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M.S.R.P. II • View topic - Three Dead Colombians [Hiest]

M.S.R.P. II

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PostPosted: Tue Apr 04, 2006 1:38 am 
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Three Dead Colombians



The silver Cadillac sat alone on the side of the highway leading into downtown. It was a still night, as the weather started to warm up, the snowy winter days turned into delightful warm spring days and nights. The wind was calm and the air was exceptionally dry this night. Soft classical Italian played through the modern, high-tech radio playing in Paulie's car. The older, yet fit wiseguy, bobbed his head slightly as the music played and he waited for his contact to arrive.

He sat in his cushy, very comfortable Cadillac recliner seat, staring at the steering wheel in a dazed trance. He thought back to his Navy days, where he actively participated in the Golden Gloves boxing tournament held quite often on the Navy's ships. What happened? I used to have such definition Paulie thought as he glanced down at his arm. He shook his head as he looked in the rear view, seeing head lights in the distance. It was probably his contact. He wasn't sure what this job was about, all he knew was that it could involve a lot of money and fellow mafioso had all the details.

Paulie tuned down the volume of the music as the head lights drew closer, the shadowy vehicle pulling up beside Paulie's car and the passenger window rolling down slowly. On the other side of the tinted window emerged Vito Spatafore's plump face.

" What took you so long?"

" I had to make a few stops. Here."

Vito stuck his stubbly right arm out the window and at his finger tips held a matchbook, a traditional way of passing phone numbers, adresses, names and such that did not want to be spoken or could easily be disposed of without suspicion. Paulie took the matchbook, glanced at it quickly and put it in his coat pocket.

" The Colombians are there until about noon each day, then it should be empty and all yours."

"Good."

Paulie didn't say anything else. Vito did the same. They both just rolled up thier windows and took off in seperate ways.

___________
___________

The Next Morning [12:15 P.M.]

Paulie drove down the interstate headed towards the Winding Oaks apartment complex. In the passenger's seat of his Caddy sat one of the largest Italian men he had ever seen. He was known as Big Frankie and often assisted Paulie in jobs. They eached packed some small heat. Paulie housed a small 9mm in a shoulder holster underneath his track jacket. Frank carried a larger gun, the Glock 17, shoved gang banger style in the belt of his pants.

Paulie's Caddilac eased into a spot near the back of the complex, right underneath a shady Oak tree. The complex was someone run down, not too shabby but not exactly amidst a high class neighborhood either. Paulie took out the matchbook one last time. Room 117.

Paulie and Frank exited the car and made thier way inside the back of the apartment complex. As they entered, a small spanish man, who looked like an apartment maintanence man opened up a utility box half way down the hallway.

"Hey" Paulie shouted over to the spanish man to get his attention.

The spaniard looked up and over at Paulie.

"You know where room 117 is?"

The smaniard just looked at Paulie and frank blankly for a few seconds, a somewhat frightened look on his face as he did so. Paulie and Frank just started back at the man.

" I asked you a question..." Paulie started to say

But as he began his sentence, the Spaniard dropped his tools, sprinting down the hallway towards the stairs. Immediately Frank and Paulie started off after him. Paulie took out his 9mm as he started to fall behind in the chase. And despite Frank's size, as he gathered momentum he began to gain ground on the Colombian. They rounded a corner, then rushed down a flight of stairs to the basement rooms.

Huffing and trying as hard as he could, Frank lept for the small Spaniard, taking him down towards the end of the hallway. They went down with a boom. Frankie held his down with his wieght and covered his mouth with his large bear hands. A few seconds later, Paulie came rushing from behind, a little out of breathe. He grabbed the small man up and slammed him againt the wall. He noticed the room to the right of him was room 113.

"So you're the lookout eh?"

Paulie threw him up against the other wall.

"Open that door!"

The man fumbled for his ring of keys, finally finding the right one and sticking it in the small key slot. Paulie and Frank could hear the outrageously loud Spanish music coming from inside the small apartment building. The small Spaniard thrust open the door, pushed by the large Frank. 15 feet in front of the doorway, in the small downtrodden kitchen, sat a Colombian man at an even smaller wooden table. He fed cash bills into a money counting machine, bobbing his head to the music. His eyes were buggy and he looked strung out on something. By the way he moved around, quickly and jerkily, it seemed to be cocaine. But everything had stopped as soon as the door thrust open, a loud cracking sound caused by the door slamming into the wall, making a small door knob sized hole.

The Colombian man snapped into action, immediately reaching for his gun. Frank held the small Colombian by the back of the shirt, ducking down, trying to use him as a shield. The Colombian at the table pounded three rounds into the chest and upper abdomen of the small Spaniard who had failed to effectively lookout for the cocaine den. Frank threw the now dead Spaniard to the ground, taking out his won pistol. His draw was slow and the Colombian at the table fired once, missing.

Immediately Paulie emerged from behind the much larger wiseguy, Frank, his gun drawn. Like so many times before he pointed the heavy barrel at center mast of the Colombian, pulling the trigger twice and sending two round directly into his chest and neck. The Colombian fell back violently on the tile floor, blood thrust on the wall behind him. Frank and Paulie relaxed and headed over toward the table.

However, their relaxed state was cut short by what sounded like a screaming, crazed maniac. Paulie shuffled left and looked at the doorway to the left, where he discovered a hairy Colombian man lunging at him with a knife. Paulie tried to duck and avoid the blow but only mildly succeeded. The Colombian came wide with his swing, missing Paulie but not totally. He hooked him around the neck where Paulie struggled but finally wrestled the knife to the floor. The elderly but strong Mafioso thrust as hard as he could in a backward lunge, jamming the Colombian against the wall violently. He shouted over to Frank who stood there pointing with his pistol.

”Shoot em’ already”

”Get outta the way! You’re in the shot!”

Paulie spun, using his upper body strength and was able to turn around on the Colombian, now facing him. The Colombian shoved his knee as hard as he could, into Paulie scrotum, sending Paulie to the floor in screaming agony. Despite the pain to paulie, it gave the two wiseguys the advantage, opening up a shot for Frank, who quickly took the opportunity and sent three rounds into the Colombian, sending him flying against the corner in a bloody mess. Paulier grabbed his genitals in pain, shuffling across the floor and grabbing the knife with his right hand. He took it a slammed it into the dead Colombians chest, twice.

”My mother fuckin’ balls.”

”Come on Paulie, let’s get outta here. The damn noise we made…let’s go.”

Paulie was up on his feet, lightly now, and was rummaging around for the large stash of cash. All he could find was the two grand on the table that the Colombian had been counting when they busted in.

”Kicked in the balls for two fuckin’ Gee’s? I don’t think so.” Check the Freezer…and the Cabinets.”

Frank complied with Paulie’s orders, harshly tearing the place apart, looking for the “ buried treasure”. Nothing could be found. Not in the freezer. Not in any of the cabinets. Not anywhere. Frank checked in the back room anxiously, yet he still found nothing. Emerging back into the kitchen his anger was well known as he let out a violent kick to the dish washer.

”All this shit for two lousy grand.”


His frown turned to a smile as the dish washer was forced open by the giant man’s monstrous kick. Both Paulie and frank could see the mass amounts of saran wrapped cash. Paulie rubbed his chin and motioned for Frank to pack up the money with a duffel bag found in the back room.

”Now that’s a little better.”

Frank nervously packed the entire dish washer fortune into the black duffel bag, zipping it up and slinging it over his shoulder. They two wiseguys were in and out in less than five minutes, however the whole ordeal had seemed like it hade taken well over a half an hour. Frank helped the limping Paulie out the room and then out of the basement door to his Cadillac, where the cash was thrown in the trunk and Paulie carefully placed in the passenger’s seat.

_________________
_________________

Rquests
- 800 K from Colombian Drug Den


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PostPosted: Tue Apr 04, 2006 2:18 am 
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