[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Gu5Zf6b.png?1[/img] [b]Part 1: "Gimme the Loot"[/b][/center] [b]Spanish Harlem 10:58 PM[/b] "Up against the wall, fuck faces." Detective Sergeant Vincent Abbott walked up and down the sidewalk, strutting almost. On the wall to his left were over a dozen drug dealers with their hands against the wall, all of their pants were down around their ankles. Some of them were as young as twelve, but none of them were older than eighteen. A pile of small pile of drugs, money, and weapons sat on the sidewalk. The rest of Abbott's five-man narco crew looked on with guns in their hands and amused looks on their faces. The big man Malone had a sawed-off shotgun cradled in his hands. "We rolled through last night but it seemed like you didn't get the message. So, let me be clear." Abbott pulled a telescopic nightstick out and popped it open. He walked down the line, hitting each of the boys in the back of their kneecaps. One by one, they all went down to their knees in pain. Abbott spoke as he struck. "If. We. Don't. Eat. Nobody. Fuckin'. Eats." Abbott twirled the nightstick in his long, slender fingers as he looked down at the hurting men. "Either your boss bumps our monthly envelope by twenty percent, or every fucking corner he has in Spanish Harlem and nigger Harlem gets raided and indicted every night." "It's a small price to pay for peace of mind," Malone said before laughing and adding, "Peace of mind and intact kneecaps." Abbott laughed and bent down over the pile of contraband. He pocketed the cash and drugs before standing to look at the injured kids. "Look at all these weapons," he said to his men. "Seems like enough probable cause to run these fuckers in." --- [b]Harlem 1:21 AM[/b] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7hOaikNaVoY]Mood Music[/url] Hip-hop blasted from the bluetooth speaker set up on the table. Naked women moved to the beat as they cut and packaged drugs into little baggies. They weren't completely naked. Topless and bottomless, yes, but they all wore rubber gloves and surgical masks. At one large table, six women packaged cocaine while six more packaged heroin at an adjacent table. They were naked to prevent any stealing. Though, each of them were illegal immigrants and had too much to lose by skimming any of the top. Raymond Jones watched the girls working from the landing above the floor. He grunted and cracked his knuckles. He always cracked his knuckles when he contemplated and he had a lot to think about. One of his partners had just called with bad news. They'd lost a lot of product tonight, but that wasn't the problem. Product that they could eventually replace. Shit, the girls on the floor were busy doing that. But they had also lost respect. Respect couldn't be replaced as easily. Jones knew that the hard way from his days on the street. He'd been scrawny with a mouthful of rotting teeth. He'd been an easy target growing up, they called him Shitmouth and made him eat dog shit. But he got big, he got mean, and he got a new set of teeth. He fought back with his fists [i]and[/i] his teeth. He showed them by force to put respect on his name. But the motherfuckers disrespecting him now? That was a different case. They had no respect for the streets or the game. All they cared about was paper. But they were cops. And even thieving ass cops were still cops. Jones pulled his phone out and dialed his partner back. "Yo, it's me. How much you got in your rainy day fund?" He smiled, showing two rows of razor-sharp, metal teeth that shinned in the trap house light. "Why? Because I got an idea." --- [b]Bushwick, Brooklyn 1:46 AM[/b] "Language like muttering pant smells running silver scanning Passed down the Arab Street in the gutter patterns Translucent medium from its like i talky you of a place the vacuum of silent panic forgotten red mud flats sharp fish syllables where is he now? he moved as sharp as water assassins smile and drink--" Bullseye left the coffee shop, fighting an urge to kill the guy reading poetry on the stage. Bushwick was a different beast than he remembered it being. He'd moved here in hopes that it was still the crime-ridden hellhole from his youth. The neighborhood that clocked in almost eighty murders and two thousand robberies a year. He was looking forward to being accosted by some crackhead with a dull rusty knife, someone he could kill with a quick move and move on. But what he had found was far worse than crackheads. Bullseye had found hipsters. Crack had given way to kale, whores to gluten-free wheat germ. Property values were through the roof and it was artisan bakeries as far as the eye could see. He passed a group of young men and women wearing skinny jeans, flannel, and those stupid as fuck eyeglasses without any lenses in them. Bullseye reached into his jacket pocket and touched the razor-sharp playing cards he kept there. It would be the easiest thing in the world, a quick flick of the wrist, and they would all drop to the ground. That was when his phone rang. He stopped short and watched the hipsters pass by. The phone ringing meant there was a job offer. Nobody else had his phone number. He pulled it out and looked at the number with the Jersey area code before answering. "Yeah?" "It's me." The man on the other end was a lawyer and a go-between that fancied himself as a kind of criminal broker. "I got a job offer but it's risky." "How so?" "It involves cops. As in, cops are the target. But money wise it's worth the trouble." Bullseye paused for a moment and thought back to the poetry of the coffeehouse. "To get out of Bushwick I'd do it for free."