"These violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph, die like fire and powder."
"So what's the problem then?" A tall male, slouched in a bar chair asked, fingers intertwined, elbows resting on the oak arms as a blazé grin crossed his lips. Other than that his expression was stern, head slightly cocked.
"You know what the problem is, John. You cut me out, that's what." A stockier male, just under six foot with a shaggy haircut and light stubble retorted, teeth gritted. However, he knew the man he was talking to, John, was the Don of one of the bigger gangs in the inner city, if not the whole country. "John?" He asked again as the conversation fell silent, taking a step back as John lurched forward.
"Fuck off Connor, right? I did not cut you out, the shipment was seized and your half was put up as insurance." He sat back into his chair again and wagged one chunky finger in Connor's direction. "I warned you, so I did. Now, I suggest you turn around and walk yourself out of my fucking pub." His tone had turned south, no longer friendly in the slightest as his eyes gestured to the door and then didn't come back to Connor but instead the pint and smoke at the table.
"I want my money, John." It was obvious the man was becoming more and more irritated with how he was being brushed off, the true colors of people he'd trusted coming through, and now he was down a couple hundred thousand. The irritation only growing stronger, blood boiling as the laughter, banter and music jelled into one indistinguishable mess.
"Listen Connor, because I'm only going to say this to you once. I suggest you forget about that fucking money and fuck off out of my face pal, yeah?" Connor smirked as the words left John's mouth.
"Alright John, I'll forget about the money but, we'll see." With that Connor had turned and was making a beeline for the doors.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean!?" John exclaimed but he was already gone. Turning to his company he smirked and uttered, "Fucking eejit." To which the ensemble erupted into laughter.
"Fuck him anyway." Another voice popped up from the table as lines of cocaine were being done out in the middle for those present.
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By the early hours of the morning the party was wrapping up and it was only John and two others left as the doors shut behind them for the last time tonight. One of John's lackeys was locking up shop when they spotted two figures between the wrought iron fence that lined the pavement up the stairs from the pub's entrance.
"John!" The other of the last men standing roared as he made a move to take his boss to the ground. BANG. BANG. Two gunshots resounded from the nine mil, one meeting John's chest whose face scrunched as it felt like someone driving a hot poker into his chest. He fell, which meant the second gunshot had missed, the bullet lodged in the wall behind them. The don's companions had pistols drawn ready to fire back but the pair had already made their escape, the engine of a suped up rally car revving as the getaway vehicle sped off.
"That was fucking Connor! I saw the dirty rat's face!" The other male brushed him off as he frantically dialed emergency services, a few minutes later the familiar blue flash of an ambulance followed by a Garda car pulled up to the scene. While injured he was alive, and John felt almost empowered as he was carted away at all hours of the morning.
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"'Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems."
Regarded a watershed moment in Irish crime, the murder of Veronica Guerin, focused attention on organised crime like never before.
The period immediately after the crime journalist’s killing, on June 26th, 1996, was characterised by a clampdown on gangs, and the establishment of the Criminal Assets Bureau. The agency took multimillion-euro settlements from many leading gang leaders, but others relocated abroad, out of its reach. Some of them have been supplying the Irish drug market ever since.
At home the gangs they supplied benefited hugely from the higher disposable incomes of the boom years, with unprecedented numbers using so-called recreational drugs.
That money brought rivalry and feuding, and what has emerged is an underworld cycle where most gangs rise and fall within 10 years.
One group still bucks that trend: the international syndicate led by the Spain-based Dubliner Christy Kinahan, which remains the biggest supplier of drugs to Irish buyers.
The 10-year cycle has seen many of the leading figures on the domestic crimescene murdered. Several others have been jailed. Our story begins as individuals wrapped up in the nightmare that is Dublin Gangland.
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'The Northside Remembers' is a gritty crime drama based on Dublin's criminal underworld. It intends to depict the drug addiction, squalor and violence of organised crime that has grown in post-boom Ireland. Looking for four or five active and literate players to undertake a journey into the depths of Ireland's modern gangland. Mature content will follow so I ask all participants to be 18+.
Interested? Be heard and post below.
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Character Skeleton
name:
age:
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Copy Code
[hider=appearance][img][/img][/hider]
[color=???][b]name:[/b][/color]
[color=???][b]age:[/b][/color]
[color=???][b]sex:[/b][/color]
[color=???][b]race:[/b][/color]
[color=???][b]personality:[/b][/color] -good trait - bad trait - good trait - bad trait
[color=???][b]brief history:[/b][/color] [just a couple of paragraphs on their history and background]
[color=???][b]other:[/b][/color] [anything you think i left out]