Stretching across the beach the sun shot its rays into each granule. Its heat sending waves of light flashing off the tiniest metal. There one the beach was a many who had arrived just days prior from New York. The oceans waves roared out the sounds of the imagined gun fire that Mack was hearing ring in his ear. He chuckles at himself as beach goers smile crossing his path. Unbeknown to them he had nearly escaped New York with his life, the goombas and capos men were warring in the streets. Not even mattressing up could protect the highest of the high. The warmth of the sun produced beads of sweat on the mans body as he surveys the area. Though he wasn't affiliated with a family in New York he wanted to ensure he was watching his P's & Q's. There near a lemonade stand stood a man not in swimwear, but a ridiculous floral shirt & short combo. Sighing, Mack touches into his picnic basket checking his Colt was at the ready. Not wanting a confrontation in the area where he will soon be frequenting, he decides to pound sand out of there and back to his Cherry Buick Super. Gathering up his belongings he side eyes where the lemonade stand was but where the man was not. Holding his basket close he keeps his hand in the basket fingering the Colts worn trigger. He walks his way to his vehicle slow and steady, making sure he wont get jumped on. Arriving at his car safe and sound he checks his back right noticing the goomba eyeing him up and down. His gold chain shimmering and almost blinding some poor devil of a kid trying to pick peoples pockets. Not one to back down from a fight, Mack sets his basket in his car and nods up at the man in a effect of "You got a problem, lets talk bout it" Immediately the man smirks smiling big and takes off at a steady pace through the crowds of people busy about their day. Not liking the mans demeanor Mack begins to follow the man in a staggered pace, ensuring his distance is kept and the possibility of him seeing him being slim. Following him brings Mack to a new area of the beach shopping strip. There along the strip are various shops dotting and catering to the tourists and locals alike. In a small alley they man darts into the shadows a metal door being the only passage out of the trap. There with a sudden belly full laugh a man makes his presence known by the same glimmer of the chain. With a coarse voice and breath that reeked of cigars and olives, the man begins. 

In a Yonkers accent the man spiels "So we got told you flew out here several days ago. Something bout wanting to ensure your safety yadda yadda yadda. You know what I say bout them two bit captains ordering me around? Fuck em thats what. You dont get to escape to a sun filled beach while your buddies and us are getting wacked out like its a religion."

As the man finishes that sentence Mack can hear a guns hammer cock back. His military training and keen hearing made him aware there was a man behind him with a cheap Beretta M1934. His mind slowed his breathing, his perspiration returning with a fury as he makes his move. separating himself from the wise guy Mack bum rushes the man with the pistol behind him. He flings himself at the man as a shot rings out, the bullet wizzing past him as he dives into the man. With a grunt they both land on the hard concrete. Without any wait, Mack begins slamming his closed fists in a gorilla like fashion onto the mans face. With a loud sigh Mack knew the threat was silenced. The man who had all those words but no fight had disappeared, leaving his buddy to suffer a unneeded beating. Mack laughs out loud as onlookers began to appear after hearing the shot from the pistol. Quickly, he runs the mans pockets taking a wallet and a bundle of bills. He takes off back to his car wanting to switch out his location as quick as possible. Little did he know that pounding sand that day would lead to a more violent and epic life of crime than what he would have expected. 

To Be Continued . . .

Can we discuss how you can jump off my dick? How youre not banned from these shores is beyond me. Go harass someone else with your one line half wit stories. Go flex your incel noodle arms somewhere else.

"I can assure you JohnFarehamJr has the arms of a greek god. That guys can shoot 3s for sure. 2 words to describe John's arms in the JFMAS training sessions...Girthy, Vascular & Swole."

Let's leave his guy to pound sand on his own. I think the courts are open today over on 12th Street. Anyone up for a pickup game? 

I had a new jumper I wanted to practice but the floor keeps cracking under the strain. 

Conqueeftador dribbles away and then picks up a basketball and dribbles that instead. 

Terrible tragedy that this wasn't continued. 

I have a reward available for anyone able to obtain the FatherMacklePenny family journals, decipher the neanderthal markings, and regale us with the resolution of "pounding sand".

This is just one of a number of ventures I am pioneering to revive the Streets.

In the words of RJ Fuller: "You're welcome". 

Imagine that was said from a very short mouth. 

Liz_Truss, you're boring. You bore me. We might have been friends once, maybe even more than that. Not now. 

My lineage are well known in the Duel Hall of Fame. 

Ask Blackboard about that. 

I'm not threatening you, but I am going to kill you.

Wow. My only ally in this world, cut down like that.

Gone.

It is a well known fact that the mutually beneficial alliance between the Fareham and Kuku lineages goes back decades. Centuries even.

I cannot let this stand. I challenge thee to a duel Liz_Truss. May the best shooterman win.

I slapped the man with a glove, and then minutes later he dies.

Then notorious FMP lickspittle BlackNoir dies.

I feel like someone is enacting the plot of a murder mystery novel.

Who will be next to die under mysterious circumstances?

John_Cuckham?

Mr-Kuku?

Me?