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| Beatdown/Whack/Extortion, etc Thread | Started by: Santino_Bucci on Jan 21, '09 20:38 |
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(Out of Character introduction) --So! I figured that I might start something to get everybody in the Mob mood today; I'll get started. This is not a roleplay, although everything past this little introduction ought to be IN CHARACTER unless otherwise noted by the person writing. Here's the plan. --Below, I'm encouraging people to post Hypothetical Situations of their person, performing a good beat-down, whacking somebody, extorting a local business owner, setting a rival bar on fire, kicking an old lady in the shins, ball-busting, or other Mob-related Shenanigans that may or may not be covered under the term 'ETC.' RULES: -Beat the shit out of someone hypothetically. OR -Shoot someone hypothetically. OR -Extort someone hypothetically. OR -Do something, hypothetically, that sounds pretty Mobsterish of you to have hypothetically done, looking back. AND -Use some good grammar once in a while, eh? COMMENCE THIS SHIT PEOPLES ~Beatdown, Santino "Sonny" Bucci vs The Urinator~ Santino made his way out of the bar, alcohol on his breath, peanut salt in his palms, and a cloud of cigarette smoke trailing out behind him onto the sidewalk. Not drunk enough to fall over, and too drunk to use decent judgement, he crossed the street, nearly getting plowed over by a taxi; he threw an aggressive motion at the cab-driver, who flipped him the bird. Passing a man on his way up onto the curb, Sonny stopped dead, glancing at the sleek black automobile, the property of a fellow Rourke he had met inside the bar. The sleek, black automobile that this random stranger now urinated upon. The booze in Santino's veins pumped over-aggressive testosterone to his brain at an insurmountably dense rate, and his right hand clenched tightly into a fist. "Hey pal!" Sonny barked, lighting up a cigarette, and pocketing his zippo. "Yeah, whaddya need man? I'm taking a piss here!" The man zipped up, glancing over at him; the urinator was drunker than Bucci himself, and gave a blank stare, apparently unaware of his vandalism by bodily fluid, the desecration of a known mobster's most prized possession. "Yeah," Sonny said with a bit of disbelief, blowing smoke. "I can see that. Is that your car?" "Nah, nah," the urinator stumbled back toward another, noticeably shittier automobile. "This is my car. What the hell do you want, anyway?" Sonny flicked the cigarette at the man's face, ash and ember making the drunk flinch. "Nothing in particular," Sonny started, throwing a fist into the drunk's gut, and grabbing him by the back of his hair. "Just teaching you some manners, asshole!" Holding him firmly by the back of his hair, Sonny hammered the drunk's face into the hood of his already dinged-up car, leaving a deppression the approximate diameter of his head. As blood dribbled down the man's face, Sonny felt nearly content, letting him fall dazed and confused to the asphalt. Bucci glanced around for any cops, and, seeing none, he undid his zipper, and relieved himself on the urinator's hubcaps, a good bit of cast-off spraying onto the man at his feet. Zipping up and buckling his belt, he made his way back down the street, satisfied with a good day's work. |
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The man known to many as Narcolepsy is asleep, laying on a park bench, hat covering his face from the mid-day sun. His legs hang off the end of the bench, patent leather shoes touching the ground. His three piece suit sets him apart from vagrants sleeping on benches. This is obviously a man who is catching a nap, enjoying the day. A police officer, walking by, slams his baton down on the sleeping man's knees, jolting him awake. "You best be movin' along, boyo. This ain't the place for your kinda filth," the officer says, waving his baton in the air. Wincing at the pain in his leg, the man stands and puts on his hat "You did not just wake me. You should never wake me." "And why is that, mister man. You gonna do something?" Narcolepsy looks up, grabs the baton and slams it back into the cop's face, breaking his nose. He pulls the baton away, jabs it into the cop's stomach and then brings it down on the back of his neck. The cops falls face first on the ground, gasping for air. "Yeah. But this time, we're even. In the future, I suggest letting me sleep. I get cranky when people wake me." He throws the baton on the ground beside the cop, who is still gasping for air and walks away to find another napping place. |
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| Reply by: Narcolepsy at Jan 21, '09 21:03 | |
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Santino stood waiting in the dimly lit haven of a New Orleans alleyway, one hand on his trusty Colt .45, the other on his cigarette. He waited for a pair of headlights to illuminate the street ahead of him, in front of the hotel where his mark held a room. Sure enough, the fat Italian in the expensive car put the car in park, right on time, right where Sonny needed him. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Sonny jerked back the slide on his colt, chambering a round with a distinctive metallic click; the mobster Bucci hunted stepped out of his car, catching sight of the gun with his peripheral, fear lighting up in his eyes. With two deafening gunshots, Santino ventilated both of the man's lungs, sending him reeling against his car in a spatter of blood, a gush of crimson running out between his lips. Gunsmoke trailed from the barrel of Sonny's pistol, as the spent shell casings rang out against the concrete in the night. "The Don sends his love, Vinnie!" Santino put one last shot through the man's heart, and calmly walked back down the alleyway, putting his cigarette out on the wall before tucking the gun back into his belt. The dead mobster sat slumped against the door of his car, blood trailing down into the gutter. |
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| Reply by: Santino_Bucci at Jan 21, '09 21:17 | |
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