(note: I am writing this as I come up with ideas, not following a strict plot, as a just-for-fun story. Constructive Criticism is appreciated, as this is my first story on the beach.
Rating: PG-13 for violence and minor alcohol reference... If I new to edit it, let me know.)[/align]
The Story takes place in lower Manhattan, in the Nineteen-Thirties. It revolves around the members of an Italian gang, the Loretti Family, and their rivalry with the Irish Collin gang as they struggle for power in the heart of the Big Apple.
It was cold. Very cold. The sun had just settled over New York City, and a strong wind rushed through the alleyways. It was the type of wind that plowed through any coat, no matter how thick, and chilled you to your very soul, leaving you numb. In the distance, the honking of horns could be heard. Sirens wailed over the buildings, and people had small talk on their porches. Some ways away, a gunshot rang out, but most likely, the cops on duty had been paid to ignore it.
A man walked down a dark alleyway lined with garbage. He was wearing a light brown trench coat, it's collar pulled up. He had on a white bowler hat with, concealing most of his head. Once he reached the end of the alley, he turned to the right and turned the doorknob of an tired door, it's once-proud red paint peeling off, and it's brass doorknob tarnished. The man entered the room. It was dimly lit, and smelled of alcohol. Men roared around him, some arguing, some laughing. Two men in identical black suits an grey ties were having a whispered conversation in one corner, heads leaning over the table. The place was a speakeasy. The man walked directly up to the counter, and said, "The boss would like the special package. Today." The man behind the counter, a portly man with a spiky beard and bald head, nodded, and put down the shot glass he was polishing. He walked into a room behind the bar. He returned with a large black duffel bag, and placed it on the bar table. The man in the trench coat unzipped it slightly and looked inside. Whatever he saw pleased him, and he was about to walk away when the bartender put his hand on the man's shoulder and said nervously, "Those two men in the corner. You see 'em? They're after you." The man nodded and said, "I am aware. I suggest you leave the building." The bartender paused, apparently confused, and then his eyes widened. He ran out the side exit. The man grinned, and then turned around, heading for the entrance. As he turned to leave, so did the men in suits. When he reached the door, the man in the trench coat pulled something out of the duffel bag. It was a small red container. As he walked, it made sloshing noises. A light layer of snow had fallen since he went in, and he placed the canister next to the Speakeasy’s entrance. He pulled a thin chord out of his jacket, unwound it, unplugged the container, and then fed the chord into it. The two men came opened the door to the secret bar, and saw to their horror, the man in the trench coat was holding a small, silver lighter with a cross carved into it. The man said, “Goodbye, G-Men!” And then he dropped the burning lighter onto the rope and walked away. One of the men scrambled to extinguish the fire, but it was too late. With a massive explosion, the bar went up in flames. The man in the Trench Coat walked away from the scene just as the Police arrived.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Don Loretti drummed his fingers impatiently on the polished cedar desk of his office in the supposedly abandoned warehouse that was the Loretti Family’s base of operations. Don Loretti was a powerful man, with a powerful ambition and a powerful charisma. He wore a black pinstripe suit and a red Tie. He was smoking a fine Cuban Cigar, and an M1911 with red cherry wood finish lay by his side. There was a knock on the door, and Don barked, “Enter!” The man with the brown trench coat and the white Bowler hat entered. As he did so, he took off his hat, and pulled down his collar, revealing his full face. He had high cheeks, a large nose, and dark eyes. His skin was somewhat tan, and he had thick brown hair, that, despite being under his hat, was neatly combed. Don said, “Did Simon give you the package?” The man nodded, and, with some effort, threw the large duffel bag onto the desk with a resounding thud. Don Loretti unzipped the bag and pulled out its contents. Another red jar, this one large, about ten gallons. This one had a label. It read, “Warning: Extremely Flammable. Do not put in climate above 110 degrees.” Don grinned, and said, “Good. It finally has come. With this weapon, we shall rule New York. You’ve done well, Jimmy.”
As Don prepared to zip the bag, a muffled gunshot could be heard, then a shout: “It’s the Collins! They’ve entered our turf!” Don stood up, and Jimmy whipped around, replacing his hat. Don said, “Let’s exterminate those pests!” He picked up his firearm, and strode of his office towards the warehouse entrance. Jimmy quickly followed, grabbing the Tommy Gun mounted on the wall. Cocking his pistol, Don Loretti peered out the side of the door, and then motioned to move. Both men took cover behind a hotrod, which quickly acquired several new bullet holes, thanks to the “Collins.” Loretti stood up over the car’s hood, pointed and fired. A bang was heard, and a ginger-haired man cried out in pain as he clutched his thigh, and two more men popped up behind some cars to drag him away, guns flailing. Jimmy shouted, “There’s got to be at least five, by my count! How many do we have here?” Don Loretti looked around, and then said, “Eight! Let’s move in on them! Provide cover fire!” Don ducked, and Jimmy stood up, and the ratatat-tat of the machine gun filled the air. As he fired, Don motioned forwards, and several of the Lorettis moved towards the Collins. In the distance, there was a loud boom, and as quickly as it started, the rival gangsters jumped into two cars, closed the doors, and sped off, bullets ringing against the apparently armored sides.
One of Don’s men ran up towards him and said, panting, “They- they just appeared out of nowhere and opened fire! On our territory!” Don quickly replied, “Did anyone get shot? Did they take anything?” The replies were no and no, but as the man finished his answers, Don remembered the loud bang they heard in the distance and ran back towards the office. “Follow me men!” He called frantically, and stormed into the warehouse, running across the open space as he approached the office, and kicked open the door. “No!” he roared. They had taken the duffel bag.
Rating: PG-13 for violence and minor alcohol reference... If I new to edit it, let me know.)[/align]
The Story takes place in lower Manhattan, in the Nineteen-Thirties. It revolves around the members of an Italian gang, the Loretti Family, and their rivalry with the Irish Collin gang as they struggle for power in the heart of the Big Apple.
It was cold. Very cold. The sun had just settled over New York City, and a strong wind rushed through the alleyways. It was the type of wind that plowed through any coat, no matter how thick, and chilled you to your very soul, leaving you numb. In the distance, the honking of horns could be heard. Sirens wailed over the buildings, and people had small talk on their porches. Some ways away, a gunshot rang out, but most likely, the cops on duty had been paid to ignore it.
A man walked down a dark alleyway lined with garbage. He was wearing a light brown trench coat, it's collar pulled up. He had on a white bowler hat with, concealing most of his head. Once he reached the end of the alley, he turned to the right and turned the doorknob of an tired door, it's once-proud red paint peeling off, and it's brass doorknob tarnished. The man entered the room. It was dimly lit, and smelled of alcohol. Men roared around him, some arguing, some laughing. Two men in identical black suits an grey ties were having a whispered conversation in one corner, heads leaning over the table. The place was a speakeasy. The man walked directly up to the counter, and said, "The boss would like the special package. Today." The man behind the counter, a portly man with a spiky beard and bald head, nodded, and put down the shot glass he was polishing. He walked into a room behind the bar. He returned with a large black duffel bag, and placed it on the bar table. The man in the trench coat unzipped it slightly and looked inside. Whatever he saw pleased him, and he was about to walk away when the bartender put his hand on the man's shoulder and said nervously, "Those two men in the corner. You see 'em? They're after you." The man nodded and said, "I am aware. I suggest you leave the building." The bartender paused, apparently confused, and then his eyes widened. He ran out the side exit. The man grinned, and then turned around, heading for the entrance. As he turned to leave, so did the men in suits. When he reached the door, the man in the trench coat pulled something out of the duffel bag. It was a small red container. As he walked, it made sloshing noises. A light layer of snow had fallen since he went in, and he placed the canister next to the Speakeasy’s entrance. He pulled a thin chord out of his jacket, unwound it, unplugged the container, and then fed the chord into it. The two men came opened the door to the secret bar, and saw to their horror, the man in the trench coat was holding a small, silver lighter with a cross carved into it. The man said, “Goodbye, G-Men!” And then he dropped the burning lighter onto the rope and walked away. One of the men scrambled to extinguish the fire, but it was too late. With a massive explosion, the bar went up in flames. The man in the Trench Coat walked away from the scene just as the Police arrived.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Don Loretti drummed his fingers impatiently on the polished cedar desk of his office in the supposedly abandoned warehouse that was the Loretti Family’s base of operations. Don Loretti was a powerful man, with a powerful ambition and a powerful charisma. He wore a black pinstripe suit and a red Tie. He was smoking a fine Cuban Cigar, and an M1911 with red cherry wood finish lay by his side. There was a knock on the door, and Don barked, “Enter!” The man with the brown trench coat and the white Bowler hat entered. As he did so, he took off his hat, and pulled down his collar, revealing his full face. He had high cheeks, a large nose, and dark eyes. His skin was somewhat tan, and he had thick brown hair, that, despite being under his hat, was neatly combed. Don said, “Did Simon give you the package?” The man nodded, and, with some effort, threw the large duffel bag onto the desk with a resounding thud. Don Loretti unzipped the bag and pulled out its contents. Another red jar, this one large, about ten gallons. This one had a label. It read, “Warning: Extremely Flammable. Do not put in climate above 110 degrees.” Don grinned, and said, “Good. It finally has come. With this weapon, we shall rule New York. You’ve done well, Jimmy.”
As Don prepared to zip the bag, a muffled gunshot could be heard, then a shout: “It’s the Collins! They’ve entered our turf!” Don stood up, and Jimmy whipped around, replacing his hat. Don said, “Let’s exterminate those pests!” He picked up his firearm, and strode of his office towards the warehouse entrance. Jimmy quickly followed, grabbing the Tommy Gun mounted on the wall. Cocking his pistol, Don Loretti peered out the side of the door, and then motioned to move. Both men took cover behind a hotrod, which quickly acquired several new bullet holes, thanks to the “Collins.” Loretti stood up over the car’s hood, pointed and fired. A bang was heard, and a ginger-haired man cried out in pain as he clutched his thigh, and two more men popped up behind some cars to drag him away, guns flailing. Jimmy shouted, “There’s got to be at least five, by my count! How many do we have here?” Don Loretti looked around, and then said, “Eight! Let’s move in on them! Provide cover fire!” Don ducked, and Jimmy stood up, and the ratatat-tat of the machine gun filled the air. As he fired, Don motioned forwards, and several of the Lorettis moved towards the Collins. In the distance, there was a loud boom, and as quickly as it started, the rival gangsters jumped into two cars, closed the doors, and sped off, bullets ringing against the apparently armored sides.
One of Don’s men ran up towards him and said, panting, “They- they just appeared out of nowhere and opened fire! On our territory!” Don quickly replied, “Did anyone get shot? Did they take anything?” The replies were no and no, but as the man finished his answers, Don remembered the loud bang they heard in the distance and ran back towards the office. “Follow me men!” He called frantically, and stormed into the warehouse, running across the open space as he approached the office, and kicked open the door. “No!” he roared. They had taken the duffel bag.
