at, or get involved. The place was emptied within seconds before drunk Joe and his company would realize what was going on.

Bang!

The bullet escaped the muzzle, cut through the air, closed the distance and entered the thick skull of the lowlife. Out came a thick spray of blood. The two women shrieked when they saw their beloved Joe's head getting roughed up. Frightened and confused, they abandoned Joe's bleeding body and ran, not even looking back for a second time.

"Good riddance" Beetle thought. Now she didn't have to kill them too.

She felt satisfied having completing the deed from four years ago. She allowed herself to get soaked in the rain for a few moments before disappearing from the place.

The writing competition has now concluded. The results will be posted here after I have informed the contestants and sent out the prize money. A big thank you to all of the contestants. You all did a great job and I look forward to running another one of these in the future.

I am extremely proud to announce the winners of this writing competition. Coming in first place is Wheeler, followed by Ronnie-Radke in second and VenomousBlackBeetle in third. 

Everyone who participated did a wonderful job, unfortunately there are only prizes for the top three spots. I encourage all of you to keep writing. You’ve got real talent, stick with it and it will only get better!

Thank you for your time. A new and different writing contest will be up within a few days.