Rogueish Behavior... totally done. [explicit]

[Hi-strung]

[Note: David is Dreamer's birth name. His social worker is the only one who uses it]
Chapter 1: Social Security

I see his eyes sink down, down, not looking in the eyes, but at the raw, chapped skin that were once my knuckles. Watch all the movies you want; they never tell you about the flaying of the flesh, the pain that comes with every blow you inflict. "So, David, I see you've been applying yourself as much as usual to getting out of here..." he says, a look of half-pity, half-contempt in his eyes. "What's it to you, anyways? Jesus Christ, why can't you people let me live my life the way I want?" is the best I can shoot back. Every two weeks, this is where I find myself, a bland room with a dull man asking lame questions. "Why? WHY? Lemme tell ya something David, attempted robbery, assault with intent to kill, evading arrest! That's why! Damnit, why do I even..." I tune him out. Besides, I ain't killed nobody. Just split a few skulls, maybe put a few punks in the hospital. I'll be damned if I'm the worst of the lot. I begin to nod, murmuring 'yes' every twenty seconds. The hour session stretches into days, weeks, years. Finally, I hear him say, "Alright. I can see you don't care. Real smart guy ain't ya? Keep this up, David, and you'll be here until the day you die. Probably tomorrow, or next week. Get the hell outta here, you stink." Man, does this guy get me riled. "I stink? Look at you, ya goddamned crumb! At least I have a life to live!" I storm out, the cut on my leg still slowing me down. Down the stairs, down the chute, down into hell I limp.

I hit the streets, still fuming. It's daytime, and I squint; normally I would be asleep, but every two weeks... well, you know. I make it all of fifteen steps to the corner when I hear, "Yo, Dreamer! DREAMER!" I sigh, turning around. I see a black kid hustling toward me. He's almost six feet tall, almost 150 pounds, and from my experience, almost so freakin' lame it hurts. He comes up beside me, panting slightly. In his right hand, he holds a tank-top; my tank-top. He hands it to me while saying "Hey Dreamer, I heard you from all the way up 72nd! Sounds like another booming success." "Good to see you too, Scourge. Now shut up and gimme my colors before I lay it on you too." He tosses it to me, smirking like the goddamned snake he is. On his right hand are four rings, one for each freshman year he went through; it's his trademark: one right cross from him, your mug would scare off even the Gladiators. My hand shoots down to the cut on my leg just at the mere mention of 'em. Goddamned crumbs. As I head back to the hangout, I toss on the tank-top. Embroidered on the back are the words "Blacktop Busters" with a picture of a raccoon holding a switchblade. This is my armor, my soul. David ceases to be; I once again become Dreamer the soldier.

[Hi-strung]

[Note: David is Dreamer's birth name. His social worker is the only one who uses it]
Chapter 2: Real Heavy Set-Up

I'm back at the hangout, an old warehouse that would give a Fire Inspector nightmares. The smell of sweat mixed with vomit, alcohol mixed with pungent smoke: let's face it: this place sucks, real big. But it's home. "Yo, check it out! Dreamer, back from the living dead. How's that old prick doin'?" shouts Rigger, a small, wiry white mother with the saddest 'fro you've ever seen. But he's solid, rock solid. He's real high up in the Buster's, almost vice-president. "Ah, fuck him. What'd I miss?" His face glows, must be some good news. "That's right man, you don't know! The main man says we gonna trample the Gladiators, right up off their own turf! First hit's gonna be tonight, we gonna fuck up their dealers, send them a warning... THEN IT'S WAR!"

Shit. First five minutes I'm back, we're starting a war. Chuck, our president, really must've gotten pissed off this time. I rub the slow-healing cut on my leg, remembering...
[One Week Ago]
"Hey, asshole! Yeah, you! You lost or something? Or are you just so fucking stupid you thought it'd be a good idea to come through here in Buster colors?"
Fuck. Just keep walking. Faster. Gotta start moving.
"Hey, dickweed! You listen when I speak, you hear me?"
Jesus, this was a bad idea. Keep moving. Don't show weakness, don't show them respect.
"Ah, look at the little bitch go! We'll take care of you later, faggot!"
Whew, it's over. Dammit Chuck, this had better be real important. I keep walking down this street, their street. Heart pounding, adrenaline that could make the dead rise. Five minutes of hell. Then it's done. I'm out. I finally relax, and slow down just a little. Just enough so that the brick sailing at the back of my head hits bulls-eye. Dead on. I wake up in the morning at my hangout, with a cacophony of static buzzing through my head. I try to get up... "SHIT! HOLY MOTHER OF CHRIST!!!" Thunder shoots up my leg. I look down, notice the bloodstain. Peel back the denim, and look at the carving in my thigh. A "G". For gladiator. Fuck. My eyes close again...
[Flashback over!]

Well, damned if that doesn't piss ya off. I'm starting to figure that maybe this is a good idea. "Alright. You send the word, Rigger, I'm there," "No shit," he replies, "Chuck's giving you the lead on this one. Figures you want it the most. You better go see him," Well, that's something new. If he thinks I'm ready, then I'm ready. I approach his 'office', a ratty old fold-out bed buried underneath bottles of beer, and what looks to be like some real high-class wool. He spots me outta the corner of his eye, and manages to untangle himself. "Dreamer, my man! How's it goin'?" he asks. I almost say something, but then he's off talking again: "I guess Rigger already told ya. I really need you to keep a level head though. Take four guys, and get Lucky Luke. He's their supply, if he's out, they stand to lose a shitload a' dough. Take out the G's only if you know you can handle 'em. And one last thing: I hear Lucky's real fond of the Bust-a-Nut bar. Find him in there. Take care of him. Now, get the hell outta here, can't ya see I'm busy?" Typical. Well, time to get a crew together. Rigger walks over straight off, I don't even have to ask. Now, this jaunt ain't nothin' special: we don't need any scouts, blades, or delegates. Just muscle. And when you're lookin' for just muscle, there ain't none finer than the kind you find on guys like Griz. If we got him, things would be a lot smoother. I look around... of course, the big lug's knocking the bejesus outta one of our heavy bags. I approach, keeping an open face. "You heard? We got a little operation going on tonight." "We gonna bop?" "Come on man, why else would I ask ya to come? Your beautiful baby blues?" He chuckles, then nods. "Alright, I'm down. One thing though: String comes with." "Yeah whatever. Bring him over too." He nods and beckons. String comes over. String's an artist, but he ain't the best. But we don't have to cover him like other families do. String can handle himself, especially in a one-on-one. I figure, maybe a little snuffing is in order. Good. One more to go. Once more, my eyes take in all the brothers who are in here. Scourge? Hell no. Jimmy P? Not quite. Wheels? We don't need a scout. Aha! How about Stone? He's perfect: level-headed and as solid as... well, stone. He sees me eyeing him, nods, and comes over. Mother don't speak much. "Alright, you guys ready? We hit the station at nine, and fuck up this Lucky Luke mother."
Nice and simple, I sit back and chill until nine comes around...

[Hi-strung]

[Note: David is Dreamer's birth name. His social worker is the only one who uses it]
Chapter 3: Bad Vibes

(2 days after operation Lucky Luke)

String's still in the hospital. Doctor says he oughta be fine in a couple weeks. Real nasty cut though. Damned if that fucker pulled a knife on us. Thank Christ he only got String. The rest was cake. You shoulda seen Griz and Stone go at it; Stone holds the little bitch's hands behind his back, Griz wallops em with a straight that would make an executioner weep. We musta took down 15 of those Gladiators, and with Lucky Luke outta the picture until his broken limb...I guess limbs, heal up, the G's are gonna have real tough time of it. Even Chuck stood up to shake my hand after words. But I can tell something's wrong. Chuck was nervous, even a little shaky. I don't give a fuck right now, vengeance makes everything else fade away...
[That Night]
Chuck stands on his soapbox and whistles. Convention time. We ain't had one of these in at least three months. Something heavy's coming up, and I don't like it. Before I can think about it more, Chuck starts: "Busters! You know that we're all brothers! You know that we can take on anyone! You know that each of you is my blood, my family! That's why I'm gonna lay it on you, no bullshit! Our scouts have spotted Riff dayrunners, heading out for the heavy sets turf. Our diplomats have caught word of some big conclave, only the big rumblers invited. And lastly, my man Dreamer here heard something strange last night..."

I had almost forgot. We were whupping on this Gladiator, really laying it down. Then, the fucker spits out a couple of teeth, and grins. And spits out that "You shitheads gonna be history by next month. Gone! Kaboom. Suck on that! Really heavy mothers, huh? We'll see who's bopping eventually." He started to say something else, but I got bored and knocked him on the head with a brick. I only mentioned it to Chuck 'cause I thought it was funny... but now it seems that bitch really meant it...

Chuck has still been speaking. I start listening again: "... I know some of you are worried, shit, I am too. We ain't been invited, and I think that if we ain't, the Buster's gonna be shit in less than a year. So I invited this guy here..." he gestures to this greasy-looking white dude, with some real hippy hair. Black leather vest, and a zip-up hoody. I don't like where this is going. "...This here is a delegate from a family called the Rogues. They already got an invitation, and they've made us an offer. We become Rogues, we live. Stay Busters, we die. You brothers oughta know that this won't change jackshit about our set, aside from the name. But I gotta step down, and hand over presidency to Luther. I love you guys like my brothers. Busters...FALL OUT!" He steps down. I can see the tears on his cheek. But if Chuck thinks it's a good idea, I'll go with it. But I am picking up some real bad vibes from this Luther. He steps up now, and begins to yell: "Rogues! FALL IN! My name's Luther, and I'm in charge now. I heard this family was solid, but as of right now, that don't mean shit to me! You're going to have prove yourself to me! Now get your goddamned colors on and get me some fuckin' dope! That's it! Why are ya standing around still? GET OUTTA HERE!"

Shit. I really don't like this. I pick up my new colors, and head out to think for a little. Real bad vibes...

[Zen444]

Who's David?

[Jigsaw]

Nice dude.. but whos David? lol

[Furies4life]

Awsome story bro... but really who's David like eveybodys else is saying?

[Hi-strung]

By the way, I do plan on finishing this up. Dreamer will be an unnamed character in the movie...

[Hi-strung]

Conclusion

"Shit, man... I don't like this at all..." someone mutters behind my back. I turn; of course it's Scourge. "Shut the fuck up, Scourge, you're the one always kissing his ass!" Rigger's obviously a little steamed about the situation as well. "No shit I am! 'Case you haven't noticed, tough shit, people who ain't kissing his ass have a way of disappearing. Don't look at me like that! When's the last time you saw Chuck?"
"At the convention...but he ain't dead! I know it! Not Chuck!"

Seldom does life work itself out in such ironic crescendos. We're walking down what is the Rogues' latest turf addition. It was ours once, but that don't mean jackshit once Luther came around. Of course no one wants to army with that fuckin' lunatic, but Scourge is right: if you don't, you got a funny habit of falling into the river, or getting a pole wrapped around your head. Seemingly just to prove this point, Stone notices a Buster tank hanging out in the dumpster 'cross the alley. He points, we look. I cross the street, wincing at the rank smell. I toss the dumpster open. Nausea becomes an understatement. I puke my fuckin' guts out, right there. Chuck, well, half of Chuck, is laying in the dumpster with flies sticking where his legs used to be. The rest sprint over, and begin heaving too. "Holy shit! Luther pushed him in front of a train! That fuckin' piece of shit! I'm gonna split his fuckin' psycho head right down the fuckin' middle! Luther, you watch your fuckin' back!!!" Griz roars, stomping back to the hangout. He's around the corner before anyone can stop him. We all sit, dumbfounded, thinking in the fuckin' alley where Chuck's life bled away. Where our lives are bleeding away. All of it, gone. Pissed away for this fucking conclave... hourse pass before any of us get up and walk to the nearest shelter. No way in hell we're going back to that hangout. No way...

[The next night]
"Hey assholes, we missed ya last night!" Luther squints at us, obviously stoned right to the moon. "Sorry bout that, Luther, we just stopped to visit String," I say, trying not to spit in his eye. "Fuck him! Man, I'm telling you, I got the fuckin' answer right here. Right...in...my..." He's asleep. Jesus Christ, what a fuckin' nut. I walk away in disgust, but Rigger stops me. He points at Luther's pocket. "What the fuck you trying to get at, Rigger?!" He pulls me away, and whispers into my ear, "You see that? YOU SEE THAT? He's got a gun, and unless I'm stupid, he's taking it to this meeting tonight! And I still haven't seen Griz all day. Put it together..." He walks away. Shit. None of the old buster's is going up to this conclave. All old Rogues, eating out of Luther's hand. 'Someone's gotta get out there' I think. I start to head to the door, thinking maybe I'll beat him there. No luck. Cropsey, Luther's butt-buddy, is standing by the door. "Slow down, soldier, you're staying home tonight. We gonna take care of everything, don't you worry."

Normally I wouldn't worry, but I look back to Luther and see him smiling and feeling around in his pocket. Better play it cool. "Yeah, yeah, whatever..." I sit and wait for an eternity, dozing off. I wake up a couple hours later, Luther's gone. Cropsey too. Time to move. I sneak towards the door. Fuck. Two big Rogues blocking the way. They don't see me, all of the old Busters are looking away and whistling. Good. I pick up a bottle from the ground, sneak up, and tap the left one on the shoulder. He turns, just in time to see the bottle fall down into his mouth. He falls down moaning and spitting teeth. The other looks over, swears, and lays into me. We both fall to the floor, trading punches. My knuckles split, and blood gushes out. Once, twice, three times he gets me in the stomach. I'm down and out. He gets up, brushes some dust off his shoulder, and grabs the broken bottle. "See you later, shitface," he sneers. I lay squirming, but now it's just a ploy. Right when the shard comes to my neck, I get him in the back of the knee with my heel. He misses and falls to his knees. I shoot up and nail him with an elbow to the face. I feel the cartilage in his nose bend, then tear. He falls over, onto his friend. I rush out the door, and sprint to the subway station as fast as I can...

[Two Hours Later]
"What about our patrols?"
"Still nothing... but there's someone here you should talk to."

[Hi-strung]

bumping because I finished it. I wrote this story because I always thought that the rat looked like a 'half-rogue', and I think this story explains why. Any feedback appreciated.

[prozium]

Not bad, not bad at all Very well writtena nd very interesting.

[Mercy88]

pretty good 

[Juniper]

It`s excellent but one thing I don`t get in the movie Luther isn`t the real warlord it just looks like that because he has the group of Rogues beside that fact it`s one of the best fics I have ever read