Fan Fic contest: Semi Finals: Dud vs Gramercy Riff99 vs Lady Warrior

Warriors fan fiction created by members of the forum.
Post Reply
User avatar
nazzac
Rank: Warrior
Posts: 334
Joined: Tue Mar 25, 2008 7:55 am
Location: Halifax england

Fan Fic contest: Semi Finals: Dud vs Gramercy Riff99 vs Lady Warrior

Post by nazzac »

Guys this is the semi final: 2 will progress to the final

Gramercy Riff99 vs Lady Warrior vs Dud

An interesting match.

The Topic of you Fan Fic is: The one and Only

The Fan Fic can be as long as you want, but remember Quality over Quantity. The Fan Fic has to be finished by the deadline, and has to link in with the title, and be warriors based, not something of Harry Potter or Twilight..

I will be judging on:

Interest
Detail
How well it can paint a picture in my head
How it links in with the title

The deadline is Next Wednesday at 17:30 GMT


I wish all of you the best of luck, and may the best writer win
Nazzac The Living Legend: http://warriorsmovie.co.uk/forum/index.php?topic=11962.0

The Bangers(F): http://warriorsmovie.co.uk/forum/index.php?topic=10828.0

FURIES:Their Story(F): http://warriorsmovie.co.uk/forum/index.php?topic=10754.0

User avatar
the lady warrior
Rank: Warrior
Posts: 295
Joined: Mon Jul 13, 2009 8:51 pm

Re: Fan Fic contest: Semi Finals: Dud vs Gramercy Riff99 vs Lady Warrior

Post by the lady warrior »

:D cool cant wai for this i might not post too early coz i want to think about this story more and try to get as much thinking time as i can i might post on saturday or monday!!

User avatar
the lady warrior
Rank: Warrior
Posts: 295
Joined: Mon Jul 13, 2009 8:51 pm

Re: Fan Fic contest: Semi Finals: Dud vs Gramercy Riff99 vs Lady Warrior

Post by the lady warrior »

:D ok guys here's mine, wish me luck im up against some amazing writer's here!!

                                  the one and only!!


Scopes was the bomb and he was the best graffiti artist around the big NYC, he had his works of art on nearly ever piece of square building and he had also teached some greats like: rembrandt(who was his bestest buddy and pupil), some of the moonrunner's including luna 51, and many more gang greats, scope died on 3rd march 88 and he died for what he belived in-GRAFFITI!!
this is his story of that tragic disaster!!

Scopes was born in harlem in 1950 and lived in an all black community, he had 5 other sibling's, 3 girls and 2 boy's: jay-jay and zack, sherelle,louise and rosie. they lived in a 3 bedroomed house and had a good and rightious up-bringing until his mum and dad died in 1969 by a thug who mugged them and then knifed them, scopes was older enough to understand a black kid was not going to find a home as easy as a white one, cos some people thought the blacks caused all the trouble in new york when they did not, scopes didnt care he thought they were all racist bastards in any ways, he had been piecing for quite a while and was the first person to discover tagging in the late 60's in the NYC, so yeah he was pretty respected and was of course a legend.

Before you know it in the 70's everyone in gangs tagged and alot of people came to scopes to get taught by the legend himself,then he was introduced to rembrandt in the warriors and teached him some fine skill's. now you have a bit of background here is the tragic happening in 88, scopes now lived in the most coolest place in soho and had throuhg the eighties stepped up the bench-mark for graffiti and it was proffessinally noticed by a famous artist called zeck bolage, he asked scopes if he could have some of his work hung in his gallerey in L.A, so he accepted and was now a celeb not just in NY but in L.A and chicago!!

Everything was going just swell for scopes he was in the money and he and everyone else knew he had earned and deserved that money so they didnt begrudge him, scopes was just woken up louldy by his alarm clock, RING...RING..RING
"ok you stupid fuckin thing im getting up", scopes said as he angrily turned his alarm clock off. he got up and got dressed in his usaul hip-hop caps and best range threads, then he decided to go see his buddy rem(who lived a couple of bloks away from him in another set of apartment's in soho. as he was walking down the stairs he saw jen(a girl he was desperatley tryin to impress) he walked up to the hot choclate babe and said"ya know have i ever told you that you are the most gorgeous choclate girl i have ever seen"
"did i also never tell you that i have a man and his name is ricky, OK"
"WHOA dont bite my head of baby love you"... he lunged forward and snogged her she struggled and then gave him an almighty slap acrosshis face, he laughed and replied" hey well you'll give me a call right" SLAM, "i guess not then", scopes didnt know this but remhad been hiding down the side of the stairs watching and just as scopes was going to turn around rem jumped on him and wrestled him to the floor saying"you got the worst chat-up lines ever bro, ther're off the 70's baby it is now 1988 updayte your brain mann its warped", scopes dived on him giving him a nuggy saying"oh yeah well she still digs me i can tell". rembrandt just laughed and thought he was crazy, they talkjed for a while and scopes decided to go to a tagging compotetion coz he was bored there was nothin else to do, rem decided to come with him it was up in riverside(the furies had been wiped out since then there was a new group called baseball furies suck or BFS'S for short)!!

They got on the train and talked the whole way and then they got off and went to the baseball park what was still there, scopes looked at what he was up against PPFFT it was going to be eady he thought to himself, he saw rem's smirk on his face at well so he must of been thinking the same thing too, they were a bunch of lame ass toy's as rem would say and some socail reject's as scopes would say, they were not gang member's just peddy's.the leader of the BFS'S marston said" ok guy's you know the score qwhoever finishes thier tag first wins, so are you READY@
"YEAH"
"THEN ON YOUR MARK'S, GET SET GOOO".everyone went speeding off and to thier wall canvases and started tagging scopes had a lead start making his boomerang outline(he had lots of different tags after all he was a king!!) in red then he raced to the bck of the feild and found two spray cans and then smashed a couple of heads before coming back to down his name in the middle of the boomerang, rembrandt in the mean time was motivating him by saying ll the other's were going really slow(which they were) now scopes went to find the spray cans left, he saw a boy with a hoody on looking at him then look at the spray paint then they ran scopes realised that the boy was right next to it so he dived on his back then got it and went back to his wall and only had to do a black and green background for his tag then 10 secounds later he shouted"i won i won i won", marston went other and checked before saying" you are the winner", all the other's clapped and cheered coz they liked scopes but one didnt that young boy in the hoody he had a horrible, angry look on his face then just as scopes was getting handed the award, the boy pulled out a gun and shot scopes in the stomach!!

Rem cried"no scopes" as scopes fell lifelessley in his arms rem saw that he was dying and listened to his last words"brother ive always told you, you gotta die for what you believe in and thats what im doing dieing for what i-i belive in graffiti art and you as my bro will carry my prophecy on, uhh- uh" then he closed his eyes and died, rem cryed as the other's were beating that man up... scopes was a legend and he made a mark on his culture and his art,
scopes- the one and only!!

                                       

User avatar
nazzac
Rank: Warrior
Posts: 334
Joined: Tue Mar 25, 2008 7:55 am
Location: Halifax england

Re: Fan Fic contest: Semi Finals: Dud vs Gramercy Riff99 vs Lady Warrior

Post by nazzac »

I'll extend the deadline till Friday. 17:30 GMT
Nazzac The Living Legend: http://warriorsmovie.co.uk/forum/index.php?topic=11962.0

The Bangers(F): http://warriorsmovie.co.uk/forum/index.php?topic=10828.0

FURIES:Their Story(F): http://warriorsmovie.co.uk/forum/index.php?topic=10754.0

Dud
Rank: Warrior
Posts: 311
Joined: Sun May 10, 2009 6:45 pm
Location: England

Re: Fan Fic contest: Semi Finals: Dud vs Gramercy Riff99 vs Lady Warrior

Post by Dud »

Here we go. Sorry it took a while, had some final exams this week, so my mind has obviously been somewhere else. Finally got my creative juices flowing tonight, and they were kinda hard to stop, so I think this may have dragged on a little. Ah well.

Anyway, I wish best of luck to my fellow competitors, and hope we can put on a show. :D

Enjoy. 8)

Cleon awoke with a start. He rolled over onto his back and looked up, flinching as a pain shot down his right side. Pulling his vest back he could a nasty looking bruise there, and even the slightest touch hurt an awful lot. A case of broken ribs? Probably.

He sat up, trying to remember everything. The conclave, getting beaten half to death... how come he wasn't wasted? Maybe it had something to do with the pigs showing up, but in that case, why hadn't he been arrested yet? So many questions, but the only thing on Cleon's mind was getting back to Coney in one piece, as judging by how the Riffs had treated him, the truce was off.

Looking up at the sky, it occurred to Cleon that he couldn't have been out that long. He didn't have much to go off except the fact that the sky was still dark and it was still pretty cool. As it was July, the sun rose pretty early and the temperature was only really cold between midnight and 3am, which meant that at the most Cleon was 2 hours behind the rest of his Warriors. Long enough to get back to Coney, just, but it probably hadn't been a smooth ride, so Cleon stood a chance of catching up to them...

"Only if you stop thinkin' and start movin', fool." Cleon muttered to himself, before standing up and heading out of the park cautiously, keeping an eye out for any gang members.

He managed to get out of the park safely and navigate his way through the shadows for a while, before coming to a halt as he saw a set of red and blue lights fly by. He threw himself behind a dumpster - maybe too hard as his back hit the wall next to the dumpster pretty hard and Cleon flinched in pain. He turned to look at the wall he had just backed into and uttered a cuss as he saw the tag on the wall: Turnbull A.C.'s turf. He was now not only trying to stay incognito, but he was trying to be fast too - he didn't want to spend longer in this area than he needed too. Turning out of the alley he had ducked into, he saw that the cop car had some to halt and was beside several other cars, with the pigs from it having a war against a number of Turnbulls in the middle of the street.

"Crow said the pigs had our guys holed up just around the corner..." Cleon heard a rough voice from behind him, and cast a look over his shoulder... to see a group of a dozen Turnbulls coming up the alley, apparently on their way to help their fellow A.C.s.

"Yo, isn't that-" One of the Turnbulls started, picking up the pace towards Cleon.

"It's a Warrior!" Cried another, and the fast steps behind Cleon turned into a run as 24 large feet pounded on the floor towards him. Maybe it was the earlier concussion, but it took Cleon a second to realise what was happening a take off, but by this time the lead Turnbull had got to him and placed a hand on one of Cleon's shoulders-

BANG! Cleon threw a high elbow back and apparently managed to catch the Turnbull in the right place, as his arm slipped away and Cleon felt a warm substance on the back of his neck... blood?

Cleon continued running, his feet pounding on the ground and his head starting to spin from going from a concussion to literally running for his life in such a small amount of time. Cleon sighed in relief as he reached some stairs leading up to a subway, but as he began taking the stairs two at a time, an object - a bottle by the sounds of things - smashed into his back and knocked his off-stride, with his foot slipping off the next step and his knee banging awkwardly against the cold steel of the steps. As a body loomed over him, Cleon quickly turned onto his back to defend himself, lashing out his a savage kick and hitting the lead Turnbull with a kick just above the groin. This winded the A.C. instantly, and he collapsed onto his knees.

What followed looked like something out of a Jackie Chan movie: Cleon began crawling up the steps on his back using his hands to pull himself up, all the while kicking out at any Turnbulls around him. When he came to the top of the steps, he jumped up and flicked both knees up, catching another Turnbull just under the chin and causing his head to snap back sickly. On his feet, Cleon the turned and ran for the platform. There was no need, however, as Cleon had hurt so many on the steps that the remaining Turnbulls didn't feel confident enough to follow him. A train had conveniently turned up at the right time and Cleon fell into one of the seats of the empty carriage.

"Okay brother," He muttered to himself. "Keep yourself awake, if you fall asleep..." He didn't finish his advice as he drifted off, his head leaning back and bobbing against the vibrating subway window.

Cleon woke up when he was touched on the shoulder. Looking up, he saw someone stood above him in a red shirt with white suspenders... Cleon knew it was one of the Hi-Hats before he had even set his eyes on the mime's face. The mime nodded behind him; the train had pulled up at a station, and the mime was nodding at the platform, where Cleon could make out a few more Hi-Hats. Cleon knew that these guys wanted to bop, and cursed himself for falling asleep. He sighed and stood up, before following the Hi-Hat out onto the platform. Cleon couldn't do much, save for picking some sleep out of his eye, before balancing on the balls of his feet and throwing his fists up, awaiting the first strike.

It never came, as a loud "Hey, leave him!" Came from the other end of the platform. Cleon was wary of being tricked, so he waited for the Hi-Hats to react to the shout before turning his own head to look. A group of guys in bright yellow jackets swaggered down the platform and came up to the Hi-Hats: the Electric Eliminators. A small discussion then took place, with some aggressive hand actions coming from the Hi-Hats. Cleon realised what was happening when both sides took a step back and squared up to each other: they were fighting to the rights of him. Cleon could try to make a break for it, but with 9-a-side, it would mean he had to dodge and then outrun 20 men, and logic told him at least one of them would be faster than him and able to catch him up.

As the two sides crashed into each other, Cleon decided on his action: he'd join in the fight and waste as many of them as he could, which would hopefully leave him with enough guys to fight off after the victors between the two SoHo sides had been decided.

"What are you waiting for, fool?" Cleon muttered to himself, before getting involved in the fight. He didn't want to rush into the middle of the bop and make himself an easy target, so he instead took one of the Hi-Hats on the edge of the group who had been knocked onto the floor, before holding his head against the cold tiles of the platform floor and slamming his foot down on top of the mime's head. "Lights out." Muttered Cleon as stood up and dusted his hands off. An Eliminator backed into him after taking a stiff shot from a Hi-Hat. Cleon grabbed the guy from behind and slammed his knee into the small of the guy's back. The guy went into spasm after being hit in the spine and fell to the floor. Cleon then saw a flash of red in his eyes after he realised that these guys were fighting for him, so he leapt into the air and brought both feet crashing down onto the back of the Eliminator's head, crushing it against the subway floor with extreme force. Blood splattered out around where the guy's head was positioned against the floor, and even over the sounds of 15 guys fighting, a crunch could be heard.

The next thing that could be heard was another yell from the end of the platform: "FREEZE!" This was accompanied by running feet as what looked to be the whole of the NYPD ran at the groups fighting. Cleon smirked as he took a step backwards and was embraced by the subway train's doors. A  Hi-Hat also noted what was happening, and made for the train, but Cleon continued smirking as he pulled himself up using the bars on the roof of the car, before hitting the mime in the chest with a two-footed kick. The guy flew backwards and landed hard on the platform, and with almost perfect timing, the subway car's doors closed.

"Now," Cleon muttered to himself as the sounds of the struggle from the platform were replaced by the whoosh of the subway train taking off. "Where am I?"

Apparently Cleon had chosen his train too quickly back at the station, as he had chosen a route that took a detour past SoHo, explaining why he had just seen those two, SoHo-native gangs. Cleon actually didn't know such a train route existed, but all he knew is that in less than a half-hour he would be pulling up at Stillwell Avenue and stepping out into the bright lights of Coney.

"Okay, fool, you almost got wasted last time you feel asleep, don't..." Nope, too late, Cleon was out again.
*
Cleon was awoken for the third time in only a matter of hours with a whoosh-click sound as the subway car doors opened and latched into place, right onto Stillwell Avenue station. Cleon stood up and headed out onto the station, once again cussing himself for falling asleep. He wasn't really bothered though, he was home, and as he walked past all the attractions opening up for the day he broke into a jog. He couldn't run, not after what he had done the night before, but he kept a stable jog right up until he got to the hangout. Rembrandt, Snow and Cochise were sat outside on some steps, with Cochise holding one of his boots up in the air.

"Always get damn sand in my boots when I go on that beach." Cochise complained, shaking the last grains of sand out from the boots.

"Quit your bitchin', fool." Cleon said, as the three heads snapped up and looked at him leaning against the wall.

"Cleon!" Rembrandt yelled in delight, rushing over and embracing Cleon.

"So he returns." Cochise stood up, beaming a huge smile.

"Didn't think you'd make it back, Warlord." Rembrandt said, pulling away from Cleon.

"Of course he made it back," Snow said, the normally stoic giant standing up with a smile on his face. "He's Cleon; the one and only."

User avatar
GramercyRiff99
Moderator
Moderator
Posts: 749
Joined: Thu May 18, 2006 2:22 am

Re: Fan Fic contest: Semi Finals: Dud vs Gramercy Riff99 vs Lady Warrior

Post by GramercyRiff99 »

Here we go. This one is written the same way my last entry was: in the form of a blog written by Cowboy in the modern day, in the same continuity as the last entry. Note that I took a rather... interesting interpretation of the title. :lol:

*****
The One and Only
Posted by Cowboy62
Sorry about the week-long hiatus, everybody. My sister was visiting and I haven't had much time to write. I'll try to make it up with an all-new story. This one takes place in the early summer of 1980, a little under a year after the conclave, and it involves both my near death and the most bomb weed I have ever smoked.

It was about three in the afternoon and I was sitting in the hangout with Cochise, duking it out in an epic round of Pong on our old Colortrak (damn good TV, for the time), when Swan came rolling in the door with a duffel bag over his shoulder. He jerked his finger at me and Cochise, then pointed upwards. I don't recall if I've mentioned it before now, but Swan kept an office up on the third floor, facing out onto the street. He used it mostly for business purposes, and sometimes for calling meetings of lieutenants, such as myself and the other conclave survivors. As we went up, we passed Rembrandt going down, and Swan hooked him by the arm and brought him into the crowd.

We all grabbed a seat in Swan's office, and while I can't speak for the other guys, I was getting kind of weirded out by the fact that Swan hadn't said a single thing between entering the hangout and that moment. As an aside, just because I know someone will ask, the office itself was pretty unremarkable. There was a desk and chair with a couple of windows behind it, a record player, a TV, a liquor cabinet, a few couches, and dozens of posters (most either music-related or containing naked women).

Anyway, interludes aside, let's get back to the interesting part. Swan threw the duffel bag on his desk and looked at each of the three of us in turn. Then he said, and I can remember his words exactly, “I didn't say anything on the way up because nothing I could say would even come close to describing what is in this bag.” He opened it up and proceeded to pull out what was, to this day, the most incredibly mind-blowing sack of weed I've ever seen. It shone like diamonds as soon as light fell on it, and the buds were massive, practically exploding out of the top as soon as he opened the zip loc. The smell was like a wave, to the point where it almost gave me a headache after a few breaths, and several colours besides green, ranging from purples to yellows to oranges, could be seen if you looked for more than a few seconds. If Jesus Christ grew pot in his garden, this was that pot, is what I'm trying to say here.

Of course, we pretty much freaked. I'd seen some good stuff before, but this was a whole other level. Swan spilled the beans quick, at least. Turns out it was the work of Magic Johnson. No, I don't mean the basketball player Magic Johnson. Our Magic Johnson was a then-college-aged black man with a dream of being the best damn grower in the world. Let me tell you, as far as I'm concerned, he can take the title. He earned his nickname for a reason, and that reason was that he grew better pot than anyone else in Coney Island. Now, if you wanted to get nitpicky, you could point out that he was one of only a couple commercial grows on the Island, but I wouldn't if you value your testicles. Anyway, Magic figured out the art of hydroponic growing before anyone else we knew, back in the mid-70s, and he'd been one of our primary suppliers for a couple of years by the time this story takes place. I'll mention as an aside, before I go any further, that Magic never did get to claim his title. He was killed in 1988 during a SWAT raid on his place. The cops never identified themselves before busting in and the first one caught a bullet for his trouble. Magic took about thirty in the few seconds following. Irony is, they weren't even after him; they wanted the place down the block and mixed up the addresses.

So, like I said, turns out Magic had produced our mystery mega-pot. I guess he'd gotten some mystical balance of nutrients and water right or something, I don't know, I didn't understand half of what Swan told me about it (nor did he, which may have been the root of the issue, now that I consider it). Magic had given us a quarter-pound sample, and another twenty pounds were on their way later that night. It was at that moment that Cochise gave us the name for the stuff, though he didn't mean to at the time. He picked up a piece, looked at it real close, and said “This sh*t's the one and only.” There was a beat of silence as Swan's brow furrowed, and then he said “The one and only. Like Cyrus.” It only took a few seconds for us to realize what he meant, and after another minute, we'd decided: this strain was to go by the name “Cyrus”. We knew Magic wouldn't mind; he'd never been big on naming his stuff, and most of the time he just told us to “call it whatever”.

I'd fill you in on the next couple of hours, but to be honest, I don't remember a whole lot of it. We split two joints of the stuff between the four of us and it sent us into outer space. At some point we ended up at Nathan's, where it took me about five minutes to order a hot dog and the workers were staring at me like I was some kind of alien. I also remember being on the boardwalk, laughing my ass off with the guys at an incredibly fat woman who was having trouble getting off her beach towel. Next thing I knew, it was almost eleven, and Swan was telling us that he had to leave. He was going to supervise the Cyrus distribution personally since, in his words, “I want to be overseeing this one myself.” As far as I knew at the time, the plan was to grab the stuff at Magic's place, split it up in lots of about five pounds each, then sell it to our four distributors, who would then sell it to the street-level dealers. Pretty standard stuff, really. What I didn't know was that the plan had changed. I found out later that Magic had one of his fits of paranoia and thought that the cops were watching his house, so they agreed to meet for the handoff in the empty lot next to the Abe Stark Rink at Surf and West 20th. I'm going to guess that Swan hadn't counted on Magic being late, or he wouldn't have chosen the lot right next to our border with the Surf Avenue Stonebreakers, but that's neither here nor there.

I was oblivious to all of this, of course, and my only response to Swan leaving was to roll a huge cone and pass it around with Cochise and Rembrandt. The next half hour passed in a blur, and we found ourselves playing Pong again when the phone rang. One of the new bloods that were hanging out grabbed it, then yelled for me, saying it was important. Turns out it was Swan on the line, calling from the phone booth by the lot. He sounded on edge, and told me to round up a few guys and come down to the lot quicktime. He said that he'd been waiting for twenty minutes, Magic hadn't showed up yet, and he thought someone might be watching him and the other three guys he'd brought. Before I could say anything, he told me to wait a second, then said that he could see Magic driving up, but to come anyway. What happened next chilled my blood, and I mean that in a literal sense. You know, that feeling like every single drop of blood in your body has turned into pure ice, and nothing will ever thaw it. Swan yelled something I couldn't hear out the door of the phone booth, then he grabbed the receiver, screamed “Get down here now! Right f*cking now! Get strapped if you can!” Then the line went dead.

For about five seconds, I couldn't even move. Then I flew into action. I bolted across the room and ripped The Man-Machine off the turntable while simultaneously yelling “Swan's in trouble!” or some variation thereof. The next thirty seconds were spent yelling orders and tearing ass for the lockbox on the second floor. It was usually left unlocked, and thankfully, that trend didn't see fit to change. Inside lay The Power. That's what a piece was back then: it was pure power, distilled into a single construct of metal and wood. It's not like today when every two-bit gangbanger is packing a Glock 17. Sure, we carried sometimes, but way more disputes were settled with fists than bullets. Anyway, we kept a few handguns in the lockbox at all times (though there were always others scattered around the hangout, you could never be totally sure where they were) and I snatched the first one my hand landed on, a .38 caliber six shooter. It went into the back of my jeans, a handful of bullets went into my pocket, and I went down the stairs at a speed only matched by Olympic sprinters.

There were only about a dozen guys in the hangout at the time (which was odd in itself for that hour), and they'd crammed themselves into two AMC Gremlins, one belonging to Rembrandt and the other to Casper, whom I don't think I've mentioned before. He got his name because he was about the whitest kid we've ever seen. We never did figure out what the deal was with that, and I haven't seen him in about 25 years. He got hooked on crack in '84 and just up and disappeared one night. Nobody ever found out what happened to him. Anyway, like I was saying, we had two Gremlins for twelve people. If anyone from the younger generation doesn't know what a Gremlin is, take a look at this: http://xbradtc.files.wordpress.com/2008 ... remlin.jpg. Those things are not made for more than two people, making it absolutely incredible to me that they managed to fit six people in one and five in the other. Unfortunately, one of the guys at the hangout at the time happened to be Biggie. Biggie... well, to put it gently, he was a fatass. But he was a fatass who could lay a mean beatdown, so he stayed. Anyway, since I was the last one out, there was absolutely no room for me to get inside a car. Pressed for time, I did the only thing I could do: I hopped on the roof, layed down, grabbed the luggage racks and, holding on for dear life, yelled for Rembrandt and Casper to floor it.

I should note that I was, to put it lightly, tripping the f*ck out at this point. If anyone is unaware of what exactly a cone is, imagine one of those gigantic joints you see Bob Marley smoking in the pictures. Yeah. I was totally out of it, and about to run into a situation I had almost no information about, with the only small comfort being the heavy piece of metal tucked into my jeans. Oh, also, I was hanging on to the luggage rack of a car, completely unsecured, as my equally-stoned comrade in arms took the wheel. To say that I was feeling a bit pessimistic about my prospects for life is a bit of an understatement.

We tore ass down the street, and the storefronts on Surf Avenue turned into a blur as traffic law was repeatedly raped and then put out of its misery with a shotgun blast to the head. Melodramatic? Yes, but we were seriously kicking it. It must have only been a minute from the hangout to the lot at that speed, but it felt like ten times longer to me. The world was alternating between slow motion and hyperspace, leaning towards slow motion, and more than once I felt like I was going to throw up. I was flying from one side of the roof to the other, barely holding on to the rack, and more than once I came down hard on my ribs after a particularly nasty pothole. Somehow, we were lucky enough not to go by any cops, and we finally got a look at what was going on as we rode up to the lot.

There were at least fifteen guys, all wearing plaid shirts with brown leather vests over them. Stonebreakers. Two of our guys were down for the count, as was Magic, and Swan was back to back with our other man. Both of them were weilding knives, and they were flailing them like madmen, keeping the Stonebreakers back through the sheer ferocity of their attack. There was quite simply no way to get a strike in without the risk of getting stabbed. I got ready to jump off as Rembrandt mounted the curb and continued at top speed into the lot. I pulled myself into a half-crouching position, leaned forwards, and then, well, things got interesting. I guess Rembrandt must have hit some piece of low-lying debris, because as he began to slam on the brakes, the front of the car bucked up like a bull, then slammed down. I lost my grip on the luggage rack and went flying forwards, over the windshield. I managed to get my leg under me and pushed off with one foot from the hood, trying to pull off at least something approaching a dignified landing. That's when things got even more interesting.

I guess since a crazy guy in a cowboy hat riding the roof of an AMC Gremlin isn't something you see every day, all the Stonebreakers had turned to stare. In fact, so had our guys, and the whirlwind of knife-y action had stopped. Since Rembrandt had gotten pretty close before hitting the brakes (a standard practice, since it both looked cool and intimidated our opponents) there were several Stonebreakers within a reasonable distance of the front of the car when it bounced. I think you can see where this is going. One of them was right in my trajectory, and he barely even had time to understand what was happening before I hit him head-on. He went down like a rock, with me on top of him, and I heard a huge crack as we hit the ground. For a second I thought the pistol had gone off, but then I realized it was the Stonebreaker's head hitting a piece of sheared-off concrete.

Let me tell you, it's pretty rare to have a shocked silence in the middle of a rumble, but it happened this time. You could have heard a pin drop as I stood up, a bit shaky on my feet from both the pot and the joyride. I can still remember that moment like it was yesterday, looking around and realizing that I'd pulled off something awesome enough to stop a rumble dead in its tracks. At that moment, I could only think of one punctuation that would get across exactly how irritated I was by the entire situation. In one motion I pulled the piece out of my pants, pointed it at the nearest Stonebreaker, and pulled the trigger. Since I was in action movie mode at the time, I was holding the gun one-handed, a big no-no, but the guy was only about five feet away so it wasn't an issue. The left side of his collarbone pretty much exploded as the shot tore into his body and lodged somewhere. He was on the ground before anyone could even react, writhing around in pain. I was too jacked up on adrenaline to even process that I'd casually shot a dude, and I waved the pistol at the other guys too, yelling something that I can't remember. Whatever it was, they took the hint, and seconds later they were running like hell back into their turf.

Just because the Stonebreakers were out of the picture, it didn't mean we were out of the woods. We could already hear sirens in the distance, and we had two unconscious soldiers and a half-concussed drug dealer to get out of there, along with twenty pounds of Cyrus weed and several cars full of gang members. A full description of our escape would be both boring to read and write, so I won't bother, but it was pretty harrowing at the time (I'll give you a hint: we threw everyone in the cars and drove like hell). We left the two hurt Stonebreakers there (at least, I think they were only hurt) and booted it back to the hangout. Once we were back there and got Magic fully conscious, we got the whole story.

Turns out that Magic's car wasn't starting, so he had to get his neighbour to help him get the thing to turn over, which took about a half hour. In that time, some Stonebreakers must have spotted our guys hanging out in their cars in the lot and decided to try and take them out. Swan's worries had been right, and just as Magic got there, a group of them stormed in. Magic tried to pull a gun on them, but he took a brick to the forehead for his trouble, and things went downhill from there. Swan was more interested in my story though, all things considered. After I filled him in on how exactly I'd ended up on the roof, he laughed and said that I'd done a good job coordinating everyone. I said that I couldn't just let twenty pounds of Cyrus fall into the hands of some lames like that, since it was the one and only, after all. What he said afterwards made me smile for days. “To hell with the weed, you're the one and only here. Only time I ever saw Cyrus fly like that, he was taking a header off a platform in Van Cortlandt Park.” The night really couldn't have ended better, really.

Anyway, to wrap it up, everything turned out fine in the end. The stuff got distributed, the cops apparently didn't care enough to even look into whether or not we had something to do with the half-dead gangbangers in that empty lot, and Magic went back to doing what he did best: growing bomb-ass weed. However, he was never quite able to grow a batch of that absurd quality again. He tried and tried and tried, but it just wasn't to be; I guess that initial twenty pounds wanted to stay the one and only after all.
Last edited by Anonymous on Tue Jun 08, 2010 9:08 am, edited 1 time in total.

Dud
Rank: Warrior
Posts: 311
Joined: Sun May 10, 2009 6:45 pm
Location: England

Re: Fan Fic contest: Semi Finals: Dud vs Gramercy Riff99 vs Lady Warrior

Post by Dud »

Well, with all three pieces up and a little over and hour until the deadline, just want to say well done to my fellow competitors for putting up some good pieces; lady warrior, haven't seen a piece on Scopes before, so that's certainly interesting, and GR99, that was a pretty impressive interpretation, nice job.) 8)

Good luck to both of you. :D

Post Reply