M.S.R.P. II

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PostPosted: Mon Feb 20, 2006 6:05 am 
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It was one of those lazy Saturdays; the kind of day where you would sit around and watch those Saturday morning cartoons, watching the mishaps and adventures your favorite characters would get into. But that was a long time ago, long before Malik had become the man he was today. Young though he was, he had earned a reputation on the streets he called home. He was a thickskinned man now, strong-willed and hard. It's tough not to grow up hard when your older brothers are Sean and Bryan Williams. Malik had been born into this world, it belonged to him by birthright, just as it had for his brothers. It was his time to carry on the tradition set forth by his family, and by Sunday, he will have.

[Saturday 3:57 P.M. - Getting The Word]
Malik had been sitting around all morning ever since he awoke, watching cartoons as they came on. Halfway through a bowl of cheerios, the ringing of the nearby phone sommoned Malik away. Setting down the bowl, Malik stands up and begins the walk over to the phone. Reaching down, the shrill shreak ends as he presses the 'TALK' button.

"Malik." He answered the phone.
"Yo Malik, it's James." The voice on the other end responded.
"Ah, nigga, it's been like," Malik checks the clock on the wall, "Two days. What 'cha hear?"
"Corey is definately got somethin' big goin' down tonight. He's going to be meeting some Renegades down at the park."
James told him.
"Alright, cool. I'll get dressed and wait for you to get here." Malik told him.
"Alright, I'll be down there in a bit." The call ended as Malik once again pressed the 'TALK' button.

[Saturday 5:35 P.M. - Meeting The Homies]
Malik had spent the last hour and a half getting ready and waiting for James to finally arrive. He sat on the couch in front of his television watching the news, waiting, and waiting. He had dressed in a pair of dark blue pants, and a black hooded sweatshirt. A dark green bandana rested on his forehead, partially covered by the black Detroit cap which rested upon his head.

When the knock came to his door, Malik stood up from the couch and switched off the TV. He picked up his stuff from his table, a small bag of weed and his keys, and went to the door. Looking threw the peephole, he could see James standing outside the door. The clanking sounds of the locks coming undone could be heard outside. Within moments, the door was opening and Malik was face to face with James. Shutting and locking his door behind him, Malik walked with James towards his car.
"Nigga, took you forever."
"Yeah, I stopped by and picked up Omar and Maurice. I figured we could use their help with this."
James responded as they got to the dark colored Impala.
"Damn James. When'd you get this ride?" Malik said, looking over the car as he opened the door.
"I picked this up a few days ago. Some fool left the keys in it."
Malik laughed when he sat down and closed the door. Omar and Maurice sat in the backseat. Both seemed to be laughing about the car keys as well. James got in on his side and started buckling up. As he revved the engine, Malik turned his head to the two in the back.
"Yo, we heated?"
Omar was the one to respond. "Nah, I had to throw my piece away after that last gas station."
"That was because you shot that chink in the stomach you moron."
Maurice fired at him.
Malik turned to Maurice. "And what about you? Why aren't you strapped?"
Maurice turned his head, looking out the window.
"Don't turn away when I ask you something! Answer me motherfucker!" Malik practically yelled at him.
"I lost it alright! I think Yensey might have taken it when I split with her."
Malik turned back around in his seat, facing forward. "Thievin' bitch... We need to stop by Wallace's then."
James nodded and put the car in gear, taking off down the street.

[Saturday - 6:12 P.M. - Meeting With Wallace]
The traffic was a bitch to get through on this Saturday evening; there was an accident on one of the highways. After nearly an hour, they had managed to arrive at the run-down apartment of the man they called Wallace. Now, don't start thinking that Wallace has no resources because of where lives; didn't you ever hear not to judge a book by it's cover? The rundown building in which he lived helped to maintain the illusion that he was no more than a mild mannered senior citizen. Wallace was like a legend on the Detroit streets. He had started out running with some hoods back in the '70s. No one remembered their names anymore; Wallace being the only one who was still alive. Now that he was older, he was content with running guns into the city from the south. Wallace could get you nearly anything short of military grade artilery. Obviously, this is the reason the quartet of gangsters have come.

Parking the car, James and Malik exit onto the sidewalk, leaving Omar and Maurice to stay and watch the car; you never know what can happen to something you just leave around. The two thugs stand around the car, leaning back and watching the streets, gruff exteriors eminating forth. Meanwhile, James led Malik to the front door of the apartment building. Malik stood back as James knocked on the iron gate covering the wooden door. Moments later, the wooden door opened narrowly. A young face looked out at them silently, before opening it wider. Inside, an older man came to the door, moving the child out of the way. Standing inside of the gate, he looked the two over, a pistol wedged in his waistband.
"What chu two want?" He asked them.
James looked back at Malik, then back to the man inside of the apartment. "We need some heat from Wallace."
The man looked the two over another time, a grimace on his face. "You got cash?"
Malik reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills.
The man inside unhooked the latch on the gate, opening it for the two. "Third floor, apartment 302."

The two walked over to the stairs, beginning to make their way to the third floor. Looking around at the doors to the different apartments. Not many people knew that Wallace owned most of these apartments. A few housed his friends and family, but most were empty; another trick to protect Wallace. The quick journey to apartment 302 ended as the two arrived at the door. After knocking three times, the door opened moments later. A man, similar to the one they had met downstairs, was standing in front of them. He stepped to the side, holding the door open.
"Ben called up, told us you were coming."

Malik led now, showing the man that he was the one in charge. In the far back of the room, a large oak desk was situated, a large chair seated behind it, and the elderly, but authoritative Wallace sitting down, watching them come to him.
"So, chu are da ones who need some firepowah. Whatevah you want, I got it." He said, in a Jamaican accent.
Malik stepped up to the desk. "Mr. Wallace, it's an honor you'd deal with us personally. Anyway, we got a job ta do. We was lookin' for a few rifles and pistols."
Wallace called over the man who had let them into the apartment. A few hushed whispers, and he had exited into the hallway. There were a few minutes of awkward silence before he returned carrying several duffle bags, and set them on the desk.
Wallace looked Malik in the face. "And da cash?"
Malik reached into his pocket, removing the fold of bills again, counting as he set the money onto the desk.
"Twas a pleasah doin' bizness wid cha." Said Wallace, as he picked the money off of desk and putting it in his pocket. Malik and James nodded and picked the bags off of the desk. Now armed, they make their way back to the car and leave.

[Saturday 10:46 P.M. - Hitting The Spot]
The dark Impala had been parked in the dark parking lot for hours, waiting for some form of action to occur. The lights off, and everyone keeping as quiet as possible. The tension and boredom simmered together, creating an enviornment none too pleasing. Long ago had the group smoked the weed Malik had brought in an attempt to calm themselves down. 'Damn, I gotta get some more soon. Maybe Bryan or Sean has some. Gotta ask 'em when I'm done with this.' As time drew on, the tensions mounted.
Maurice was the first to break the silence in a long while. "Yo, Malik. You sure about this? I mean, we been here fo like... too long. I'm getting hungry. You sure this is even goin' down tonight?"
Malik's hand found itself on Maurice's cheek following the smacking sound. "You just keep your fat mouth closed and be ready to soldier." Malik turned back in his seat, facing the park. "James, you'd better not have fucked up." James sat quiet, nodding to himself in reasurance.

It wasn't long after when the groups doubt was quelled. The thunderous roar of motorcycles could be heard barreling in from the North of the park. In the distance, three beams of light emerged from behind the summet of a nearby hill. James turned to Malik anxiously, "Them's the Renegades. They got the cash." The Renegades were a local set of Detroit bikers; pretty hardcore. This however, was a small squad.

Malik looked ahead as the motorcycles rode by, a fair distance in front of them. "Okay, let's go." Malik opened his door and stepped onto the grassy mound with silence. Reaching back in, he undid the latch holding his seat in place, allowing Maurice to get out. On the driver's side, James and Omar were doing similarly. The four men steped to the back of the car, remaing low. James, keys in his hand, poped the trunk open. Reaching it, he removed the two duffle bags they received from Wallace, and closing the trunk afterwards. As James set the bags down and unzipped them, Malik spoke to the group in a hushed whisper. "Alright, take a pistol and a cannon. Load the magazines and cock the first bullet in the chamber. We gotta be ready to take 'em down." Malik and the three thugs all did as he said, picking up the weapons and loading them. All of them ready, they looked to Malik for the word. "Okay, follow me and keep your asses down." The four armed men crouched low, nearly straddling the ground they walked upon. They travelled silently, bearing the same direction the Renegades had travelled. It was only a quarter-mile until they arrived on the boundaries or the clearing where the meeting was taking place. Two of the Renegades sat on their motorcycles, watching the deal take place. A bit ahead of them, in the center of the clearing, stood two men. Only their sillouhettes could be seen, as the bikers headlights, shone onto them. The large one was obviously the leader of squad of Renegades; the other was most likely Corey the dealer. Malik turned to the group, speaking in a near-silent whisper, being helped to remain secret by the roar of the Renegade's motocycles. "Omar, Maurice, empty on the two Renegades by the bikes. James, you and me are getting Corey and the big nigga." The four crawled along to the edge of a few bushes. Propping the rifles on the bushes, or laying prone on the ground, they readied themselves to fire. Malik felt up to his neck, and for a moment, rubbed the crucifix which hung down. The moment of prayer quickly passed, as Malik placed both of his hands back on the assualt rifle. The deal was drawing to a close, it was now or never.

Malik fired first, his bullet travelling quickly towards Corey, standing perfectly for a brief instant, before stumbling backwards from the shock of the shot. The initial shot signalled the others to open fire. A tempest of mini-explosions and lead filling the area, as the deafening screams from the rifles blotted out all other noises. The slugs of metal tore through the air, not only ripping through flesh of the unsuspecting victims, but ripping away pieces of the shooter's very souls; each shot fired, pulling the men closer and closer to Hell itself. These were evil men, doing evil things; they knew it, and they embraced it with every squeeze of the trigger. The slaughter lasted only a few seconds, but seemed to last into eternity. As the last bullet blew it's charge and exited it's barrel, the bloodlust wore off.

The clearing stood still, silence emenating from within, as if any sound would suddenly die if it were to enter. Malik stood, breathing heavily. He always felt the fire in his chest whenever he pulled the trigger; the fire of Hell he called it, reminding him of the fate he had chosen. The four thugs let their rifles hang at their sides as they emerged from their concealed locations into the clearing. Slowly they walked, looking all around as they went, making sure no one was coming. Maurice and Omar went to check on the Renagades on the bikes, simultaneously as Malik and James were arriving at the bodies of the lead Renegade and Corey. Corey was dead, killed instantly after Malik's initial shots. The Renegade lay on the ground, nearly motionless other than the sporadic shakes. Blood oozed from the many wounds throughout his body, but he still clung to his fading life. Malik stared into his eyes, his dieing eyes. He wasn't even sure if he could see him, or if he understood what was going on. The biker writhed in agony, blood reddening the grass around him. He shook mildly on the ground until...

'BANG'

The pistol in Malik's left hand smoked as it cooled after discharging the bullet. A miniscule hole appeared in the now motionless biker. The three thugs turned towards Malik when they heard the shot, their own weapons raised. Malik waved them down, singalling that it was nothing. Maurice and Omar began walking towards Malik and James, obviously the other two Renegades were dead. Malik looked at the man he had just delivered to Death, still clasped in his right hand were the two duffel bags. Malik pointed to them, telling James to get to work without needing to say a word. As James pryed the dead biker's grasp open, Malik turned to Corey. All around him he looked, but he saw no sign of drugs. His gaze turned upwards, to the car Corey had obviously arrived in. Squatting down, Malik's hands scurried through the deceased dealer's pockets, and wrapping around a set of keys. Raising them to his face, the Chrysler emblem seemed to emit an unearthly glow in the shine of the full-moon. Standing back up, Malik made his way to the car calmly. Looking through the dark windows, a few stray items caught his glimpse but no drugs. Frustrated, Malik looked back at his men. Son of a bitch, Corey was screwin' them. Malik thought to himself. Moments passed before he looked back at the car, an idea coming to him. Looking over the keyring, he pressed a small button.

'BREEP'

The trunk to the car popped open. Hurrying over, Malik lifted the trunk completely. Shining in the trunk's light, a dark duffel bag sat. Reaching in, he pulled down the zipper. A few moments passed before his hand reached and pulled the bag open, but when he did, his eyes nearly glazed over. Inside of the bag sat several large bags of white powder. Cocain...son of a bitch, there's tons of 'dis shit. Malik was in ecstacy as he closed the bag back up. Shutting the trunk, he headed back to the group assembled around the two bodies. James, it seemed, has wrestled the bags of cash from the biker's hand. There must have been a lot in there, as he was wearing the same grin as Malik. "James, you and Omar get out of here. Mo, you comin' with me. James, the cash." James sauntered over mildly dissapointed, but handed the bags to Malik. "Alright, go get toked and laid. We did good." The three nodded as they split into groups of two. James and Omar headed back the way they had all came. Malik and Maurice got into Corey's, I mean, Malik's new car. The engine started, purring smoothly. It had been a good job, quick and clean. When people heard Malik's name, they wouldn't think of his brothers first. It was a Dynasty in the making.

-------------
[Requests]
[3] NPC Thugs
[4] AK-47 Assault Rifles
[4] Berettas
[1] 2002 Chrysler Crossfire
[X] US Dollars
[X] Cocain

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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Mon Feb 20, 2006 9:35 pm 
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Joined: Sun Feb 12, 2006 7:43 pm
Posts: 270
[Requests]
[3] NPC Thugs APPROVED
[4] AK-47 Assault Rifles APPROVED
[4] Berettas APPROVED
[1] 2002 Chrysler Crossfire APPROVED
[X] US Dollars APPROVED
[X] Cocaine APPROVED

You get 3 Class A NPC Thugs, [4x] AK47s, [4x] Berettas, 1 2002 Chrysler Crossfire, $35000 and $50 units of Cocaine.

As always Crazyeye, your roleplays rock and I enjoyed reading this piece of work.

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