Post by CptNemo on Jan 24, 2006 18:33:03 GMT -5
A little start to get my mafia juices flowing..er if that makes any sense?
Joseph Munster ran his hand over the slide of the Walther PPK. Its chilled metal calmed his excited fingers. A click signaled that the bullet had successfully loaded into the chamber.
“Stop here,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
The driver pulled over to a space along the sidewalk. Streetlights and shop displays were but a mere blur in the pouring curtains of rain. Ideal conditions he thought. The pitter patter drummed heavily on the tin roof of the Volkswagen. The two sat in silence, waiting and going over the plans again and again in their minds. Cars passed in a whoosh as they drove through the puddle of an overflowing gutter. Few people were out, and those that were moved along masked by wide, doming umbrellas.
Joseph scanned each carefully, but none stood out as the target. He would know when they came, he told himself again. From the opposite end of the street, a trio of men approached through the storm, and turned under an outstretched awning where a young server greeted them. Joseph noted the change of an arm towel from the left to the right before they disappeared into the golden glow of the café.
He counted the two minutes off before stepping out into the night. Rain pounded on the rim of his hat, and fell from the lip in a constant flow. He plodded through the puddles, for there was no way around. The PPK lay hidden just inside his overcoat, but his hand tight on its grip.
Joseph peered through he main window from a distance. The café was not particularly crowded for a weekend night, probably due to the rain. He picked out the three men. The first one, a tall man with damp hair, sat on the far right with his back to the window. The middle man looked bloated and fat under his stretched suit, and was facing directly toward Joseph. The third was another tall man, but with much more bulk to him. The young waiter took orders on a piece of paper, and laughed and talked with them for a few moments before moving into the kitchen in the back.
He slid the pistol from its hiding place, and held it firmly in a double handed grip. His right eye lined with the small stubbed sites, then through the peeling paint of window letters, and finally on his target. The fat man laughed with another toothy grin. Joseph paused a second, noticing the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He felt weak, as if he would collapse. Inhaling another lung full of cold air seemed to help calm his nerves.
Now, he thought. Joseph pulled the sites back on the fat man’s head, and squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times. The small arms pistol barely recoiled as the three shots rang out. Everything proceeded in slow motion. Through the falling glass and rain he watched as the man slumped over in his chair. That was all he needed to see, and turned back to the Volkswagen. Screams from inside were muffled out by the thrumming rain.
He slammed the door shut, and the driver promptly started the engine. They took off slowly, driving as if nothing had happened. Men , women, and children streamed out of the doorway in panic. Among them was the lank man, standing nearly a half foot above the rest. He watched their vehicle as it moved away until it vanished in the rain.
Joseph turned back, breathing hard and trembling. He peered at the driver who was smiling in the orange glow of the dash. He leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes, not sure of what just happened. They paused at an intersection before turning, blending in with the hustle and bustle of another Saturday night in Chicago.
Joseph Munster ran his hand over the slide of the Walther PPK. Its chilled metal calmed his excited fingers. A click signaled that the bullet had successfully loaded into the chamber.
“Stop here,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
The driver pulled over to a space along the sidewalk. Streetlights and shop displays were but a mere blur in the pouring curtains of rain. Ideal conditions he thought. The pitter patter drummed heavily on the tin roof of the Volkswagen. The two sat in silence, waiting and going over the plans again and again in their minds. Cars passed in a whoosh as they drove through the puddle of an overflowing gutter. Few people were out, and those that were moved along masked by wide, doming umbrellas.
Joseph scanned each carefully, but none stood out as the target. He would know when they came, he told himself again. From the opposite end of the street, a trio of men approached through the storm, and turned under an outstretched awning where a young server greeted them. Joseph noted the change of an arm towel from the left to the right before they disappeared into the golden glow of the café.
He counted the two minutes off before stepping out into the night. Rain pounded on the rim of his hat, and fell from the lip in a constant flow. He plodded through the puddles, for there was no way around. The PPK lay hidden just inside his overcoat, but his hand tight on its grip.
Joseph peered through he main window from a distance. The café was not particularly crowded for a weekend night, probably due to the rain. He picked out the three men. The first one, a tall man with damp hair, sat on the far right with his back to the window. The middle man looked bloated and fat under his stretched suit, and was facing directly toward Joseph. The third was another tall man, but with much more bulk to him. The young waiter took orders on a piece of paper, and laughed and talked with them for a few moments before moving into the kitchen in the back.
He slid the pistol from its hiding place, and held it firmly in a double handed grip. His right eye lined with the small stubbed sites, then through the peeling paint of window letters, and finally on his target. The fat man laughed with another toothy grin. Joseph paused a second, noticing the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He felt weak, as if he would collapse. Inhaling another lung full of cold air seemed to help calm his nerves.
Now, he thought. Joseph pulled the sites back on the fat man’s head, and squeezed the trigger once, twice, three times. The small arms pistol barely recoiled as the three shots rang out. Everything proceeded in slow motion. Through the falling glass and rain he watched as the man slumped over in his chair. That was all he needed to see, and turned back to the Volkswagen. Screams from inside were muffled out by the thrumming rain.
He slammed the door shut, and the driver promptly started the engine. They took off slowly, driving as if nothing had happened. Men , women, and children streamed out of the doorway in panic. Among them was the lank man, standing nearly a half foot above the rest. He watched their vehicle as it moved away until it vanished in the rain.
Joseph turned back, breathing hard and trembling. He peered at the driver who was smiling in the orange glow of the dash. He leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes, not sure of what just happened. They paused at an intersection before turning, blending in with the hustle and bustle of another Saturday night in Chicago.
