# Vigilantism



## Living on a Prayer (Jun 15, 2010)

The beats of a generic house song were making the club into a place of deafening silence; I could not hear myself think, and surely couldn’t hear anyone else speak. It was almost refreshing. Interesting. I don't like clubs. 

I had a job in here, though. I had to kill some dope slinging bastard for an old friend. I call him Rico Suave, he's a 40-something washed up DEA agent who wears a little too much Drakkar Noir, but I've always liked him. He's a good guy.

Jobs are given to me by friends of friends of friends of friends. The only people who contact me directly are friends, like Rico Suave, and people who can pay to have it covered up. 

My boy Rico usually gave me stupid shit; blow up a cartel van, maybe harass some punkass dealers or something, but I'd do because I owe him. He's good like that, helps me out when I need it, and then I go and help him out.
However, this time, he actually gave me something good. Drug dealer, higher level, probably right below a major boss in their little hierarchy, but he bled like everyone else. He was known as Popeye. Rico's description: "Imagine Popeye went black, and got a lot more ugly, and a lot shorter." 

But apparently this guy was pretty good. Black Belt in whatever the fuck art, packed heat more than me, and he had a few attempts on his life already. Amateaur hour though. I'm a quiet professional. 

The catch, because there's always a catch; kill him in his own club, in fucking Midtown, on Saturday night.
I’m always up for a challenge.

The club, called "Estranged People", right off of the grid, but it was home for some washed up celebs, and some rising stars, and the usual club crowd. The men were all dressed the same. Dress shirt, jeans, way too much cologne. The ladies wore hardly anything, and a boatload of makeup. I threw on some stuff from my boy Calvin Klein and his pal Ralph Lauren, so I'd fit in.

I fucking hate clubs for a few damn good reasons. Primarily, it's so fucking loud that you can hardly hear anything, secondarily, it's so goddamn dark you can hardly see anything, and thirdly, it's so fucking close that you can bump into anyone, and you can feel steel more easily than at a goddamn 50 Cent concert. 

The bar looked great right now. I waltzed over to it, asked the bartender for Ketel One on the rocks, even though I wouldn't drink it. No need for something to slow myself down. I accepted the drink and let the guy have a twenty for being awesome. I knew him. He did the same thing as me. He gave me a nod and said,
"Next one's on the house, buddy." I nodded back.

I never thought of myself as an attractive guy, I'm no Channing Tatum or Brad Pitt or whoever's the big thing now. But I get hit on at bars like it's my fucking job. Mostly by wasted women. Usually they're pretty cute, and tonight was no exception.
"Hey there...wanna come back to my house and hang?" she said. Probably 23, pretty face, rockin' body, but she was kinda drunk. She was aware of what she was doing, but didn't care.

"Uhhh not really, I'm kinda meeting someone." I said, thinking about what I had to do later.

"Awww, come on, it'll be fun!" she said. She was getting persistent, grabbing me and calling her friends over.

"You're such a faggot! Why the fuck won't you come over and have fun with us? Are you gay or something?" she sputtered, and I wasn't too sure what to do, so I lied, which I'm good at.

"Sorry, I love the cock more than boobies. Just kidding, but I'm meeting my girlfriend here tonight, sorry ladies!" 

That sent them on their way. Thank God. I saw the club owner standing over the place in his little balcony. He was a fucking tool. I had to get in there with him, and I couldn't just walk in. The easiest way would be to get dragged in by their security. Bar fight. Easy enough.

I took the drink in my hand, and bumped into someone a little too much. He turned around and looked at me, and I looked at him.

"The fucks your problem, man?" he said.

"You're my problem douche, you fuckin' ran into me!"

"Fuck you!"

I popped him in the face with a nice right hook. He was out cold. People gathered around, the bouncers flew over like Lear jets. They tried to grab me, I threw the vodka into one of their faces, and kneed the other in the balls. I was pretty well trained, so I could beat the shit out of both of them quickly, but I wanted to get my ass kicked and get deeper into the club. They proceeded to punch, kick, and subdue me. I hadn't gotten my ass kicked like that since The Farm in Virginia. 

Getting dragged away by a large black man is entirely no fun. Especially when your back is getting cut by broken glass, you're getting an ocassional kick, and you can feel your body becoming a petri dish of STDs. Wonderful. I was thrown into a nondescript room, and it kind of fucking hurt. I rolled over, and looked about.

Taking in my surroundings, the room was for storage. It was lined with crates, boxes, and paraphernalia common to a club or bar. I felt for my pistol; still safe in its place. I saw a convenient metal chair, which I promptly sat down on. My story was, as usual, I was Matt O’Donnell. I was from up in Boston; (With an emphasis to be from Bahhston). I worked a fancy job at a computer firm, and made big bucks. I came down to NYC occasionally to get away from the Irish and the smell of fish, and that fucker who pissed me off insulted my girl and me, so I hit him. 

The large black man from who dragged me in here stepped in, licking his lips. He looked thirsty. Time to be real charming.
"You’re looking parched, big boy. What's up? They ain't paying you too good?" I said, with a half sarcastic, half sincere tone.
"Shut up, retard." He commanded. I decided to piss him off.
"What's up, they not letting you use the White stalls?"

That worked. He was fucking pissed. He took an XXL fist and went to hit me, too bad he was a ghetto kid and didn't know how to hit for shit. I dodged it quick, and had also fell on my ass, off the chair and he restrained me. He made sure the zip ties were real tight. 

"Ow, big guy. Get your boss in here before I give you 124 grains of pain." I said, with a smirk. Ouch, my lip hurt, I was bleeding. Bubba smiled at me.
"Shit's weak." I said, aloud. He turned to go hit me again, and there was a knock at the door. Bubba let him in, and then stepped out. The Boss. Guy had to be 5'4'', wiry build, sporting a small afro, real slim fit suit, black shirt and whtite tie.He wore tinted Ray-Ban aviators. I saw my own reflection in them, bleeding from the lip. That was cute. This guy was a bigger fucking tool up close.

"Listen up, dumbas-" he said, but I interrupted. 

"I'm sorry, did I piss off Bubba back there? He was trying to play touchy-feely, but I'm not into that." I said.

"Wooooo-wee, whitey's got a mouth. No wonder my boy Martin" with an emphasis to make it sound French,  "tied you up tight. Where you from, boy?"
"From Bahhhston, how 'bout you?" I said, he turned away. I always carried a little knife on me for situations just like this. He was mumbling on about Harlem, the Hood, real gangsters, real recognize real, stupid ass shit. I felt for my gat. Right where I left it. Fuck that, guns are loud. I started to slip out of the chair and he turned around.
 I went with a quick push kick to the balls, he was in extreme pain, started to curl up, and I hit him with an uppercut to the face, breaking the Ray Bans right into his eyes, he screamed in pain. Thank God this dumbass decided to soundproof his little room, so I grabbed him by the collar, turned him around, and jumped on him. I sunk in a rear-naked choke and a body triangle, and he was out pretty fast. I took my knife I had used to cut my restraints, and slit his throat. Messy. But I was sending a message.
Grabbing the dealer's Blackberry, I went through the texts until I found the ones from Rico's Confidental Informant, or C.I. He was going to get me out of the club, so I hit the CALL button on his contact, and I put the phone on speaker, setting it on the chair.
"What up?" the C.I. said.
"Not much," I said, and sighed, "One dead dealer, and I got one bigass bouncer outside, and I'm clear other than that. Wanna get me out?" I said.
"Shit bro, you're in some deep shit, that dude's connected. Fuck, well, I can try. Bash that door open, assuming you know that the bouncer is chilling outside, I know the room you're in, it's in a hallway, you'll be safe. Kill or knock out that bouncer, toss them both in that room, lock that shit up, then bounce." he said.

"Got it." I said, and hung up. Well this is gonna be interesting.




Maybe I'll write more, if ya'll like it.


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## ChristopherOlson (Jun 21, 2010)

Six days without a comment! Sorry about that. I'll do what I can to help.

   The writing itself isn't bad. It's not sloppy or grammatically incorrect. I'm not partial to the setting or the subject matter, though. Just for curiosity's sake, where were you planning on taking the story after this? The only way to get better is to keep on writing, so regardless of whatever opinions you get here—or don't get—keep on writing what you want to write. 

   Here are a few things I found:
 "Uh, not really. I'm kinda meeting someone," I said...

   "Remember to place a comma at the end of a quoted sentence," said ChristopherOlson. "Like this," he added with additional emphasis.

   There were various places in the story where this mistake occurred, so I only pointed out one of them.

The Boss. Guy had to be 5'4'', wiry build, sporting a small afro, real slim fit suit, black shirt and white tie. He wore tinted Ray-Ban aviators. 

"Wooooo-wee, whitey's got a mouth. No wonder my boy Martin," with an emphasis to make it sound French, "tied you up tight. Where you from, boy?"


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## vladu (Jun 21, 2010)

After reading this, i felt like i just saw the starting scene of a 90' action movie and, don't get me wrong, i liked it a lot. It captures exactly the necesary details and packs the right action at the right pace. 
The interaction is sincere and the dialogs seem very real, considering the circumstances. There are several things that don't really fit into the story:
- no professional would call himself a professional;
- a professional would know other professionals if they are not really professional;
- you can't kill a black belt that easy , not even in movies.

Also there seems to be a lot of gratuitous advertising scattered here and there that don't really fit. Of course some brands might be use to suggest things about the people in the club or the funds that main characters has, but to much of something ... is not nice .
I can't avoid noticing the abuse of the word "f**k" in a paragraph i will not be quoting ).

I minor improvement would be to make the transition from one idea to the other a bit more natural, giving the action a little more flow.

Keep it comming .


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## Deadally (Jun 25, 2010)

I liked the use of language, since it was first person perspective.  Some of it was difficult to suspend in terms of disbelief.  Why wouldn't the bouncer look for a gun or a knife?  Why didn't he just get thrown out like trash?

It was an interestingly told story, though!  I would recommend revising for grammar, as the mistakes took away from it.  There were thankfully not so many that it detracted a lot from the story.


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## cacafire (Jun 26, 2010)

*Critique #1*

The story might benefit from better organization. For example, a nice way to make the story more interesting in the beginning is to start it with the main character being restrained in the back room of the club. This immediately sets an atmosphere of tension that the narrator is in deep trouble; The reader will want to know what is happpening.

Another thing that will definitely benefit the story, and that you might want to work on: Try to plan out a little more backstory before you start making your character take out drug narcos or killing people. It might make sense at first glance to have the drug boss be located in a "club", but if you ask some basic questions, it starts to fall apart. Why is the drug boss in a club? Who is this drug boss? Where are they? Who are they selling drugs too?

Keep in mind, that the way you described the club, it sounds like something Right out of Hollywood, but I'd be hard pressed to give you any physical location where clubs are actually like that. (Then again, I've never actually been to a high clientele club like that...)

In any case, you have problems. Drug cartels, in real life, do not go to clubs. They don't own clubs. The Narcos in northern mexico do not own clubs. They deal drugs. They have nothing to do with the club business. So your narrator would never even go near a club to kill a drug lord.

Another thing: If this was anywhere other than the United states, the henchmen in the story don't bother with black-belts. They use full auto machine guns. Starting a fight with _anybody_ is a one-way ticket to hell.

Another thing: Your narrator talks like a 1930's gumshoe. Which is fine, if that's what you were aiming for. But just realize that its not exactly realistic.

Finally, you put a lot of action in the story, but my big thing, and it always has been, is that characterization always makes the story regardless of what the action is. If a character is put in trouble, the reader isn't going to care unless they personally like the character. And a good way to make the reader like the character is to have the Character act or say things that are like-able.

Your narrator has a lot of potential for being a likeable character, despite being a dated 1930's gumshoe stereotype. The way you do this is by giving him characteristics and actions that the reader himself has or would do. So, for example, if he's at the bar, and someone he respects is popping back the vodka martini Irish Car bombs, maybe the Main character tries one himself? Next thing you know, he's dancing on the table singing irish show tunes and then blowing chunks in the back of the alley while his "Respectable" pal does jello shots off of some hot brunnete. It's a strange example, but almost everyone would feel sympathy for a character like that. And a lot of people have had the experience of wanting to be accepted by someone we look up to. Though I'm not sure how it would apply in this story.

But you get the idea. Have you main character act in ways that build rapport with the reader, and when he's getting his neck snapped or his gut bulldozed by a bunch of mustachioed frenchmen, well be hooting and hollering like a bunch of maddened monday night RAW fans. :cheers:

In any case, Hope this helps, sincerely,

El Padrino dulcino del Tuyo, Cacafire. :afro:


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## Olly Buckle (Jun 26, 2010)

> Amateaur hour though. I'm a quiet professional.



 Typo_amateur


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## The Backward OX (Jun 26, 2010)

[ot]





> Deadally said:
> 
> 
> > Some of it was difficult to suspend in terms of disbelief.
> ...


[/ot]


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## Deadally (Jun 26, 2010)

It means exactly what I said, as explained in the sentence directly following it.  Can't be helped too much if I said it in an obtuse way, but I figure you know what it means to suspend disbelief and can piece together the meaning.


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## Living on a Prayer (Jun 27, 2010)

Thanks to everyone. I kinda started off with a concept and ran with it. It needs some serious revision and I'm gonna take everyone's advice in stride and fix it up. Cacafire-thanks for all the advice especially in terms of the story being realistic. It isn't really. I didn't think it through a lot and it appears like I have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about when I do, really this was just something where I kept envisioning scenes in my head then wrote them down and connected them. Vladu, the part about professional is true haha, and I'm unsure what both you and Cacafire are referring to by blackbelts...do you mean the main character? And to the product placement, I don't know why, it's something I like to do. It makes the story feel more real to me-in terms of being believable. Not sure. I'll tone it down. For the comma usage, Christopher Olson, always been a problem of mine...will try to work on it! Also regarding the cursing and whatnot, it's how I talk. So it's really hard for me to stop, and to be honest, everybody fucking curses. 

I'll be back soon enough with this story revised.


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## B.Mac (Jun 29, 2010)

I like anything remotely hard boiled, keep at it.


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## Living on a Prayer (Jul 1, 2010)

Dude hell yeah, Hard Boiled is my favorite and it and others of that genre are my inspiration for this.


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