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- Joined
- Jan 27, 2011
America.
Such a wonderful place. Full of opportunity for just about everything. Success, failure, prosperity, poverty, happiness and even misery. The numbers of paths that one could choose from were practically endless, and even more so were the ways one could walk said path. Some walked an honest path, leading their lives in a way that their choices didn't affect others and didn't place themselves in unnecessary danger. Others chose a less secure path, but with the elevated risk came great, great rewards.
The path of a criminal, those who delve into the 'unsavory' side of the human condition, is often laced with risk everyone one might look. Capture by law enforcement was always something that loomed over even the most hardened criminal's shoulders, on top of the threat of the ultimate penalty for a mistake: Death. Something that all mortals had to come to terms with, but often arriving far sooner than anticipated in the underworld.
However, good and evil are very subjective and often are not as black and white as many would like to believe. And tonight, this statement would be put to the test....
*May 20, 2004, 2355 (11:55 PM UTC). Unknown Warehouse Complex. Petroru, Kentucky*
Tonight was a big night for the Vice Lords and La Raza Nation; the plan was to meet up and pool their resources together. Why bother fighting? If they both joined up, they'd have more bodies to patrol the turf and still make boatloads of money. And with the Lords' grip on the drug ring and La Raza's gunrunning connections, that profit would be sweet. And with Willie Lloyd out of the picture, the Lords could rise again and make their mark on this new turf.
All the big names were there, and things were looking up...Until Kentucky's newest 'resident' came to crash the party.
Almost as if on cue, right as the clock hit 12:02am, shit hit the fan and hard: A phantom shadow struck from what seemed like every direction at once, and bodies started dropping. Gunshots rang out like a demented symphony, the former gangbangers falling to the floor with a dime-sized hole in their foreheads, a ring around the wound from the pressure of the barrel being forced against their skull. Exit wounds sprayed blood, brain matter and bone fragments across the floor, and the sounds of empty brass hitting the concrete just made everything more absolute: Death had come, and it was taking no prisoners.
It felt like an eternity...It really did. But then, fear did amazing things to the psyche. And right now, the sole living member of the Vice Lords chapter in Joliet, sat with his back pressed hard against a support column, his own gun empty and the slide shifted back to show as much. The dark brown hues of the young Latino man were dilated to an impossible degree, the thick jacket he wore doing little to warm him from the frost that coated his spine. His cap - a classic White Sox hat - glistened on its black surface in patches with the blood of his former Lords, red streaking down the front of his navy jeans and dotting the surface of his once-pristine white Nikes. Truly it was the picture of a man facing the Reaper, with no hope of escape. Even more so when he looked around and all he could see was red streaks. And the bodies, their eyes dim from lack of life and gazing towards the ceiling as if stupefied by what had happened.
"You think this changes anything? Once the rest of them hear of this, you're dead. The Lords will find you, and you'll get yours." he tried to say in as much of a macho tone as possible. The fear, however, laced every single syllable of his statement, his pitch varying greatly with each uttered words.
At this, the same spectre of destruction that stepped forward, a Colt .45 ACP pistol leveled at the man's head, another held firmly by his side. "Maybe not right away...But at least this little reunion is over. If there is a hell, let me know...And tell Satan this when you get there: He's next on my list." said the figure, the finger squeezing on the trigger.
BAM!
A single shot rang out, the sounds of the blast echoing and reverberating, the gangster's head lolling forward after being thrown back, a singular hole between his eyes leaking a small trail of blood. His body fell limp, signaling the end of the slaughter.
And still standing was one man, his cold steely-blue eyes peering at the carnage, the barrels of his guns still smoking from the repeated firing as the assailant. His form dressed in mussed combat fatigues with kneepads, black combat boots with one having a knife holster on it, a black hoody over a bullet-proof vest. Just shy of a dozen gangsters. Massacred in less than three hundred and sixty seconds. Blood streaked the cold cement like a masterpiece, the bodies on the ground a macabre human portrait of mortality. And after that last piece of brass collided with the concrete floor, its distinctive sound resonating through the emptiness, all that lingered in the air was a deafening silence. That and the iron smell of blood on the warm spring night.
The police office would be busy tonight...But thankfully his business here was almost concluded, pulling off his hood to reveal a head of shaved brown hair and a medium-length brown beard. "Just one more..." he would say, his voice gruff and harsh, hardened by his previous years of war.
That familiar wave of relief washed over him once more, that utter feeling of satisfaction that here...Doing this....He was actually protecting the people. No one would call him a hero, well at least not everyone, but at least with this he made another dent in the criminal population. Sliding the pistol into a hip holster, he would then start going around to each of the dead gangsters. Gloved hands looting them of any cash and shoving that and any ammo they had into a bag, along with a few of their choicer weapons: A Steyr TMP and a Beretta M9, both of which were chambered in 9mm. He was running low on that, but these were good guns. Ones he could use in his mission; he didn't want to linger too long though.
And soon enough, the sound of sirens was on the horizon; he had to leave. Now...And after making sure he'd taken everything he could of value, he went out the backdoor of the warehouse. Stealing away into the night.
Such a wonderful place. Full of opportunity for just about everything. Success, failure, prosperity, poverty, happiness and even misery. The numbers of paths that one could choose from were practically endless, and even more so were the ways one could walk said path. Some walked an honest path, leading their lives in a way that their choices didn't affect others and didn't place themselves in unnecessary danger. Others chose a less secure path, but with the elevated risk came great, great rewards.
The path of a criminal, those who delve into the 'unsavory' side of the human condition, is often laced with risk everyone one might look. Capture by law enforcement was always something that loomed over even the most hardened criminal's shoulders, on top of the threat of the ultimate penalty for a mistake: Death. Something that all mortals had to come to terms with, but often arriving far sooner than anticipated in the underworld.
However, good and evil are very subjective and often are not as black and white as many would like to believe. And tonight, this statement would be put to the test....
*May 20, 2004, 2355 (11:55 PM UTC). Unknown Warehouse Complex. Petroru, Kentucky*
Tonight was a big night for the Vice Lords and La Raza Nation; the plan was to meet up and pool their resources together. Why bother fighting? If they both joined up, they'd have more bodies to patrol the turf and still make boatloads of money. And with the Lords' grip on the drug ring and La Raza's gunrunning connections, that profit would be sweet. And with Willie Lloyd out of the picture, the Lords could rise again and make their mark on this new turf.
All the big names were there, and things were looking up...Until Kentucky's newest 'resident' came to crash the party.
Almost as if on cue, right as the clock hit 12:02am, shit hit the fan and hard: A phantom shadow struck from what seemed like every direction at once, and bodies started dropping. Gunshots rang out like a demented symphony, the former gangbangers falling to the floor with a dime-sized hole in their foreheads, a ring around the wound from the pressure of the barrel being forced against their skull. Exit wounds sprayed blood, brain matter and bone fragments across the floor, and the sounds of empty brass hitting the concrete just made everything more absolute: Death had come, and it was taking no prisoners.
It felt like an eternity...It really did. But then, fear did amazing things to the psyche. And right now, the sole living member of the Vice Lords chapter in Joliet, sat with his back pressed hard against a support column, his own gun empty and the slide shifted back to show as much. The dark brown hues of the young Latino man were dilated to an impossible degree, the thick jacket he wore doing little to warm him from the frost that coated his spine. His cap - a classic White Sox hat - glistened on its black surface in patches with the blood of his former Lords, red streaking down the front of his navy jeans and dotting the surface of his once-pristine white Nikes. Truly it was the picture of a man facing the Reaper, with no hope of escape. Even more so when he looked around and all he could see was red streaks. And the bodies, their eyes dim from lack of life and gazing towards the ceiling as if stupefied by what had happened.
"You think this changes anything? Once the rest of them hear of this, you're dead. The Lords will find you, and you'll get yours." he tried to say in as much of a macho tone as possible. The fear, however, laced every single syllable of his statement, his pitch varying greatly with each uttered words.
At this, the same spectre of destruction that stepped forward, a Colt .45 ACP pistol leveled at the man's head, another held firmly by his side. "Maybe not right away...But at least this little reunion is over. If there is a hell, let me know...And tell Satan this when you get there: He's next on my list." said the figure, the finger squeezing on the trigger.
BAM!
A single shot rang out, the sounds of the blast echoing and reverberating, the gangster's head lolling forward after being thrown back, a singular hole between his eyes leaking a small trail of blood. His body fell limp, signaling the end of the slaughter.
And still standing was one man, his cold steely-blue eyes peering at the carnage, the barrels of his guns still smoking from the repeated firing as the assailant. His form dressed in mussed combat fatigues with kneepads, black combat boots with one having a knife holster on it, a black hoody over a bullet-proof vest. Just shy of a dozen gangsters. Massacred in less than three hundred and sixty seconds. Blood streaked the cold cement like a masterpiece, the bodies on the ground a macabre human portrait of mortality. And after that last piece of brass collided with the concrete floor, its distinctive sound resonating through the emptiness, all that lingered in the air was a deafening silence. That and the iron smell of blood on the warm spring night.
The police office would be busy tonight...But thankfully his business here was almost concluded, pulling off his hood to reveal a head of shaved brown hair and a medium-length brown beard. "Just one more..." he would say, his voice gruff and harsh, hardened by his previous years of war.
That familiar wave of relief washed over him once more, that utter feeling of satisfaction that here...Doing this....He was actually protecting the people. No one would call him a hero, well at least not everyone, but at least with this he made another dent in the criminal population. Sliding the pistol into a hip holster, he would then start going around to each of the dead gangsters. Gloved hands looting them of any cash and shoving that and any ammo they had into a bag, along with a few of their choicer weapons: A Steyr TMP and a Beretta M9, both of which were chambered in 9mm. He was running low on that, but these were good guns. Ones he could use in his mission; he didn't want to linger too long though.
And soon enough, the sound of sirens was on the horizon; he had to leave. Now...And after making sure he'd taken everything he could of value, he went out the backdoor of the warehouse. Stealing away into the night.
