Story telling

I've always wanted to be a writer- no more fun out there than sitting on you ass making shit up and getting paid for it. I know it;s harder than it looks- writer's block hits me quite ofter...I usually start a million stories but I never usually put it down to paper- mostly I have a problem with ending a story...soa million ideas are mostly forgotten...mostly I have beginnings...the following is one that I was able to start and finish...although it was going to be a thread in a bigger story...maybe I'll spin more yarns for it in the future...
Enjoy...





The Building
By Joe Roces
The Man in Black walked up to the building in the dead of night. No one noticed him (nobody ever does, unless he wants them too). The black coat flowing over him like a flag in the wind, the tall man smiles. They will never know what hit them.

It is a skyscraper of an apartment building. Taller than they should be, it was originally built as the corporate headquarters of a long since extinct company. In the years since, the neighborhood surrounding it has fallen to economic ruin along with the rest of the country.

The building has changed several hands over the decades, finally falling into the clutches of a man who won the lottery. He had grown up in the area and wanted to 'bring some class into his Hood.' The building was turned into a first class apartment complex with all the luxuries that $48million before taxes could buy. It became a heaven in the middle of hell.

The rich buyers had seen it as a sport- a novelty. The best place to live in crack town. All the danger without the actual danger. And even with all their money, all they had managed to do was bring the already decrepit area into a further downward spiral. The rich living in the poor just because they thought it was 'cool'. And because it cemented their belief that the money made them better than anyone else.

No one knows much about the Man in Black. An urban legend is what most want to claim him to be. Outsiders usually mistake his legend to be that of the Men in Black government spooks who hunt you down if you think a weather balloon is anything other than a weather balloon.

No, he is not that.

Some people think he is one of the Triads' men, but that is what the Mafia wants you to believe- unless you know that the Triads and the Mafia hardly ever venture into this part of the city.

It is too much for them to work with.

He is real. That is the one fact that the people who live here know. Both those who live in the streets and in the building.

Huge clouds gather, seemingly converging at the spires of the great building. A wind is starting to pick up. The black coat flowing over him like a flag in the wind, the tall man smiles. They will never know what hit them.

It is a perfect time, a night like this. A night stormy and dark.

He enters the building.
Ground Floor
(Only Time Enough To Die)

Bullets flew left and right as Parker dove behind the bar. Glass and liquor rained upon him like it was Hurricane Andrew. Covering his face to prevent the glass from cutting his face, his thoughts in disarray as to what the hell was happening.

The bar was located in the common lounge of the building, a spot where the residents sometimes socialized. As a bet to see who would make the best bartender in case of a stock market crash, a random drawing was held to see who would mix the night's drinks. Tonight was Parker's night. He thought he had done pretty good, despite not being a drinker- social or otherwise.

(Fuck, the thought, don't they need to reload?)

He had a good time. He thought the other residents had a good time and he had even got the nerve to ask the pretty Asian lady with the dark hair from his floor. She was supposedly a producer of a type of rock music called Goth- whatever that was. He had always seen her as she always hung out in the hallways, as if she was never comfortable with where she was.

Parker was never comfortable living in this building. He had moved from the mid-west about, oh, say eleven months ago and his agent procured this living arrangement for him.

(Oy, he says, you'll love it. Everyone loves it. It's like winning an Oscar)

Parker was not an actor, he wasn't even a director. He produces a movie now and then, but please don't ask him what a producer does, no, no, he doesn't know. All he learned in film school was a bunch of gibberish and all he does is stand around the set looking important.

He came to this town, first of all to 'produce' the new *** ****** movie. It was supposed to be hush-hush since it was his first new movie since the scandal with the Hungarian octogenarian and the sheep dip. But no, *** says, I have a steady base of fans, I'll be alright, let me impress them by breaking out of the box and giving them a movie no one ever expected.

Bullshit.

Eleven months later, he's in jail and the octogenarian is pressing charges. Parker's movie? Forget about it. Or rather 'fuggeitabouit' as they say. But Parker never gave a shit about *** ****** anyway. And Parker enjoyed the down time. For the first time in his life, he was relaxed.

He had even thought about dating again. Not the hideous match making between producer and potential starlet. No, he was done with that. Who ever thought sex would become boring. Yeah, sex in the movie making world was just another thing to do.

He misses it when it was special. When he would be able to wine and dine and enjoy the, well, the hunt. His time away from the sets, and the actors and the directors- ah, to be no one again.

So, who is trying to kill him? Why is the bar being blown to several million pieces by several oriental men in trench coats and dark glasses?

(Bastards watched too many of John Woo's older flicks.)

"You know", says one of them as they finally stop to reload, " We have ten thousand bullets to use, only one is necessary."

Parker was closing up his gig as that night's bartender and was going for a smoke when he first saw them. They were approaching him in what seemed like slow motion and as the first one pulled out his gun, not to point but to brandish, to…well, show that he had it, like a cop pulling out his badge. With his other hand he pulled out a small piece of paper with a Chinese character on it.

Before he knew it, Parker was running.

He could hear the initial discharge of bullets decimate the front doors of the building. He just started running and running not knowing where he was headed. Before he knew it, he was back at the bar. (Fuck, he thought then.) The bar was located at the east far end of the building in a small recreation room. There was nothing there really, just a couch or two, some cheap paintings and the bar. The building management stocks it pretty well and Parker was just waiting for them to return to lock up when he went for his smoke.

"There is no more time for you," another one of them spoke while reloading, "…Only time enough to die."

The hell? thought Parker. He never thought any one would ever say anything like that in real life. Man, this is just like in one of his movies. Right down to the dramatic pause. Parker could hear them edging closer. He looked around where he lay, got on all fours and looked for something- anything- that he could use. He looked at all the broken glass and wondered if he could have enough strength to flick it with his fingers and wound, if not kill, them.

(I think I've spent too much time around bad screenwriters., he ponders)

A shot was fired. He saw the bullet, in extreme slow motion fly just in front of his eyes. He looked at it and wondered why he could see something move so fast. He read somewhere that with all that adrenaline moving through your body and making your heart beat so fast, pumping that blood that you lose a significant portion of your life- that your mind make up for the time you've lost by slowing everything down so you experience the time you've lost.

The bullet was beautiful in its perfection, he could see the air being cut as it sled past. He wondered however briefly it must be like to be a bullet maker, must be something akin to a jeweler or a missile engineer. Melting metals and testing trajectories for a beautiful perfection of a killing tool.

(What? he thought, I don't know anything about missiles and how they make bullets…)

Then, as the bullet was rapidly slowly speeding past him, he realized that it was spinning, too. Huh, I suppose it would do that, he thought. There was some marking that he thought was odd on the bullet. Wouldn’t that destroy the aerodynamics of the bullet or something? He focused on the markings and they slowly spun towards him and slowly begin to spin away from him.

They were his initials.

The bullets had his name on it. (Impossible, he thought) What the hell is going on and why has no one even called the police yet? Everything was still moving slowly and he looked beyond the bullet. The bullet was almost past his face and onto the wall. The bullets had his name on it. He saw a bottle.

Parker remembered his college days, drinks, regrets and missed opportunities. He remembers good old friends and dumb tricks. One of them was to take an empty bottle, aim it with the bottom facing the floor. With the palm of your hand, you rapidly hit the mouth and if you do it right, you get a perfect circle hole and the end of the bottle and a beautiful POP not heard anywhere else.

He was tempted to try it again.

He heard a small crack and realized that the bullet had struck the wall. Time was moving at the normal setting again.

"Come out, come out where ever you are!" taunted one of them.

(Huh? There's only one place where I could be hiding and why don't they just shoot through the bar and get me?)

(And what's taking them so long? If I'm going to die, why is the fuck it taking too long?)

The floor and the bar were wet with all the alcohol. An idea sprang to his mind. Reaching into his pockets for his cigarettes and matches, he hoped that he wouldn't burn too much as he was also covered in vodka, beer and what have you. With a prayer and a slight hesitation he lit where the alcohol smelled strongest.

The flame spread, not as rapidly as you would think, but rapidly enough for him. His arm and back also caught fire but as soon as he heard the first of them yell, "FUCK!", he rolled out of the safety of the bar- first of all to douse his burning body parts- then to grab the remaining bottle and did his old college bottle trick.

The fire took them off guard and the POP! caused them to duck as if to avoid an oncoming gunshot- which was the effect Parker wanted. It sounded nothing like a real gunshot, but it was enough. Parker smashed what was left of the bottle on the nearest one of them kicked him down and took both of his Smith & Wesson's.

He made himself fall unto his back while firing as many rounds as he could get hoping slightly that he'll hit one of them but mostly that he'll make them disperse. He loved as the force of the Smith & Wesson's expelling the bullets. His eyes were closed the whole time.

He opened his eyes when he started hearing the click, click, and clicks. The room was empty save for the one he had smashed the bottle on the head. Wait, it wasn't empty. It was just that the one he hit was closest. There were others, he had hit some of them.

(Talk about beginner's luck!)

As he got up, the one closest to him was groaning. He kicked him sharply in the groin (why'd I do that?). He felt him and got and got some replacement magazines. He Kicked him again. Then he spat and kicked him again (Why do I keep kicking him?)

"Tell you what, punk, " he said, " next time you see Tokugawa, it'll be in hell!"

Then he shot him in the head. (The FUCK did I do that for!? And who is Tokugawa? I don't even know any Japanese people!)

A movement in the corner of his eye. He spun around, a Smith &Wesson in each hand. He moved slowly and backed up against the wall by the entrance to the room. He looked at the magazines he got from the man he just killed. (I JUST KILLED A MAN!) He flipped out several of the bullets and stared at the tips of them. The bullets had his name on it. They had his initials on them…but his initials weren't JH, they were PT. (They got the wrong man…)

He replaced the bullets back into the magazine. He had a gun with bullets with his name on them (That's not my name!) Slowly he crept back into the hallway, eyes scanning for Tokugawa ( Who is Tokugawa?). He heard a gun clock.

Parker rolled (How can my name be Parker if my initials are JH?). The bullets barely missed him, but now he knew from where they had come from. He shot to the left of that general direction. He heard a scream. The smoke from the tip of the gun wafted slowly in the air. A shadow darted from where he shot.

He walked slowly, he could see drops of what could be blood.

"Damn you Johnny!" came a scream. Parker (Johnny?) fired a few more rounds, this time in the direction of left of where the scream had originated. He swerved to avoid a few rounds meant for him (What!?! Since when were bullets meant for me? I didn't piss any one off!). Then he got a clear view of him.

And he got a clear view of Johnny (I'm Parker damn it! And get out of the way! He's gonna shoot you!) They fired out rounds into each other. Tokugawa was dark, dark for a Japanese man, dark hair dark glasses and a golden tooth. (What, he a pimp or something?) Johnny (Parker!) felt the rounds hit his body with incredible force, yet he just kept firing his Smith & Wesson just as Tokugawa kept firing his (Who is Tokugawa? And damn it! What is happening?!)

Then, a click on both sides. Both men were empty. Tokugawa smiled that smile of his. The smile that made Johnny want to knock his teeth in (I'm Not Johnny!). Johnny (I am not) dropped one of the Smith & Wesson's and placed a hand in his pocket, Tokugawa did the same. He felt something small, cylindrical, a bullet. Slowly, he pulled it out and showed it to Tokugawa who did the same.

Both men placed their bullets into their respective Smith & Wesson's. Johnny (NO!) saw that his had a TK and he was sure Tokugawa's had his initials on his bullet.

"Ready for the big time babes?" Johnny said (NO! FOR THE LAST TIME, I AM NOT JOHNNY!). Then in a swift motion, the guns were cocked, each man ready…

"CUT" yelled the director, a tall dark Man In Black , "Parker, did you read your fucking lines?! How many times do I got to tell you READ your lines! Just because this is an action movie don't mean we can't do it right…fuck, damn it, take five than we shoot again!"

An assistant went up to Johnny (where the fuck am I and who is Parker?) It was an honest to god movie set, with booms and cameras and, of course, lights. Must have be tripping real bad, gotta find a place to sit. A slap on the back.

"The fuck is your problem!" Johnny pulled out his piece and pointed at the person who slapped him. Tokugawa!

"Please, get out of character." ,said Yoshi. "Are you gonna do this right? This director is tight." He walked away.

Johnny put down his piece, what the fuck is going on? Where am I? A lady started patting him down. In reflex, he pointed the piece at her.

"Yeah, right." Jenny the assistant said, " Now hold still while I check your squibs." She patted him down and left. There were people everywhere, so many people in such a small hallway, wait, this isn't the hallway, this isn't the building. This place was a big as a football field.

"Places!" yelled the director. Someone moved Johnny to the spot where he was when the trip started. Fuck, I don't know what to do…I should shoot myself…

"You gonna get it right this time, Parker?" the director continued. I'm not Parker! What is all this?

"Marker!"

Fuck, I should just run…

"Places, damn it!"

WHERE AM I?

"Lights!"

THIS IS INSANE!

"AND…"


"Ready for the big time baby?" Johnny said (NO! FOR THE LAST TIME, I AM NOT JOHNNY!). Then in a swift motion, the guns were cocked, each man ready…and a shot, but only from Johnny (no…please, I'm Parker, I don't know what I'm doing). Tokugawa ducked, the shot missed, and threw a punch, throwing Johnny down (please, I wanna just go home).

What was that the man said earlier? Only time enough to die? Wouldn't that make a great title for a movie? Parker thought so (I am Parker…).

He was down. Tokugawa came over and kicked him.

Hard.

It is a movie, damn it. You were working the deal a few weeks ago. It was a good script! With a great Asian American lead that he convinced the writer would be better if it was played Caucasian. No one would like it if the white guy died at the end, hero or not.

Trust me, I'm a producer.


He looked down the barrel of the gun. At the end he thought he heard someone yelling, "Cut!"

"That's a Wrap"



Now Leaving
The Ground
Floor.