Hay I had to write this for our last assessment before the Trials....
For all of you who know Crime Fiction.. It is supposed to be a conjugation of both contemporary and hard-boiled conventions/style.
pls tell me if you like it. ps some of the italics and stuff wont come out Im sorry if the format is a little crappy.... I am new to this website... If you read the intro and wanna look at it when its better set out. Check out http://medio-core.com/DOUBLE_BARELLED_DESPERATION-t1880.html
Double Barrelled Desperation.
A stolen red Cadillac tore dangerously through the streets, with a blazing police car in hot pursuit. The path of the car was not limited to the road, as it swerved and spun all over the footpath, creating wreckage left right and centre, before finally crashing into the side of a drab looking grey veneer house.
The eyes of the street were trained on the doors of the now ruined car. The front half was lost in the debris of the house. Despite the immense smoke and dust, everybody immediately recognised the three bleeding creatures that lurched out of the car. The red stripes of their clothing could only mean one thing. These were the King Street Cobras. The policemen’s hands quivered as though their firearms suddenly became an unprecedented burden. T-dog, Trayce and Kwan glowered back at the street defiantly. Despite their disorientated and weakened state, it was evident such characters demanded respect. Without breaking their stare, they slowly backed away and disappeared into the darkness of an adjoining alleyway. The murderers were in full view of the entire street for over a minute. Not a shot was fired. Nobody called out. No-one did anything.
The street had dealt itself its own silent sentence.
* * *
Pharell never heard his sister Ciara scream. The doctors said she died on impact. Pharrell was angry. It wasn’t the usual sort of anger, the anger that makes your blood boil and your temples fume. No. This wasn’t that type of anger at all. His anger was cold and seething. Instead of throwing him into a fit of wild rage, this feeling slowly seeped into his nerves, corroding the reasons of his will.
Two days later, a cynical smile greeted the policeman who came to his door in order to fill out a witness report and assess the damages.
“Hello there young man!” the white, obese police officer stated forced enthusiasm. Pharrell kept his arms folded in a passive aggressive stance, only breaking his stare to spit scornfully at the ground between them.
“Son, we’re here to talk about the damages to your house and see if you can be of any assistance to us in apprehending the perpetrators of this horrid crime”
“No kidding? I thought someone had finally arrived to clean the shit out of my toilet. I heard you fellas had quite the knack for that. You know, organising shit into clean and legitimate piles”
“Look, if you could just fill out this witness report”
“Me? You all know I didn’t see a thing! You got two of your own men, plus five or more neighbours that saw the entire charade. Your boys froze when they saw the Cobra colours. Please, let’s not waste each other’s time. There’s a 24 hour donut shop up the road…” Pharrell smiled wryly.
“I can’t express how sorry I am for what happened. You’ll be generously reimbursed for the damages to your house.”
“Gee thanks! Hey, could you use some of those taxpayer dollars to make me a bionic sister? That way we can pretend this whole thing never happened and nobody has to feel guilty.”
“Look, it’s not easy to act against the Cobras. We’re not afraid, it’s just, not that …er… straightforward you know?” His voice quivered as he struggled to find the correct words.
“Hmm I always considered cowardice a rather simple subject in which you have extensive expertise” Pharrell replied derisively.
The policeman sighed, and walked back towards the car. Pharrell continued to jeer him. “Remember, Donut King, two blocks down, right on your left, can’t miss it. Keep up the good work.”
Too smart to be fooled by the façade of the so called ‘authorities’, he knew who possessed the real power. Big Nasty and his King Street Cobras. Pharrell remained on his porch. He pensively watched the street, which still showed signs of the recent destruction. He was a tall, strong and handsome boy. He had a black afro, dark skin, and deep, smouldering eyes. Many a time when he was young and his mother Lateisha took him out, he would be mistaken for a girl, because of his slanted almond eyes and delicate lashes. ‘Momma’ he thought cynically, chuckling inwardly. ‘I wonder where you are now’. She had left him when he was only twelve, leaving him to take care of his young sister, Ciara.
Pharrell had struggled to keep her out of trouble, leading by example. He was the captain of the school football team, and although his sporting achievements were more than enough to get him into college, his SAT’s had been amongst the highest in the state.
Life wasn’t easy in South Central Los Angeles. Dealing with death made it even harder.
A small woman got out of a beaten up Buick and walked cautiously towards the house. Despite her obvious lack of dental maintenance, her beige teeth appeared pearly white juxtaposed by their vivid red surroundings. Her leathery face’s inherited colour was darkened by the brooding sediment of long years of alcohol and heroin addiction. It bore the scars and creases of an unforgiving life. A black dress wrapped loosely around her like a tattered flag of misery. Her scent was a mixture of tobacco, whiskey and cheap perfume.
“Momma” crooned Pharrell. The stoic and callous expression on his face was replaced by one of compassion . He instinctively moved towards her in a childlike yearning for comfort. “Oh Pharrell” mourned Lateisha. She readied herself for an embrace that would never come. Pharrell brought to mind all that she had given him. Years of isolation, pain and confusion. What on earth did she expect from him? He cut short his advance. “Look what the cat dragged in, her sorry ass self. Where the hell have you been, Lateisha?” The pitiless and resentful composition of his face had returned. Lateisha looked around uncomfortably, her eyes desperately avoiding his vehement glare. “Well, ain’t cha gonna let yo’ po’ momma in?” Lateisha asked tentatively.
“Go fuck yourself Lateisha, I’d pay someone to do it but I don’t have any quarters”
“Now watch’all gotta be like dat fo’? Y’all don’t know where I bin” replied Lateisha indignantly.
“The gutter? Oh no wait – the sewer!” mocked Pharrell.
“I bin wit thayme Cobras boy” said Lateisha n a deep and suggestive tone. “I can help you git thir heads if yo man enough to traa”
Pharrell’s mind went back to the night Ciara died. She was meant to go to the zoo the following day. He remembered her shrieks of laughter in response to his animal impersonations. She never ended up going to the zoo. Her life was stolen from him in the small hours of the night by a pack of degenerate hoodlums. Taking care of Ciara was more than just a responsibility for Pharrell, it was an honour, a privilege, a joy. Pharrell knew it wasn’t easy to act against the Cobras and he would need all the help he could get. He decided to set aside his resentment towards Lateisha.
It was time for vengeance.
“Come in” Pharrell ordered with clenched teeth.
Lateisha explained how the Cobras worked. T-dog was second in command, he and Big Nasty controlled everything. Although the gang was enormous, they were in fact the only real leaders. Pharrell began thinking, instead of solely punishing on the trio who were responsible for his sister’s death, he would take out Big Daddy as well. He would rid South Central of the Cobras forever!
Lateisha and Pharrell plotted and planned throughout the night. The whiskey fuelled their violent dreams and imaginings. They created a fanciful world in which the Cobras no longer impeded on the happiness and security of the entire community. Children could play in the streets without fear of being forced to become drug couriers. Women would no longer be abducted and vanish without a trace, only to appear in a Cobra brothel addicted to heroin three months later. They dreamed for a world in which brutality and greed no longer dictated everyday life. Under the guise of alcoholic stupefaction, they almost believed it themselves.
The first victim was to be Trayce. After offering T-dog her ‘services; Lateisha learnt that Trayce passed his nights in Candy’s Corner, a local strip club. Seeing as he drove a stolen car, she assumed the lock would be broken. The plan was to wait inside and pack a little twin barrelled surprise for Trayce to scoff at.
Part 2.
It was 2’o clock in the morning in Candy’s Corner. A dark figure hunched over the bar, the curling cigar smoke seemed to cling to it, trapped by its brooding and introspective mood. The figure bore all the markings of a typical gangster. Excessively baggy denim jeans and jacket, over which hung large and gaudy gold chains. The figure’s hair was tied into tight corn rows, and slightly below the neck protruded a suspicious tattoo only just covered by the collar of the jacket.
The tattoo was a snake, the symbol of the King Street Cobras.
This Cobra was Trayce.
Trayce was not well. His sleep patterns of late consisted of small lapses of alcohol-induced slumber, only to be painfully interrupted by sobering pangs of guilt. Tonight, just as the two previous nights since the accident, Trayce was attempting to smoke and drink away his self-reproach. Once again, he was to fail.
All three gangsters involved in the accident had reacted differently. T-dog, who was driving, blamed the police. “Them fuckin pigs, they shoulda known it waz us y’all.” His voice wavered from sanctimonious to outright hateful “Man, we gotta git them fuckin pigs y’all mean, have us a nice little drive by to calm the senses. Shit. I never mean to kill no girl, y’all know I ain’t like that nigger.”
Kwan remained indifferent “Hey yo who cares Dawg? She wasn’t gonna grow up to be nuttin mo’ than a two bit ho’, besides man next time Ima do the driving”
“Nigga say what? Y’all gonna be blamin’ my drivin’ G? Yo I ain’t gonna take this shit”
“Look, all I is sayin…..”
In the midst of all this rampant rhetoric and bickering, Trayce had remained silent. Unable to shake his sense of responsibility over the girl’s death, he increasingly withdrew from any form of social interaction. He passed all his time between his lonely apartment and Candy’s Corner, a dirty, sleazy, run down strip club. He liked it here - nobody asked questions.
Trayce was an orphan. He had lived on the streets of South Central for 5 years until Big Nasty took him in as a drug runner. The Cobras were Trayce’s family. He had only ever known the harshness of the streets and the comfort and security of the gang. He was the only Cobra who was not yet a murderer. The Cobras, like many African American gangs, have a brutal initiation process. The aspiring gangster has to kill whoever Big Nasty demands. Trayce was ordered to kill Lester, an old heroin junkie who had an overdue tab of over two years. Trayce gave Lester a thousand dollars and told him that if he ever returned, they would both be killed. He was not a malevolent person and hoped to keep his hands clean.
Trayce had a childlike fixation for cars. Working on the maltreated and stolen vehicles of the gang, Trayce had become a highly skilled mechanic. He was able to utilise this skill in order to remain separated from the bloody actions of his cohorts. Unfortunately for Trayce, Big Nasty demanded that his skills encompass not only fixing and repairing cars but also stealing them. On that fateful night, T-dog had demanded that Trayce assist him in the theft of a Cadillac.
Big Nasty only supported Trayce’s mechanical desires so far as it benefited the Cobras. Trayce had once possessed his own aspirations, of attending a community college and becoming a fully certified mechanic, maybe one day even owning his own garage. Trayce reminisced over his childhood dreams as he stared wearily into his shot glass. Dreams that had long since been forgotten. “It’s time” he thought to himself receptively. The Cobras had given him everything, a home, an identity, a family, a purpose. But there was one thing they could never provide for him. Pride. With the death of Ciara, Trayce’s shame had reached an intolerable peak. “Yes!” he exclaimed. He gleamed to himself as he stood upright and proud in the dark, dirty bar. “That’s it! I’ll move north, go to college and leave South Central behind!”
Trayce was going over these vague yet exhilarating plans as he strode enthusiastically towards his car. In the serenity of his new found elation, he did not detect the two figures waiting inside. Trayce entered and noticed the interior lights weren’t working. He flicked them on, only to find himself staring down the twin barrels of a shotgun.
“Well well well, it looks as though we’ve caught ourselves a snake! You know its true what they say, you Cobras are all hiss and no bite” Pharrell sneered scathingly. Any hopes of leaving South Central without blood being shed were instantly shattered.
For all of you who know Crime Fiction.. It is supposed to be a conjugation of both contemporary and hard-boiled conventions/style.
pls tell me if you like it. ps some of the italics and stuff wont come out Im sorry if the format is a little crappy.... I am new to this website... If you read the intro and wanna look at it when its better set out. Check out http://medio-core.com/DOUBLE_BARELLED_DESPERATION-t1880.html
Double Barrelled Desperation.
A stolen red Cadillac tore dangerously through the streets, with a blazing police car in hot pursuit. The path of the car was not limited to the road, as it swerved and spun all over the footpath, creating wreckage left right and centre, before finally crashing into the side of a drab looking grey veneer house.
The eyes of the street were trained on the doors of the now ruined car. The front half was lost in the debris of the house. Despite the immense smoke and dust, everybody immediately recognised the three bleeding creatures that lurched out of the car. The red stripes of their clothing could only mean one thing. These were the King Street Cobras. The policemen’s hands quivered as though their firearms suddenly became an unprecedented burden. T-dog, Trayce and Kwan glowered back at the street defiantly. Despite their disorientated and weakened state, it was evident such characters demanded respect. Without breaking their stare, they slowly backed away and disappeared into the darkness of an adjoining alleyway. The murderers were in full view of the entire street for over a minute. Not a shot was fired. Nobody called out. No-one did anything.
The street had dealt itself its own silent sentence.
* * *
Pharell never heard his sister Ciara scream. The doctors said she died on impact. Pharrell was angry. It wasn’t the usual sort of anger, the anger that makes your blood boil and your temples fume. No. This wasn’t that type of anger at all. His anger was cold and seething. Instead of throwing him into a fit of wild rage, this feeling slowly seeped into his nerves, corroding the reasons of his will.
Two days later, a cynical smile greeted the policeman who came to his door in order to fill out a witness report and assess the damages.
“Hello there young man!” the white, obese police officer stated forced enthusiasm. Pharrell kept his arms folded in a passive aggressive stance, only breaking his stare to spit scornfully at the ground between them.
“Son, we’re here to talk about the damages to your house and see if you can be of any assistance to us in apprehending the perpetrators of this horrid crime”
“No kidding? I thought someone had finally arrived to clean the shit out of my toilet. I heard you fellas had quite the knack for that. You know, organising shit into clean and legitimate piles”
“Look, if you could just fill out this witness report”
“Me? You all know I didn’t see a thing! You got two of your own men, plus five or more neighbours that saw the entire charade. Your boys froze when they saw the Cobra colours. Please, let’s not waste each other’s time. There’s a 24 hour donut shop up the road…” Pharrell smiled wryly.
“I can’t express how sorry I am for what happened. You’ll be generously reimbursed for the damages to your house.”
“Gee thanks! Hey, could you use some of those taxpayer dollars to make me a bionic sister? That way we can pretend this whole thing never happened and nobody has to feel guilty.”
“Look, it’s not easy to act against the Cobras. We’re not afraid, it’s just, not that …er… straightforward you know?” His voice quivered as he struggled to find the correct words.
“Hmm I always considered cowardice a rather simple subject in which you have extensive expertise” Pharrell replied derisively.
The policeman sighed, and walked back towards the car. Pharrell continued to jeer him. “Remember, Donut King, two blocks down, right on your left, can’t miss it. Keep up the good work.”
Too smart to be fooled by the façade of the so called ‘authorities’, he knew who possessed the real power. Big Nasty and his King Street Cobras. Pharrell remained on his porch. He pensively watched the street, which still showed signs of the recent destruction. He was a tall, strong and handsome boy. He had a black afro, dark skin, and deep, smouldering eyes. Many a time when he was young and his mother Lateisha took him out, he would be mistaken for a girl, because of his slanted almond eyes and delicate lashes. ‘Momma’ he thought cynically, chuckling inwardly. ‘I wonder where you are now’. She had left him when he was only twelve, leaving him to take care of his young sister, Ciara.
Pharrell had struggled to keep her out of trouble, leading by example. He was the captain of the school football team, and although his sporting achievements were more than enough to get him into college, his SAT’s had been amongst the highest in the state.
Life wasn’t easy in South Central Los Angeles. Dealing with death made it even harder.
A small woman got out of a beaten up Buick and walked cautiously towards the house. Despite her obvious lack of dental maintenance, her beige teeth appeared pearly white juxtaposed by their vivid red surroundings. Her leathery face’s inherited colour was darkened by the brooding sediment of long years of alcohol and heroin addiction. It bore the scars and creases of an unforgiving life. A black dress wrapped loosely around her like a tattered flag of misery. Her scent was a mixture of tobacco, whiskey and cheap perfume.
“Momma” crooned Pharrell. The stoic and callous expression on his face was replaced by one of compassion . He instinctively moved towards her in a childlike yearning for comfort. “Oh Pharrell” mourned Lateisha. She readied herself for an embrace that would never come. Pharrell brought to mind all that she had given him. Years of isolation, pain and confusion. What on earth did she expect from him? He cut short his advance. “Look what the cat dragged in, her sorry ass self. Where the hell have you been, Lateisha?” The pitiless and resentful composition of his face had returned. Lateisha looked around uncomfortably, her eyes desperately avoiding his vehement glare. “Well, ain’t cha gonna let yo’ po’ momma in?” Lateisha asked tentatively.
“Go fuck yourself Lateisha, I’d pay someone to do it but I don’t have any quarters”
“Now watch’all gotta be like dat fo’? Y’all don’t know where I bin” replied Lateisha indignantly.
“The gutter? Oh no wait – the sewer!” mocked Pharrell.
“I bin wit thayme Cobras boy” said Lateisha n a deep and suggestive tone. “I can help you git thir heads if yo man enough to traa”
Pharrell’s mind went back to the night Ciara died. She was meant to go to the zoo the following day. He remembered her shrieks of laughter in response to his animal impersonations. She never ended up going to the zoo. Her life was stolen from him in the small hours of the night by a pack of degenerate hoodlums. Taking care of Ciara was more than just a responsibility for Pharrell, it was an honour, a privilege, a joy. Pharrell knew it wasn’t easy to act against the Cobras and he would need all the help he could get. He decided to set aside his resentment towards Lateisha.
It was time for vengeance.
“Come in” Pharrell ordered with clenched teeth.
Lateisha explained how the Cobras worked. T-dog was second in command, he and Big Nasty controlled everything. Although the gang was enormous, they were in fact the only real leaders. Pharrell began thinking, instead of solely punishing on the trio who were responsible for his sister’s death, he would take out Big Daddy as well. He would rid South Central of the Cobras forever!
Lateisha and Pharrell plotted and planned throughout the night. The whiskey fuelled their violent dreams and imaginings. They created a fanciful world in which the Cobras no longer impeded on the happiness and security of the entire community. Children could play in the streets without fear of being forced to become drug couriers. Women would no longer be abducted and vanish without a trace, only to appear in a Cobra brothel addicted to heroin three months later. They dreamed for a world in which brutality and greed no longer dictated everyday life. Under the guise of alcoholic stupefaction, they almost believed it themselves.
The first victim was to be Trayce. After offering T-dog her ‘services; Lateisha learnt that Trayce passed his nights in Candy’s Corner, a local strip club. Seeing as he drove a stolen car, she assumed the lock would be broken. The plan was to wait inside and pack a little twin barrelled surprise for Trayce to scoff at.
Part 2.
It was 2’o clock in the morning in Candy’s Corner. A dark figure hunched over the bar, the curling cigar smoke seemed to cling to it, trapped by its brooding and introspective mood. The figure bore all the markings of a typical gangster. Excessively baggy denim jeans and jacket, over which hung large and gaudy gold chains. The figure’s hair was tied into tight corn rows, and slightly below the neck protruded a suspicious tattoo only just covered by the collar of the jacket.
The tattoo was a snake, the symbol of the King Street Cobras.
This Cobra was Trayce.
Trayce was not well. His sleep patterns of late consisted of small lapses of alcohol-induced slumber, only to be painfully interrupted by sobering pangs of guilt. Tonight, just as the two previous nights since the accident, Trayce was attempting to smoke and drink away his self-reproach. Once again, he was to fail.
All three gangsters involved in the accident had reacted differently. T-dog, who was driving, blamed the police. “Them fuckin pigs, they shoulda known it waz us y’all.” His voice wavered from sanctimonious to outright hateful “Man, we gotta git them fuckin pigs y’all mean, have us a nice little drive by to calm the senses. Shit. I never mean to kill no girl, y’all know I ain’t like that nigger.”
Kwan remained indifferent “Hey yo who cares Dawg? She wasn’t gonna grow up to be nuttin mo’ than a two bit ho’, besides man next time Ima do the driving”
“Nigga say what? Y’all gonna be blamin’ my drivin’ G? Yo I ain’t gonna take this shit”
“Look, all I is sayin…..”
In the midst of all this rampant rhetoric and bickering, Trayce had remained silent. Unable to shake his sense of responsibility over the girl’s death, he increasingly withdrew from any form of social interaction. He passed all his time between his lonely apartment and Candy’s Corner, a dirty, sleazy, run down strip club. He liked it here - nobody asked questions.
Trayce was an orphan. He had lived on the streets of South Central for 5 years until Big Nasty took him in as a drug runner. The Cobras were Trayce’s family. He had only ever known the harshness of the streets and the comfort and security of the gang. He was the only Cobra who was not yet a murderer. The Cobras, like many African American gangs, have a brutal initiation process. The aspiring gangster has to kill whoever Big Nasty demands. Trayce was ordered to kill Lester, an old heroin junkie who had an overdue tab of over two years. Trayce gave Lester a thousand dollars and told him that if he ever returned, they would both be killed. He was not a malevolent person and hoped to keep his hands clean.
Trayce had a childlike fixation for cars. Working on the maltreated and stolen vehicles of the gang, Trayce had become a highly skilled mechanic. He was able to utilise this skill in order to remain separated from the bloody actions of his cohorts. Unfortunately for Trayce, Big Nasty demanded that his skills encompass not only fixing and repairing cars but also stealing them. On that fateful night, T-dog had demanded that Trayce assist him in the theft of a Cadillac.
Big Nasty only supported Trayce’s mechanical desires so far as it benefited the Cobras. Trayce had once possessed his own aspirations, of attending a community college and becoming a fully certified mechanic, maybe one day even owning his own garage. Trayce reminisced over his childhood dreams as he stared wearily into his shot glass. Dreams that had long since been forgotten. “It’s time” he thought to himself receptively. The Cobras had given him everything, a home, an identity, a family, a purpose. But there was one thing they could never provide for him. Pride. With the death of Ciara, Trayce’s shame had reached an intolerable peak. “Yes!” he exclaimed. He gleamed to himself as he stood upright and proud in the dark, dirty bar. “That’s it! I’ll move north, go to college and leave South Central behind!”
Trayce was going over these vague yet exhilarating plans as he strode enthusiastically towards his car. In the serenity of his new found elation, he did not detect the two figures waiting inside. Trayce entered and noticed the interior lights weren’t working. He flicked them on, only to find himself staring down the twin barrels of a shotgun.
“Well well well, it looks as though we’ve caught ourselves a snake! You know its true what they say, you Cobras are all hiss and no bite” Pharrell sneered scathingly. Any hopes of leaving South Central without blood being shed were instantly shattered.
