I don't rightly recall what year this was, but it happened about the time Henry the Fifth (so-named on account of he always seemed to be finishing one) got killed mansplaining to Big Ma about the difference between chances and odds. You do that, your chances of making it thought the day face some pretty long odds.
Anyway, Richter and I had been running a protection racket, taking the top 10% of everyone's privilege. Didn't matter what kind of privilege, but we liked the white male sort the best. This was Richter's idea, and the sheer genius of it was that if the cops tumbled us, we had all that extra privilege and we got let off with a warning. Of course, this meant everyone else got beaten up or shot more often, but it's a rum old world and you have to look out for yourself.
It all went fine until we came back around to shake Nephew Twidddington and Villager down for the third time. Richter had been into the stuff, and kept making comments about how we should have people to do this for us, right until we parked the Flivver in front of Twiddington's Green Grocers/Bait & Tackle/Methamphetamine shop. This was the Irish kind of privilege, but it was the end of the week and you take what you can get.
As we're getting out of the car, a cop walks up on us. A new guy, I don't know him. As I start to tell him that we're the reason he and the boys have an extra $20 in their envelope each week, I see that he's staring at Richter. Who is blowing a line of privilege as long as your arm, right there on the dash of the Flivver. The cop opens his mouth to bellow something, and Richter pulls out his heater and plugs the guy right there. The he drops the gat and hauls out the heavy artillery, the Thompson we kept around just in case LMNO's boys tried making a move on our turf.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I screamed, but Richter just stared at me and smiled, the barrel of the trench broom wandering in the general direction of my chest. He'd overdosed, and was in the throes of affluenza.
"Bitches ain't nothing but hos," he mumbled.
"Put the gun down, okay? It's me, Sam."
"And these hos..."
"Come ON, man, we gotta get out of here!"
"These hos..." He seemed confused, like he was waking up from a bad dream . Good. Maybe the stuff was wearing off. But just as I was thinking that, two nuns from the convent of Saint Mary I Told You So's came around the corner.
"...THESE HOS AIN'T LOYAL!" Richter roared, his eyes bugging out of his head. I hit the dirt like I was back in the trenches, as Richter emptied his typewriter into the nuns, Twiddington's place, the corpse of the cop, and that stupid one-eyed dog that the orphans over on Bleak Street used to have. I mean, used to have right up until then. I popped back up while Richter was changing magazines, and bopped him one on the head with my gat. He fell back into the car, and I drove off.
Which made us late on our pick ups, but I'll get to that after I've had some more bathtub gin.
to be continued
Damn that Richter! Can I get a deduction on my next shakedown? I mean, just look at the place!
Quote from: Legate Gene O'Mick, PhD on February 05, 2016, 05:18:09 PM
Damn that Richter! Can I get a deduction on my next shakedown? I mean, just look at the place!
It's only going to get worse, of course. :lulz:
Now's our chance, when their guard is down! #hashtagjihad #whiteriot #occupytucson
Next chapter in an hour or so.
(Or hell, right now)
Less cagey mooks might have waited until the heat died down before getting back to the rackets, but Richter and I have made our name by doing things in an unorthodox manner. The moment he sobered up, we were back in the Chrysler Imperial, on our way back around to collect from the bog-hopper and his girlfriend.
But as we pulled up, a bunch of hoods were getting out of their car. They all had scraggly beards and stained undershirts, which were emblazoned with the initials "RoK". Their leader looked at me and said, "You must be Sam."
"Maybe I am. Who's asking?"
"The RoK, chump. This here is our turf, see?"
"Republic of Korea?" Richter asked.
"No. R...o...K. You've heard of us. We're taking this city over."
"Revenge of Khan?"
"No, idiot. We're the boys who tell the dames what's what."
"Return of Kong?" Richter was grinning now. Which is like watching a shark pucker up for a kiss.
"NO! RETURN OF KINGS! We're the most feared gang this side of Chi-Town."
I started smiling then, too. I'd heard of these guys. I reached into my pocket and folded my hand around my brass knuckles. I was just about to send this guy to bed when the front door of Twiddington's shop flew open, and his moll came out. She looked pissed.
The bearded twerp backed up a step. "We might have to cancel this event," he began, "on account of threats to my gang..."
Twiddinton's moll hit him in the face with a postbox. "AYE, LIKE!" She screamed.
Richter and I winced and looked away. A man smashed under a postbox is not a pretty sight. The RoK jerks started backing up, but it was too late. There were more cries of "AYE, LIKE", and the horrible noise of people being compacted under a steel post office fixture.
Richter and I looked at each other. Maybe it was time to eat some lunch. Work later. Tomorrow, maybe. Yes, definitely tomorrow.
To be continued.
:lulz:
I love the idea of Richter ODing on lines of privilege.
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on February 05, 2016, 06:17:28 PM
:lulz:
I love the idea of Richter ODing on lines of privilege.
Next up, we have to put the gang back together to get some of that sweet, sweet Irish privilege.
:lulz:
That's my wan, sure!
That must have been very satisfying to write.
Quote from: LMNO on February 05, 2016, 06:35:08 PM
That must have been very satisfying to write.
Well, two things:
1. I'm not done, and
2. I'm a bit of a cunt.
Richter and I sat in the bar, strategizin'. We had decided, after a few rounds of rot gut, to bring the old gang together. Even now, EoC - the best getaway driver ever - was walking in the door. Past him, through the window, I could see the meter maid sticking a ticket under his windshield wiper.
Oblivious to that, he walked up smiling. "What's up guys? We have a job?"
"Indeed we do," I replied, "But we're having trouble rounding up the rest of the boys. You been keeping track?"
"More or less."
"Okay, we can't reach Paesor."
"That's because he's doing a stretch at Sing Sing for pronoun abuse."
"Aw, hell," Richter groaned, "Was he doing that 'ze' thing again?"
"No, he decided that his gender was 'Immaculate 57 Chevy'."
"Ouch. How long did he get?"
"Five to seven. No parole board is even gonna talk to him."
"Well, shit. How about Cain?"
"He's recovering from a near-fatal dose of lead-poisoning."
"What, the thin privilege guys get him? I thought they were getting big for their britches. HAR HAR!" I winced at the pun, but Richter showed no shame.
"No, he was on holiday in Flint, MI."
I guess we'll have to call ECH," I said to both of them.
"Oh, bugger." Richter grimaced.
"He takes a big bite," EoC added, "But if there's anyone who can face down an angry Irish woman, it's him."
"I don't see that we have much choice."
Richter, grumbling under his breath, walked over to the bar phone.
to be continued.
Oh dear. ECH vs Villager
Quote from: Legate Gene O'Mick, PhD on February 05, 2016, 08:58:49 PM
Oh dear. ECH vs Villager
The world may never be the same.
On the other hand, I'm sitting here shitting myself while I'm planning out how it goes down. :lulz:
I am sorry for nothing. Blitzed on privilege it would be irresponsible to NOT shoddily imitate the tropes of gangster hop-hop.
At some point we need to accidentally cause the Boston Molasses Flood
Quote from: Richter on February 06, 2016, 12:12:51 AM
I am sorry for nothing. Blitzed on privilege it would be irresponsible to NOT shoddily imitate the tropes of gangster hop-hop.
I just had a mental image of Al Capone beat-boxing. I blame you. :lulz:
EoC drove us up to the front of Badass Al's, a notorious dive in the Cishet District. After a moment or two, the front door of the bar opened and a hulking mass of muscle moved out onto the sidewalk, absent-mindedly beating a drunk against the wall. The man - for once he moved into the light, he was recognizable as such, dropped the drunk into a rubbish bin, and opened the front passenger side door of the car. He reached in and threw Richter into the back with me, and settled into the front seat. EoC's shocks - never in the best of condition - groaned.
"Just drive," he said to EoC, "any small talk and bad things happen."
EoC drove us, muffler dragging, around to Twiddington's shop. As we parked, ECH reached into the back seat and held his hand out. I dropped a bag of bills into his paw, and he grunted and heaved himself out of the car.
He stood in the street in front of the shop and bellowed. A moment later, Twiddington and his moll stepped out into the street.
Twiddington's dame glared.
ECH glared back.
Twiddington's dame started dancing the Hucklebuck. ECH replied with The Watusi. Windows broke, and the manhole covers jumped for 3 blocks in either direction, as the two fiends moved from one devil-dance to the other. She would do the Charleston, he would respond with the Latin Hustle. A church a block down caught fire. She did the Twist, he countered with the Lindy. At some point EoC ran screaming down the street with only his parking ticket to cover his nakedness, screaming, "It's a madhouse! A MAAAAAADHOUSE!"
A shockwave knocked Richter and I on our asses. ECH looked down at his vanquished foe, and stumped off down the street, his part in this foul business completed.
Twiddington looked down at his unconscious dame, and screeched, "THEY'RE TRYING TO TAKE ME IRISH PRIVILEGE! I KNOW! I'LL CREATE A CORNER BAR AND HIDE AWAY!"
A lousy dive of a saloon appeared next to Twiddington's shop, and he dove through the front door. Richter and I shrugged and followed him.
to be continued
:lulz:
Damn, a dance off
:lulz: holy HELL
Quote from: Legate Gene O'Mick, PhD on February 06, 2016, 01:48:18 AM
:lulz:
Damn, a dance off
It just sort of came to me while I was at work.
Quote from: Richter on February 06, 2016, 01:48:45 AM
:lulz: holy HELL
No Irish dance off is complete without a Lucky Charms reference.
Back home my head still spun. What the deuce had I seen? The massive sailor dancing up a storm, gunning down nuns, Eoc DRIVING. I pulled a bottle of Miss Cleo's Jamaican ginger beer out of the icebox. It'd settle my stomach, at least.
I pondered another line, or a few dozen drinks, but put that aside. Needed to level out, maintain for later, had to be seen having a certain appreciation, a certain appetite. Part of the job. Don't just TAKE the resource, RELISH it. "Reverend" kept the straight face, so I played the unhinged one. At least until EoC was around, then we'd tag team while the other watched our asses.
I sighed, and heaved my gunny sack onto the table. Time to run some oil and a few pairs of silk knickers through the tommy, see what kind of mess the cheap ammo had left this time.
Hey the parking ticket and I have a love you'll never understand! And we won't hide anymore!
Quote from: Richter on February 06, 2016, 01:55:18 AM
Back home my head still spun. What the deuce had I seen? The massive sailor dancing up a storm, gunning down nuns, Eoc DRIVING. I pulled a bottle of Miss Cleo's Jamaican ginger beer out of the icebox. It'd settle my stomach, at least.
I pondered another line, or a few dozen drinks, but put that aside. Needed to level out, maintain for later, had to be seen having a certain appreciation, a certain appetite. Part of the job. Don't just TAKE the resource, RELISH it. "Reverend" kept the straight face, so I played the unhinged one. At least until EoC was around, then we'd tag team while the other watched our asses.
I sighed, and heaved my gunny sack onto the table. Time to run some oil and a few pairs of silk knickers through the tommy, see what kind of mess the cheap ammo had left this time.
:lulz: Except that EoC kept running. He knows. HE KNOWS.
Quote from: Eater of Clowns on February 06, 2016, 01:55:27 AM
Hey the parking ticket and I have a love you'll never understand! And we won't hide anymore!
I ain't here to judge...um. Yes, yes I am here to judge. :lol:
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on February 06, 2016, 01:54:22 AM
Quote from: Richter on February 06, 2016, 01:48:45 AM
:lulz: holy HELL
No Irish dance off is complete without a Lucky Charms reference.
:lulz:
Accosted lucky charms, it's fantastically malicious!
This is amazing!
You hear about them sometimes on the news, the big boys running the heavy privilege game. It's not that the exposure is some sign accountability. Quite the opposite. With the advent of the privilege racket came the inevitable flaunting and endless thirst for self justifying fame. It wasn't their fault really. Running around with that much Goddamnshit all the time... Of course they were using. You can run a clean business in drugs, but you show me the motherfucker that can just look at a giant pile of fine WASP and not take a taste!
Another church exploded the other night. ANOTHER dance-off, no official witness. Nobody's dumb enough to rollover on the privilege game. You don't do it if you want to live anyway. Them boys have enough to just walk into your cell and watch as the guards hang you with a bed sheet, but trust that it's going to be something more... memorable.
There's been an unusual number of cases of kuru popping up in the prison system and all of the usual fingers point to the cut-rate food suppliers. We all know who it really is.
:lulz:
More tomorrow. Richter acts irresponsibly, Big Ma gets hers in, and other stuff.
This is Really Good Stuff.
I keep picturing it as a cartoon. No person in this parable is permitted to have proper personal proportions.
Quote from: East Coast Hustle on February 09, 2016, 06:06:49 AM
This is Really Good Stuff.
I keep picturing it as a cartoon. No person in this parable is permitted to have proper personal proportions.
Agreed.
We staggered out of the loser bar, and of course Richter had been into the stuff. He had freckles, fer Chrissakes, and every time we passed a dame, he offered to let her "kiss the Blarney stones." The ones that didn't catch the plural thought he was drunk, and the ones that did catch the plural slapped his face. Fortunately, head shots don't count on the Irish, even if their Irishness is temporary and drug-induced.
I had the rest of the privilege in my pocket. Richter's excesses had, of course, not put much of a dent in profits, so there was plenty of cabbage left to be made.
But as we walked down Sideways Street, a garbage truck whipped around the corner and screeched to a halt at the curb next to us. An emaciated arm poked out, and pointed at us. "Hey, youse two mugs...Big Ma wants her cut."
Before I had a chance to say anything, Richter hollered "Fuck away with ye! I'll bate ya pretty, so I will, ye great ugly pish-tippler!"
This was apparently really good Irish privilege, and really, really bad news.
The thing in the garbage truck laughed. "Okay, tell your drunk friend the joke is over. Time to let Big Ma wet her beak."
"There's no enough privilege in the world to dampen that wee honker," Richter screamed, "Hae ye seen the SIZE of it, ye horrible wee spide?"
Well, that did it. The figure in the garbage truck flung a rude gesture our way. I hauled out my gat and shot him twice. He slumped across the wheel, and the garbage truck began to roll down the street.
"Wh'ta fuck you do THAT?" Richter roared.
"Because he was going to go back and tell Big Ma about your behavior," I said, "And then she'd have us stuffed in a tumblr and thrown in the harbor. This way, she doesn't know yet that we did this, and anyway, it's one less mug for us to deal with when she does come after us."
I noticed that the garbage truck was picking up speed and more or less aimed at the local Home for Wayward Palins. It hit the front and didn't even slow down. Poor Bristol. Gonna be half a dozen less sprogs running around next spring.
But now I had other things to worry about.
to be continued
Now a little number by the band Shinedown!
Yeah, I get it, you're an outcast
Always under the fartblanket, always coming in last
Bringing up the past, no one owes you anything
I think you need a privilege blast, a kick in the ass
So upset, watch your back
Oh my, here we go
Another loose cannon gone social justice
Too damned righteious, won't hang with us
Tumblr's got no sense of humor
I'm still laughing like hell
You think that by screaming at me
Looking so angry that I'm gonna believe
That I've been infected by a social media disease
Well, then I'll take my medicine
I created the sound of privilege, wrote the book on pain
Somehow I'm still here to mansplain
That the darkest hour never comes in the night
You can speak with a blog
When you gonna wake up and fight for yourself?...
At this point, the stage is riddled by gunfire from stage left. Then a rocket slams into it. Then a tank rolls over the smoking wreckage.
"Well," Richter said, "I just got a brand new phobia!"
To be continued
Was not expecting that. :lulz:
Quote from: LMNO on February 09, 2016, 06:56:14 PM
Was not expecting that. :lulz:
Neither was I, but it killed the earwig. :lol:
Best musical ever :lulz:
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on February 09, 2016, 04:32:41 PM
We staggered out of the loser bar, and of course Richter had been into the stuff. He had freckles, fer Chrissakes, and every time we passed a dame, he offered to let her "kiss the Blarney stones." The ones that didn't catch the plural thought he was drunk, and the ones that did catch the plural slapped his face. Fortunately, head shots don't count on the Irish, even if their Irishness is temporary and drug-induced.
I had the rest of the privilege in my pocket. Richter's excesses had, of course, not put much of a dent in profits, so there was plenty of cabbage left to be made.
But as we walked down Sideways Street, a garbage truck whipped around the corner and screeched to a halt at the curb next to us. An emaciated arm poked out, and pointed at us. "Hey, youse two mugs...Big Ma wants her cut."
Before I had a chance to say anything, Richter hollered "Fuck away with ye! I'll bate ya pretty, so I will, ye great ugly pish-tippler!"
This was apparently really good Irish privilege, and really, really bad news.
The thing in the garbage truck laughed. "Okay, tell your drunk friend the joke is over. Time to let Big Ma wet her beak."
"There's no enough privilege in the world to dampen that wee honker," Richter screamed, "Hae ye seen the SIZE of it, ye horrible wee spide?"
Well, that did it. The figure in the garbage truck flung a rude gesture our way. I hauled out my gat and shot him twice. He slumped across the wheel, and the garbage truck began to roll down the street.
"Wh'ta fuck you do THAT?" Richter roared.
"Because he was going to go back and tell Big Ma about your behavior," I said, "And then she'd have us stuffed in a tumblr and thrown in the harbor. This way, she doesn't know yet that we did this, and anyway, it's one less mug for us to deal with when she does come after us."
I noticed that the garbage truck was picking up speed and more or less aimed at the local Home for Wayward Palins. It hit the front and didn't even slow down. Poor Bristol. Gonna be half a dozen less sprogs running around next spring.
But now I had other things to worry about.
to be continued
As an aside...Giuseppe Stragone had done a lot of nasty things, experienced things most folks never had to even consider feeling. That was just part of the life of the freelance sorcerer. This wasn't the first job he'd used a mzumbe corporeal for, but he'd never taken a bullet in one before. He sure never wanted to again.
He'd come to, still in his chair, the table, candle, and shewstone still in their places. Worst headache of his life, and that was REALLY saying something. The candle had almost burned down. Must have been out for better than 2 hours. Seemed his nose had bled for some time as well, the front of his favorite white shirt was still pretty wet with it. Fucking pricks.
"Now comes the hard part," he thought as he gathered his breath and stilled the innumerable screaming nerve endings seeking his urgent attention. Dealing with those stronzo buffoni was one thing, sending word of their clear refusal to his erratic, if lucrative, employer was quite another. "Big Ma" had loaned him the mzumbe too. Bet THAT was coming out of his bonus.
Even if he hadn't just felt searing lead ricochet around in his cranium his instincts told him that inviting any sort of direct spiritual contact or confrontation with his current employer would be a terrible mistake indeed. Finding both a once marvelously well preserved mzumbe corporeal and a freelancer willing and able to use it and ALSO keep his fucking mouth shut could not have been easy, but who was he to question when the checks cleared really?
He steadied himself before testing his balance, walking to the wall, and ringing in the operator. He sensed the operator's hesitation when he said what number he wanted to be connected to. "Now doll. Tell her Wiseman has a report for her. She's expecting me." The line opened and Giuseppe felt his guts go cold with what he hoped was merely shock.
Stragone had found it was often best not to think too hard about things when working with the mystical, especially when you're knowingly risking your soul for coin. It's bad for the nerves.
:lulz:
Quote from: The Good Reverend Roger on February 11, 2016, 04:06:24 PM
:lulz:
Glad you liked that! The mention of a garbage truck kinda set those wheels in motion. :)
Richter and I were sitting in a greasy spoon on 9th & Carmody, when a bunch of Tucker Torpedoes pulled up in front of the joint. We both put our hands on our gats, ready to do a runner out the back door...But the doors of the cars opened, and guys in skinny jeans got out, twitching like Michael J Fox. Then She got out of the last Torpedo. Herself. Big Ma.
She was of indeterminate age, concealed under baggy jeans and a rumpled T-shirt with "That's Not Funny" written on the front. She was shaped like one of those funny looking squashes you sometimes see at the county fair. Normal at one end, and huge and bulbous on the other. While I was taking all of this in, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Richter had buried his nose in a bag of pure uncut trustafarian privilege (comma left out intentionally). This wasn't going to end well.
"Would you look at the size of that booty?" he hollered.
"Richter, that's Big Ma, and she's come for us."
"HOT DIGGITY! LOOK AT THOSE GLUTES!"
"There's more to life than a big ass, Richter."
Richter stared at me. "You think about what you just said, dude. YOU JUST THINK ABOUT IT! If a wide ass isn't the reason for existing, then I don't want to live."
"That can apparently be arranged," I said, as the door to the diner opened, and Big Ma's goons poured into the room, all mumbling or squeaking the phrase "check your privilege" over and over again. It was like being assaulted by dozen crack addict penguins. I struggled, but it was no use. Despite their light weight, I was bogged down under sheer numbers...They were ignoring Richter, who was staring at Big Ma's ass like he'd just found a new religion. Maybe he had.
Big Ma stepped into the diner, and looked us over. "Good morning, shitlords."
"'Mornin', Big Ma," I responded. Richter mumbled something. He had started to tremble and jerk, like he was being electrocuted. Just how much of that trustafarian junk had he banged up his nose?
She gave Richter an appraising eye and a wink. "You shitlords been buying local?"
I tried very hard not to look at the Kielbasa in my bowl.
To be continued
Now you're in for it. SJWs. You're sunk, mate.
:lulz:
I'm either about to run my mouth like a CHAMP of puke down her t-shirt
Quote from: Richter on February 19, 2016, 02:14:56 AM
:lulz:
I'm either about to run my mouth like a CHAMP of puke down her t-shirt
:lulz:
I plan on adding a bit more tomorrow.
You know what sucks? Writing several paragraphs of story that you're proud as fuck of until after 1 a.m. and seeing a slip of the finger when it's all highlighted for transfer totally destroy it. That is what sucks. I'll be able to reproduce it pretty closely, but NOW I have to sleep to go work for assholes I don't like instead of telling the much cooler story of a character working for an asshole HE doesn't like.
Now excuse me....
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKK!!!!!
:argh!: fuckin' :argh!:
I was freebasing a hit of First Nation Privilege in the speakeasy booth over bad gin and a few musty lagers when it hit me.
"Fuck. FUCK...."
"You finally hit too much of that crap?" Roger offhandedly mentioned.
"They cut our shi..." was about all I got out. No good. We got burned, and I has been hitting off a bag padded out with cultural appropriation.
"I need feathers." My eyes were wide. Stock straight, and trying to immitate a nickel I'd seen once.
"OK. You're not new to this, ride it out. And you sound like a tool."
"Some braids. I don't care, I've ripped enough Irish through my nose, I'm the next best thing to Blackfoot..." I was removng my trousers and improvising a breechclout from my shirt. I was eyeing the barkeep's toupe for a scalp to hang from my belt.
"Cut teh crap. Fast. We've got work to do and I need you at least passing for professional"
"Don't make me pull a fucking rain dance! I'm thunderbird material right now. I need to use every part of a whole hobo to buckskin some..."
About then Roger kaiboshed my misbegotten high with a barstool. I woke up in the trunk a few hours later a boot of the ford.
:lulz:
I gotta get back on this.
I feel as if this needs finishing.
It certainly is still relevant.
Quote from: LMNO on May 11, 2018, 12:58:24 PM
It certainly is still relevant.
Oh, yeah.
And I have some time coming up. I'm still working the AI story, but I need to get my asshole demons on, too.