The Outfit IC

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The Outfit IC

Post by Kail DeWraith on Sun Jun 05, 2011 2:51 am

The trenches of Europe were hell. Men would say that God had forgotten the European battlefield and Satan had made it his home. Normal human beings could never survive in a place like the trenches. Devils and monsters on the other hand would flourish in environments like Europe. John was one of those monsters. Men specifically trained to fight in the trenches of Europe. Men who would hunger for the blood and death of the trenches, John is one of those men.

The stench of death filled John’s nostrils as he low crawled 200 yards towards the enemy machine gun position. Three other soldiers were spread out about 5 yards to the right and left of John. Each man carried a trench shotgun, a long trench knife, and a British made revolver. Mud covered each man as they slid through field.

John was skilled with his shotgun and knife. His large hands, strong arms, and violent temperament made it easy for him to open throats and clear trenches. He also enjoyed doing it. Something about feeling another human’s life leave their body gave him a high like nothing else in the world could. This night, in these trenches, it was no different. His knife would find more throats, his shotgun would be covered in blood, and the sweet ecstasy of death would fill him………………


………………………..A quiet knock woke the older man out of his dreams. A cold sweat covered his torso. Tired green eyes, constant scruff, and aged lines made the man look older than he was. A scarred hand grabbed the pearl handle of a Colt 1911 that rested under a flattened pillow. The man’s thumb mechanically rolled the hammer back to ready the firearm.

Walking across the grimy room wearing nothing, he stood to the right of the door. His left hand grasped the dirty door knob and he slowly opened the door. A black woman, the buildings house keeper, had a note for him. She didn’t look him in the eyes. Fear was a tool that men like him used. Taking the note in his free hand he let the door close behind him. Opening the folded piece of paper a single word, bridge, was scribbled in ink. Crumpling the paper up, he tossed it aside.

The man was John, a hired gun for the Syndicate that specialized in bank robbery, kidnapping, and murder. Many things could be said about him. Drunk, womanizer, liar, cheater, scum of the earth, all of these things were true. But above all else, John was a business man. He was hired to do a job and he would do that job with mechanical efficiency. The piece of paper told him he had a job to do. He had been hired by one of the Syndicate families to do something.

John looked at a silver plated pocket watch. He had about 2 hours of sleep. Whiskey could still be smelt on his breath and he could still taste the stale drink. Grabbing the bottle, he finished the bottle off, and tossed it with the rest of the garbage that had gathered in his room. John coughed slightly from the strong drink, stretched his muscular frame, and grabbed his clothes. A dark grey pinstriped suit, his twin 1911 shoulder holster, and his Browning Hi Power pistol that was carried in the mid of his back. Slipping his clothes on, John brushed his teeth, grabbed his hat, and left his small apartment.

Hitting the streets the green eyes of John searched. He had grown use to being aware of his surroundings. Dealing in death, John had many enemies. Making sure it was clear, John moved into the crowd. He made his way towards the Ma Mia’s Bistro near the Brooklyn-Queens Bridge. Him and his new group of “employees” would meet Pretty Ricky there to discuss their new assignment.


Each member of the Outfit will receive a similar message. A single word “bridge” wrote on a small piece of paper. The word “bridge” is a code word for the Brooklyn-Queens Bridge restaurant called Ma Mia’s Bistro. It is owned by the Capo Regime Ricardo “Pretty Ricky” Denaro. The meeting is always the next day at noon.

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Re: The Outfit IC

Post by Gadreille on Tue Jun 14, 2011 5:05 pm

Rita sat at the long, oak table that was the only piece of furniture in the dining room. There were sixteen chairs, all of them empty but hers and one other. Across the long table was Mr. Joseph Samson, her father. He had a newspaper propped up and barely nodded as she sat at the table. He always read the paper, but this was the sunday paper which he usually read more than once if he couldn't find anything better to do. The table was already set and the food was yet to be served, but Rita wasn't hungry. She picked up a fork absentmindedly, pretending to admire it as a distraction to the cold quiet of the room.

"Well, open it!' Her father shouted, and Rita jumped, dropping her fork against the fine tableware. Her father sighed and mumbled as she looked around and only just noticed a box occupying a chair that was near the middle of the table. She got up, approached the box, and lifted the lid.

It was a fur coat. Months ago she would have drooled over such a thing. Now, she just felt disgusted. What had he paid for it while there were people starving out there? She hadn't known, before. She hadn't known how bad it was. She always thought that the suffering was far away, not in the streets before her lavish home. When she left, it didn't take long to learn what a depression was.

"What is the occasion?" She asked, keeping her voice level.

"Occasion? You're scrawny as a barn rat and if I gotta take you out on business I don't want them seeing how awful you look. You need to eat and get that figure back. You look bad, I look bad. Bad publicity is bad business! You need to get yourself together, girl, and get you a man quick because so help me next time you run out I aint takin' you back. Now thank your father for the nice fur coat and eat your food."

His tone changed little throughout the lecture and she found herself back in her seat as dinner was served, at some point mumbling a "thank you, father." The fur coat lounged about an empty chair in a mocking manner. You've got it all girl, it said. A whole lot of nothing.
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Introducing the Calamity, Dorian Gregory!

Post by The Calamity on Wed Jun 22, 2011 8:09 pm

“What the hell am I doing here?” He chuckled beneath a breath of exhaled cigarette smoke.

Dorian was enjoying a sunrise cast across the Newtown Creek from the Green Point Avenue draw bridge. The morning sky was red. It was quite brilliant, the eerie glow of red characterizing the latest bloodshed that still felt fresh upon his hands. It had become common happenstance after nearly a decade of calamitous activities commonly featured amongst the city headlines. It was mesmerizing.

The previous night Dorian had spent his evening in a little tavern in Queens known as the Heaven’s Cloud. It was definitely a name that beguiled the true environment of the establishment. The outside mimicked the other buildings on the street, compiled of well crafted beautiful stone masonry with an intricate trim beneath the gutters and a roof consisting of Spanish tile. It was rather attractive from the outside, which was probably one of the few reasons it had done so well. It was one of the few taverns in this particular stretch of Queens’ streets, so even if a patron had been turned away by the deception the next drinking hole was quite a walk.

On the inside, the Heaven’s Cloud had looked as though it had not been touched since the onset of Prohibition. Now that the Devil’s water had been reestablished as a viable source of income once again, the owner just unlocked the doors and let the patrons wander in. The walls were clad in cobwebs and the tapestries plastered with dust. Most of the furniture had been stretched beyond their years of sturdiness. Even the few new pieces of furniture had been obscured by the dust that still wafted through the air. Interestingly enough, only a few short months after the amendment cutting Prohibition from the Constitution had been passed, Heaven’s Cloud had grown to receive a certain reputation. The “cloud” they were speaking off had been the dingy clouds of second hand smoke that engulfed every patron who stood taller than six feet tall. Even the ceiling fans had difficulty dispersing the pollutants.

“Agh…another shot Jimmy.” Dorian coughed as he wiped the alcohol from his mouth on the back of his hand.

The scotch was terribly dry. It was over one hundred proof and obviously made with the intention of being sipped as opposed to dropped down one’s gullet. However, it had been a few days since his last encounter of explosive measures and it had kept him a little on edge. Even as he grew older Dorian found it difficult to disperse the pent up tension. He had learned to drown his frustration in alcohol. It was a common sight given the times. The depression had fell upon the city like softball sized hail cutting down even the most resilient of entrepreneurs. Dorian had been no different.

“What’s your name?” A gentle coo like a dove came wafting through the stagnant air caressing Dorian’s ear.

Before he had the opportunity to respond the well dressed female patron had already sat down gently caressing his thigh, “Looks like you’re in for the long haul sweetie.”

“M-my…the names Gregory…Do—*hick*...” Dorian made a very real attempt to stifle his drunkenness in the presence of such a sultry woman.

“Pleased to meet you Gregory…” Before she could continue on, the bartender had returned with Dorian’s shot.

“This one is in the tank miss; you’d probably be better off leaving this one in the gutter.” Jimmy said wiping the counter top after picking up the empty glass Dorian had emptied on a few moments earlier.

The sultry woman leaned in closer to Dorian’s ear with the intention of whispering sweet nothings into his ear. Unfortunately, the bartender had zapped what little time she had remaining to have her fun. With a clenched jaw the woman’s eyes widened as she felt a tight grip clasped against her shoulder.

“Angelina, why do you always have to go slumming? Do you think Ricky works so hard so that his little sister can pick up some worthless fish from every hole in the wall we visit?”

With a strong hand, Armand pulled Angelina up from her stool with a smile. While he made a very real attempt to usher the sultry woman towards the door, she pulled away from the larger man.

“Well Armand, I think I’ll cover his bill. Obviously, times are hard.”

Angelina reached into her pocket book while she sauntered over to the barkeeper before she slid a few paper bills beside the shot glass that Dorian had yet to finish off.

“Make sure when you toss him out, be gentle.” Angelina finished before turning around to trail in Armand’s wake as they both exited the establishment.

“Hey…” Dorian shouted as he grasped at the air making a very real attempt to stop Angelina from walking out. Unfortunately, his vision had been too blurred to allow for any viable source of movement.

Dorian clasped the edge of the bar tightly, pulling himself up from the stool that kept him stable in front of his drink. His feet wavered only slightly before he palmed the glass of scotch from the bar and down it in one feral gulp. His satisfaction was amplified in the form of a dastardly grunt, followed by a hacking cough.

“Jimmy... I’ll see ya…” Dorian stammered as the bartender scooped up the funds left by the sultry woman before she had left.

“Hold up there kid.” Jimmy began coming out from behind the bar sliding the money in his pocket, “That little number left this for you, I think.”

Jimmy was holding a small piece of paper that had been folded up leaving the contents a mystery. He did well to stuff it into Dorian’s pocket before patting him on the back and practically shoving him out the door.

“Sober up boy, this’ll be good for you. Go take her out, you could use a friend.”


“Bridge…” Dorian read from the small scrap of paper he held in his free hand.

With a deep breath the Irish explosives technician had crumpled up the piece of paper and tossed it over the edge of the bridge and into the water. He had little use for it after learning of the contents. While he had expected an address and the name of the girl who had left it, he had received one solitary word. It was the name provided for the restaurant that was no less of a dilapidated hole in the wall than any other. It just was not Dorian’s idea of a good time. This particular establishment put him a little too close to the goombahs.

Dorian stood up from the railing taking one final drag from the cigarette before flicking it over the banister. After exhaling the smoke he rubbed his eyes turning towards the restaurant. In disbelief Mr. Gregory shook his head. Taking a deep breath Dorian stuffed his hands into his pockets before starting his lonely stroll towards the Brooklyn-Queens Bridge restaurant.
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Re: The Outfit IC

Post by RavishingRen on Mon Jun 27, 2011 6:13 pm

"What can I get for you today?" Raevyn asked, sugar pouring from her voice. The gentleman that had just walked into the shop was relatively tall for an Italian, at least six foot, which some of the deepest brown eyes she'd ever seen. She shook her head slightly, willing her mind away from men in any way but business.

"I'd like to purchase a bouquet." He said in a scruff voice. Raevyn just raised an eyebrow at him.
"Well, sir, as you can see, we have plenty to choose from. What sort of occasion are you looking for? Birthday, anniversary, missed anniversary?" She asked, walking out from behind the counter to lead him towards some flowers.

"Greco said you had wonderful bouquets for evening dates." The man said, a little edge of nervousness in his voice.

Oh, so this is the rookie Greco said he was sending over. Time to give this gent a scare. Raevyn thought to herself as she walked towards the front door, flipping the "Closed" sign over and pulling the blinds and curtains to.

"Did Greco say what you would have to do to get an evening bouquet?" Raevyn said, in a rather sultry tone, turning back to the man to put the most smoldering look possible in her eyes. The man's pulse noticeably quickened, though a small smile came to his lips in response.
"He said there could be some perks, depending on your mood."

"Is that so? Well then." Raevyn said, leaning close to the man's chest and running her hand down the buttons of his suit. The man reached his hand towards her face to lift it up to his, and she dangled a little bag in front of his face, pushing him away, and pulling her Webley from a small pouch sewn in the back of her dress and aiming directly for his heart. The man quickly put his hands into the air.
"What's your name?" Raevyn demanded.

"C-c-carl. Carl Lowrey." The man managed to stutter out, and immediately Raevyn knew he was younger than he first appeared.

"Well, Carl, let me tell you something." She said, dropping the bag onto the floor and crushing it with her foot, causing a small puff of white powder to pop out of the side of the bag. "You're gonna get down on my flower shop floor here, and lick this mess up to account for your failure."

"B-b-but, Greco said he'd kill me if I lost those! I'm going to die! I have a family! We just couldn't make ends meet! I have a sick Mama!" Carl began spewing excuses and Raevyn simply cocked her gun, immediately causing him to drop down and start licking up the mess, sobbing all the while. After a moment he stopped and looked at her.

"It's... It's sugar?" He sighed in relief, nearly falling over. Raevyn uncocked the revolver and swiftly tucked it back into her pouch.

"Carl, you go back to Greco, and you tell him you ain't ready for the big deals yet. There are a lot of pretty ladies who know how to play this game, and you will lose in a heartbeat. Most of them, are not as sweet as I am. Do you understand me?"

Carl nodded furiously. "As for that sick Mama of yours, you take her some of those Lavendar flowers over there, so she'll stop stressing about having a boy like you who can barely take care of himself taking care of her." Carl nodded again, took one of the bouquets of Lavendar, and nodded his head to Raevyn before tearing out of the store without another word. Raevyn sighed heavily as she grabbed a dust pan and broom before opening the blinds. As she began to sweep she noticed a small sheet of paper sticking out of the bag as well. Already guessing what it said, she plucked it carefully to see the word "Bridge" scrawled across it.

Knowing she'd have work to do in the morrow, she calming cleaned the rest of the mess up, and kept the shop closed for the day, preparing for whatever the next day might bring.
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Re: The Outfit IC

Post by Gabe on Tue Jul 05, 2011 11:51 pm

Anthony's head rocked back from a punch to the forehead, then to the side with a follow up cross. He staggered back a bit before returning a low punch to his opponent's gut, followed by a headbutt. The one two combo seemed like a good idea at the time, but only made his entire face burn even more.

"Aw, what the fuck Swain?!" was all his opponent could say, who dropped his guard and put his hands forward in surrender. A high pitch bell rang, and a few laughs could be heard in the gym hall.

"Hands boy, your hands only! This isn't a bar brawl, it's boxing." his trainer said, helping Anthony remove the tape from his hands.

"Ah yeah, sorry about that Tommy. I get excited is all...ya know?" Anthony replied to his sparring partner, trying to suppress a laugh. He patted his hands together after they were free from the gloves, and gave Tommy a conciliatory slap on the arm.

"I'll be seeing you boys next week." Anthony said as he headed off to the showers.

Beringer's gym was by no means a Golden Glove establishment, but Anthony had taken to training there on a regular basis. Ever since he made it beyond petty crime jobs, Anthony started training himself for more direct jobs. If Salvatore hadn't been such a fat slob, he could have at least made a run for it, maybe holed up in a safehouse. Instead, he died in a pool of his own sweat and blood. Bearing that in mind, Anthony had made it a point to get strong or get dead.

Anthony taped a bandage to his cheek after he got out of the shower. The swelling would go down, but it was the little cuts that always stung the most. When Anthony opened his locker, something seemed different. He reached inside and retrieved his Webley. A quick check revealed that all 6 rounds were still in it. The rest of his personal effects were still intact as well. With a small sigh, he pushed his paranoia aside and continued getting dressed.

Anthony felt a lump in one of his shoes once he slipped them on. He quickly removed it and felt inside. It was a slip of paper that most certainly wasn't there when he arrived at the gym. He unfolded it to find the word 'Bridge' scrawled on the inside.

"The hell?" he said aloud. It wasn't the first time that he had either received or delivered a similar message, but these more invasive 'drops' were getting annoying. What was wrong with sending a runner in person? Anthony had been doing it for years with no problems.




Anthony approached Ma Mia's about ten minutes to noon. There were a few regulars around talking, smoking, drinking. Anthony knew a few by name, but most were just nameless thugs. Some of the bigger names were there too, but Anthony likely didn't have any business with them. This was most likely just another delivery job that needed to be kept secret.
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Re: The Outfit IC

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