Creative Writing Competition.

[background color=var(--bbc-body-bg-color)]Tony Cream's Creative Writing Competition!

This competition has now ended. Thank you.[/background]

In my aims to encourage an original, creative writing platform that focuses on works of fiction based on events within Torn City I will be hosting and judging regular competitions throughout the year with some prizes available for the 1st, 2nd and 3rd place entries.

For each competition that runs there will be specific themes and elements or even key phrases that are required for the submissions.

The stories will be judged with the following criteria in mind:

• World Building & Characterisation
• Immersion*
• Originality & Creative Flare
• Spelling & Grammar**

*If your story is about you I want it to be about you as a character and not as you as a player.

** Please don't let this put you off if English isn't your first language. The fact that you are submitting a piece of writing is much more important than whether or not you misplaced a comma. i jus dn't wna reed submishuns tht luk lyk dis. k?

The Prizes

$120m + 3 Donator Packs to First Place. - Arcellia
$70m + 2 Donator Packs to Second Place. - UpAndComing
$40m + 2 Donator Packs to Third Place. - Bouffon
Prizes for special mentions to be awarded too.

(Please Note: The exchanging of all cash will take place securely before winners are officially announced)

WE ARE ACCEPTING DONATIONS! Prizes are subject to change if we are able to generate some community donations and interest as this competition runs.

Helper Jairyll has kindly offered to assist in overseeing and keeping an eye on the competition with me. All Donations should be sent to her with the message: Creative Writing Comp Donation. In the post below I will be updating a list with current donations. If you have donated and want to be mentioned then please let me know!

The Brief

I want you to write a 500 - 750 word short story based around the themes of misdirection, deception and subterfuge. All stories must be in English and must take place within Torn City. Submissions to be posted Here on the Thread. Please message me once your submission has been added and I will add you on to a list. Writing can be in any format; whether that is as a Script, a Story or a Poem is entirely up to you! Only one submission per person but edits to the submission can be made up until the deadline. All entries must be submitted by 23:59:59TCT on April 1st 2021. All entries must comply with Torn Game Rules or will be disqualified and not able to re-enter.

Best of luck, writers! Have fun!

Donations added to the Prize Pool

Aezur - x1 Donator Pack.
Torn City Times - x10 Donator Packs.
Yasen - $100m.

Where would we post it? Just in here? Or message/mail them to you?

Thanks for the question! I've made the edit now in the Brief. All submissions are to be posted here in the same way you would if it were a submission for a Community Event.

Sweat was dripping from his hands. He asked again to be sure and got the conformation he needed. Shekels, lots of them could be made in this backwards city called Torn. If this George is telling the truth, I can be the next big shot in here. With greed in his eyes, he took his jacket and proceeded to the door. What about the bill?! George asked loudly... Keep the change! replied the guy who just took off and didn't pay the bill for beer at the pub. Lots of idiots here... I know a great way to make money, he said it to himself while starting to rub his sweaty hands. I need some starting capital though... capital that only one person can offer. He yelled for a taxi and raised his hand. One came to him shortly, and he proceeded to enter it. Take me to the Red Light district goy. Ay mate, going dere for pleasure or business. Both! he replied snarky. Half an hour passed after that reply and the car parked near its destination. Ay mate that be 23 dolla, said the driver while holding his hand in air. With displeasure in his eyes, he took out few metal tokens for market carts that he collected earlier that day. He put them in the hand of the driver and said to him, Keep the change! while he existed the vehicle. When the taxi driver noticed what just happened it was already too late, the person was lost in the crowd of people that were in the district. This Duke goy... he should be around here, he has the shekels I need to make my business come true. He saw a flashing sign little in the distance that had „Loan Shark“ written on it. This must be the place as he opened the doors. So, you sayin that you need some dough for that business of yours? Duke ere can lend yous all the dough you need, but remember you gotta pay the fee after 4 weeks, or sooner if you want to get on my good side. The deal was struck with shaking of the hands. You won't regret this goy, we will be rich in a week. Member to pay on time bud, or we will have to look what's inside that skull of yous with a pipe. Now I just need to find a place to open the shop, he thought to himself. And since I am in the Red Light district I might as well have some fun. The midnight came quickly for our hero, as he was having a great deal of fun by collecting pennies around the streets. I can sleep under the bridge and eat thrown out popcorn for few days till I collect all the pennies. I'll stash the money in this old car exhaust pipe, it ain't going nowhere. Days turned into weeks for him, and he was still collecting pennies. I got carried away, I have to pay my fees to the goy, or he is going to commit antisemitic crimes against me. He went to the old car near the bridge to check the money before he went to the Duke. ITS GONE! he screamed. Somebody stole my shekels! I must tell the Duke about this misfortune and ask for more. He went to the Duke, with tears in his eyes. He had to tell him of this grave situation that had happened to him. Yous is late! told the Duke. Where is me money! Duke said loudly, as he proceeded to take a pipe near table. They stole it from me goy, I need more to start my business, please! Yous only business gonna start is a coffin one. Duke swung the pipe into the head of the crying man, cracking his skull in process. Clean this motherf***er up and dump him in the... dump. Theys trying to scam me out of the money, but I educated. And to think that some idiot stashed similar amount in old car exhaust pipe that I had tried to have some fun in the evnin, hehe. He said it to himself as he lighted cigar in his mouth.

"Who do you want?" Upper said casually into his cell, trying to look innocuous as he strolled down the sidewalk street, gaudy neon signage flashing in his eyes and mixing horribly with the burning heat and glare of the sun above, combining to make him blink and sweat profusely.
"Oh, I dunno." His employer drawled gleefully. "Take your pick-- the smug b***h across the street, sitting inside that bistro, pickin' at a sandwhich, you see her?" Upper grunted an affirmative. He didn't like how Duke liked to savor each mission, feeding him information piece by piece. By God, the man didn't even pay up front, laughed at the very notion. Insufferable, but he paid just well enough to garner Upper's attention. Plus, a**hole though the guy might be, he had miles more connections then Upper would ever have.
And so Up played attack dog, gritting his teeth all the way. "Either the sandwhich b***ch," Duke continued after a long pause to take a smoke break, "or the mousy-lookin' doofus accountant who is f**kin' me over on the stock market sitting on the bench not five yards away from yah." Upper chose accountant. The woman across the street wore nice clothes, ate at a nice place; she probably would cause all sorts of trouble for his reputation. He walked over, whistling as normally as possible, realizing dourly how bad he was at the stealth element of his side gig, and sat down next to the mousy-looking feller on the bench.
Upper cleared his throat and inwardly groaned. "Hot out, isn't it?" He tried to smile. It was disturbing. The accountant startled, looking up from the book in his hand, staring confusedly at Upper, and almost flinched, like the small talk had been a physical assault. Upper could sympathize, but such was the job.
"Uhh... Yeah, I... suppose so? Do I know you from work or something?" Upper gave him a pat on the shoulder that was meant to be pacifying, but the twiggy man was shoved back a couple inches by it, and almost tumbled off the bench before catching himself.
"Woah, watch yourself there, pal." Upper said. Menacing undertones he could do. "Look, how can I say this nicely... You got two options. Either you sell off all your stock in Bits & Bobs, Inc. for pennies on the dollar, or someone bigger, meaner, and better at this gig then my rooky ass will hunt you down and make you bleed and squeal like you can't even ima-"
Upper was coughing up blood, on his back, knife in his chest in seconds. The mousy accountant, nimble, quick, and strong as a horse, had stabbed him. What the hell? There were witnesses-- people nearby-- where the hell had they all gone?
"You're Upper, right?" A harsh kick in his side rolled Upper over onto his back. There was no stuttering nervousness to the 'accountant's' tone now. Just cold toughness. Upper coughed out a garbled 'yahg' through vomit, blood, and spit. The 'accountant' nodded, a bloody... pen in one hand. A pen in that guy's hand made Upper fold like a lawn chair , for the Lord's sake. Who the hell was this guy? The 'accountant' went on: "You were two weeks late checking with the Duke for more work. That just isn't acceptible. Learn to be punctual, dipsh*t. You're a small fish," he pinched two fingers so close together they were almost touching, "in a very large pond. Learn to play nice with the big cats, step verrry carefully, and maybe you won't ever have to see me again." With a casualness only achievable through years of practice, the Bookkeeper cleaned off his bloody pen with a handkerchief he pulled from his shirt pocket, and slid it behind his ear before strolling away with an insultingly well-done 'nothing to see hear' air about him, the polished bastard.
Upper rose to his feet unsteadily, his lips caked in blood, bile, and fouler liquids. Pulling his burner phone from his coat pocket, he quickdialed a friend. "Hey, J, buddy, can you, uhh, ow that f**kin' hurts, can you send a car out with a couple Iron Rose guys and, ughhh, my head is pounding like hell. Meds, painkillers, the works, just trace this call and get it out here before I die of blood loss. Pretty f**kin' please."

Does it have to be finished? I wanted my script to have a cliffhanger.

A Foiled Deal

Robert: Hey Gary! (Smiling)We met on the sidewalk lastnight.

Lee: (Angrily Responding) Don’t you dare call me by thatname again Robert!

(Lee pondered at Hernan)

Lee: This your “muscle”?

Robert: Yeah “Lee”. To make sure everything goes smoothly.

(Suspiciously observing Hernan)

Lee: ….. Ok. Quite the silent type I see. Now as planned, I brought a selection since you said in our last meeting you can’t decide what type of gun to pick.

Robert: Yeah I have budget to buy the best in the arsenal you got. Don’t forget the “Parabellum”. It’s pretty common to have by all people who have secret interests.

Lee: “Parabellum?” You mean the Luger? If so you’ll have to add that up with the larger caliber you’ll buy, okay?

Robert: No worries, I have the dough
.
Lee: Alright then. Let’s start the showcase.

(Lee halfway unzips the duffel bag)

(Lee suddenly stops)

(Sirens fade in)

(Police Cruiser arrives)

(Two policemen got out of the car and are suddenly shouting)

(Policeman 1 aiming at Lee)

Policeman 1: Stop, put your hands in the air. Let go of the bag.

(Policeman 2 aiming at Hernan)

Policeman 2: You two, don’t move. Basemount this is PO-42. Ihave a 10-31 in erm… 103^rd Street near Torn City Docks. I need to request backup.

(Robert unzips the bag entirely reaching a gun and shoots Policeman 2 in the shoulder)

(Shootout ensues)

(Robert shoots at Policeman 1 as Policeman 1 runs for cover at the dumpster.)

Policeman 1: Basemount this is PO-41 we have a 10-31, and one of the suspect had 10-101, I repeat 10-101. PO-42 is 10-82 and 10-78.

(Hernan grabs Robert by the jacket and Robert drops the gun in disbelief of what he did)

(Shoots at the three of them while running)

Hernan: We gotta go, now!

(Running)

Lee: What is wrong with you?!

Robert: They were going to bust us man.

Lee: No they weren’t. I had a safety plan and you f**ked it up.

Robert: I thought this was a safe area?!

(Lee slams Robert to the wall and grabs a gun from his waist)

(Lee cocks gun aiming at his chin and started leaning on his face)

Lee: So you wanna play like a tough-guy pimp huh?

Lee: Tell me! Is there something that I don’t know about!

Robert: No, no, no! I swear I didn’t do anything!

(Hernan starts to hold Lee’s shoulder.)

Hernan: Look man, we are all in this mess together. Whatever you wanna say, say it later and yes, it is his fault that we got in this situation, but right now we need to move! I know a place where we can lie low.Just please uncock the hammer. Nobody of us has to die tonight.

(Silence…)

(Lee uncocks the hammer of his gun. Let’s go of Robert and holsters his gun)

Lee: (Pointing at Robert) You better have some good explanation for all of this, and you, you better not f**k up like him. Cause I swear if any of you dares to turn me over or rat me out. I swear I will hunt you two sons of b**ches!

(Lee sighs and looks at Hernan)

Lee: Lead the way, “Silent One”.

---End of Scene---

THE DREAM

She hadn't had to try very hard to persuade him. It is one of the many perks of being a woman in Torn City. Now here she was.
Her toes sent ripples in the water as she dragged a foot through the crystal blue of the clean pool water. Too clean. Over chlorinated. It stunk of chemicals. She would have to make sure to tell the island staff about it later.
She wouldn’t have it spoil her evening though. She was an island away from it all now, a beautiful place where she could exist in solidarity. No more rolling out of bed at the sound of gunfire erupting outside her window, or the sleaze down the hall trying to steal a number.
It was good to be alone.
The maids had gone to bed, roomed in the guest house, a few hours ago, so it was just her and the calm salty breeze. In the distance gulls called out somberly,and their cries sent a chill down her back. It was how she imagined a ghost might call out in the darkness.
Maybe that is why she wasn’t on the beach. Across those waters was a gray city and in it existed many ghosts. Sometimes she felt as if she could never escape it. Her past, and the gray sludge of her existence. Now and then, what had really changed but the location?
She felt her fingers play again, and they slip and jab into each other, trying to be clean. Nails clicking, feeling itchy and tainted. It’s not a moment later before they are pushed into the waters too, her eyes slightly tearing up as she bends closer to the water. No tears escape.
As she leaned forward her own reflection stared back.
No longer tidy but hair that was strewn about as it had been caught in a wild wind. Her eyes appeared drawn, tired. Maybe there was not enough water here to wash it all away. The sin, the deception.
She could play that melody for hours, in her head. The last song she recalled they danced to,but like a dance she was weary at the memory. Listless and ready only to sleep, to be renewed again.
Was it worth it? She had talked with him for hours, more so than she had even planned. They had danced and spun into a dream that seemed to never end. Until it did.
It had been her hand that stopped time, at least for one of them. She could still feel the edge of it, digging into her hip. A lean knife with a dirty edge. She didn't care to adjust herself. She let it dig into her skin, ignored the discomfort as she moved her leg.
The handsome but far too welcoming stranger. He thought they had met by chance of course,but she had planned it all.
He had been successful, rich, a man of business and one who knew how to keep his wallet full. Of course, he had also been lonely. She knew the signs, the way he smiled at all the women who flocked about, clinging to him like leaves, ones that crumbled and stuck to everything, but eventually were picked away in the breeze.
Manipulation was her game, and one game at the casino, the tip-back of bottles, drunk abandon. He had opened up to her in a fount. Spouting out his hopes, his dreams, and she had become that dream.
As in life, though, one had to awaken eventually. A private island, a place where she could be alone. She had swept him away in the waves off the shore, and claimed it all. As if he had never been.
The blade though presses hard through the pocket of her pants, and she likes the familiarity of it. She is also reminded of the way it felt to cut through his skin, and the way his eyes had looked. Betrayal.
It was nothing to her, and she pulled away finally, out of the water, and she's cold. It’s all she feels, but she’s alive.
Solitary.
And now a few billion dollars richer.

"Dammit" Duke mumbled under his breath, "I hate this f**kin' part". As he stands up from his desk, loosens his tie, and makes his way out of his office to the door he grabs his well-worn plaid suit jacket from the coat rack near the front desk and slips it on while gesturing for his receptionist to go ahead of him. "Alright, you know tha' drill darlin', lady's first. " He says with a crooked grin and a mock bow to her.
The blond receptionist looks up at him and gives a half hearted smile as she rises, grabs her purse and starts for the door. She never did believe Duke to be a gentleman, her assumption for his end-of-the-day chivalry has always been that its an excuse for a front row seat view of her "assets", and while Duke does enjoy any glances he can get without being slapped, his real reasons are much more aligned to his almost cowardly sense of self-preservation. He always tries to have someone leave the office just ahead of him in case a disgruntled customer decided to get some payback. At least that way the receptionist would get shot first and give Duke a few seconds head start at fleeing.

As Duke bids her a farewell and slides down into his metallic blue Lamborghini Gallardo, he can already feel his heart rate climbing as he tries to calm himself. After pulling the doors shut and starting the car he says to himself "It's just a business meeting, he aint plannin' nothin', he dont know nothin', he just wants to talk business, thats it.". The drive took less time than he would have liked so he could prepare himself a little more, but regardless, he had arrived. As he parks his car off the street and climbs out he adjusts his jacket again and tightens his tie for a neater look. He starts up the stairs to the back entrance to the pawn shop, passing dried blood stains in the concrete, probably from the many idiots he hears about that try to rob this place.

Duke shivered as he got to the door and pulled it open, he walks down a hall, takes a left, then another left before he arrives at a door labeled "VIP WAITING ROOM". He pushes the door open to find the well furnished but not well lit waiting room before him and he takes a seat on the black leather sofa closest to him, as his eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. He can see one other person in the room and eventually recognizes him. "Its that Chinese guy from the casino" he thinks to himself "Leslie something, Chanting-thong maybe? I dunno." Duke has loaned cash to Leslie before and wasn't sure if he'd actually get his money back.

Not that Duke himself had any problems with people of eastern background, his father on the other hand carried home some less than tasteful feelings for the Japanese from the war and an adolescent Duke had carried much of that with him through his teenage years but has since found those feelings to be unfounded. Regardless of how Dukes father would have disregarded Leslie, Duke himself couldn't help but notice that Leslie appeared to be sweating profusely and tapping his foot very fast.

Duke understood the reason for Leslies anxiety all too well, but just as Duke was beginning to feel the seldom expressed pangs of pity, a door on the other side of the room opened, the figure opening it could not be seen but a voice announced "He's ready for you Mr. Duke.". Duke rose slowly from the couch and stood on shaky legs while he again adjusted his jacket and tie and began an agonizingly slow walk toward the open door and gave Leslie one more glance as he passed him, Leslie seemed to be almost on the verge of tears now.
Duke would have found that funny in just about any other situation, but for now, every ounce of concentration he could muster was being poured into remembering the speech he had prepared days ago when he realized he was almost out of mission credits to pay his stooges, and the only way to get more mission credits is to convert them from points. Points that Mr. Felix is very, very protective of, points that Mr. Felix will hold anyone found to be misusing them accountable, points that Mr. Felix requires a very large deposit for before he will consider loaning out even one.

The very same points, as it turns out, that Duke has successfully counterfeited on a handful of desperate occasions. At least, he prays they had been successful. Duke enters an almost pitch black office thats even smaller than his own. The only light in the room is coming from an old CRT television in the corner that is displaying a constantly updating and changing chart of stock prices for businesses within Torn City. "Please," Mr. Felix's cigar-tempered voice expounds "Have a seat Duke, it's been quite some time hasn't it?". Duke, unable to find his voice takes several dry swallows and sits in the folding chair across from Mr. Felix's desk and manages to croak out "ah haha yes sir Mr. Felix, too long sir."

To be continued?

Torn's Hidden Problem

The latest gossip in the newspaper suggests that Torn has rampant ED. First, revealing this private information publicly is simply uncalled for. I'm sure Torn denizens are now suffering from emotional distress (another ED) as of this outing. Not to mention, the same article suggests early discharge. Such public shaming of our beloved city and citizenry cannot be allowed to stand.

I suggest we conduct a letter to the editor campaign to rectify the situation:

- We must rigidly demand stiff penalties be applied to the newspaper staff for their blatant insensitivity.
- We should erect a huge phallus on the city map to inject a virile public image to neighboring communities.
- An anonymous faction has suggested Torn play "The Stroke" in public areas to support direct public action.
- Our non-scientific polling found that citizen members would swell with pride if appropriate meds were added to our drug supply.

The short and the long of it is that we need all hands pulling for Torn in order to return our long-held pride and demonstrate our unrivalled fecundity.

Finally, rise up, stand tall, and together we can unleash our engorged fury on those spreading these malicious rumors.

This is more a challenge because I am like my Torn character. I look like it and I have more of a chance getting mugged and stabbed downtown these days

It's like breaking the fourth wall in the 16th wall. Metta

I am loving reading what people are writing. Way cool so far.

I think my personal theme song in my head is "Bad Girls" ?M.I.A or the Imperial March.

Rock on dude. It's a good song.

A Retaliatory Tale

The sirens that indicated that the latest Dirty Bomb had gone off were very welcome to her. Normally they would send any sane individual fleeing in the opposite direction to escape the inevitable radiation sickness or panicked crowd. In fact, she would ordinarily be doing exactly that. Now, however, she needed to stay near enough that she could ensure that he would be carried out of the radiation zone to the hospital.

She and her friend had competed for admission into one of the top factions in Torn City, both seeking to rise above ignominy and irrelevance and take a step into the light of recognition and power. Their competition had been perfectly healthy and reasonable in her view. He had apparently not agreed, for when they had submitted their applications, he had deliberately sabotaged hers so that his would be considered first. Well, and she would make sure that he regretted this. It was only a shame that this prestigious faction would have to lose significant respect in the doing.

She thought back to her role as architect of this chaos, as the mastermind behind the fleeing crowds and the destroyed respect and irradiated faction, and just laughed softly. She had never claimed that she could not be ruthless when the occasion called. The memory was to be as savored as had the moment of reckoning for her erstwhile friend.

~

“I heard that they have been planning an expose on your faction,” she said to her target. Her demeanor gave nothing of her true motives away, merely indicating a certain level of concern, as if she actually cared what happened to them. “They claim that they have evidence that you have been running a scamming base to cheat your partners and friends and plan to present it to the public to ruin your reputation.”

The faction leader gazed back at her with a thoughtful sort of expression. “And where did you say you got this evidence?”

Her eyes widened with a certain innocuity. She had expected skepticism of some sort. The man would never have reached his lofty position if he believed every random off the street. “My friend recently joined, and he overheard them planning. He risked a lot to pass me this information so that you might before warned of this.”

“Why would your friend care?” the man inquired dryly. He was still leaning back in his chair in a nonchalant manner, but she saw that his knuckles had whitened as his hand clenched the knob of his cane tightly. He hated the rival faction enough that he would hesitate to completely discard the possibility of a vicious sabotage.

“He had originally wanted to join your faction, but you had no slots available for new members, so he chose what he thought was a consolation faction. He still had some residual feelings for this,” she said, her tone as earnest as if she had actually meant every single word she was speaking.

He studied her face with narrowed dark eyes. He could not quite find anything about the woman that screamed she was attempting to deceive him. He also could not think of what anyone could gain in this scenario. It was well known that he had a Dirty Bomb safely tucked into his storage. Those never helped anyone. She was only giving him information that would lead to chaos.

Ultimately it was the fact that she was able to provide a very detailed description of exactly what they planned to expose that sold her tale. Despite years of experience, his hatred of his rival faction and their leadership made him less wary than he should have been. It might have meant less had this actually not been a true tale. No mere random could have known the truth.

He dismissed her and began to plot. They would regret this before they even had a chance to act against him.

~

She sat at her former friend’s bedside with wide-eyed concern. He was no longer irradiated and was nearing the end of his hospital stay. He seemed grateful to have her nearby.

“I have a confession,” he said at last.

“What is that?”

“I sabotaged your resume. I knew that you were stronger and the better candidate, and I was only thinking of myself. I’m so sorry. This is probably karma for what I did to you.”


She just patted his hand and gave him her warmest smile. “You’re forgiven.”

So the bounty on my head was an insult. I mean a mil? Is that all I'm worth? I mean... Man a million of your Torn scrip? What is the worth of a man?
Still, better than working. Right? Right?!
Shot.
Lucky I got this lid. Lent to me by XXXXX whose my employer. I can almost focus my eyes as I go down.
Takes forever to get to Hospital. Three minutes. *FOREVER*.
But I'm alive. In a world of pain. "Sniper hit by SNIPER".
Yeah. Not a Private Island but better than a Shack. Getting there...

The night was as cold as the body of the last guy who tried to hit on the Duke's sister. I was with a small street team, looking for opportunities to make cash, when a newer resident of Torn approached us.

“Hey, uh, are you the people selling, you know-"

"The Xanax?" MakinduBacon doesn't belong out here with us, he belongs on the cover of a fantasy romance book with his shirt stripped off and his arms around a damsel in distress. His charm and charisma pours through. "Yeah, I have quite a few of them. How many do you need?"

"Well, our faction is gonna be doing its first major chain this week. We're going for 2500 hits." He’s nervous, but I see that glint of excitement and pride. “I want to ensure everyone has enough Xanax, so…”

“I get it. How many can you afford?”

“Let’s do 50. 50 is a good number.” I am not sure how a number can be considered good, but I let it slide.

“I’ll set up the Xanax in my bazaar,” says MakinduBacon. “There you are.”

The new player is a little annoyed, and a little nervous. “Those are Vicodin, friend.”

We all have a bit of a laugh. “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” I coyly claim as MakinduBacon changes his bazaar.

This new resident goes to buy 50 Xanax, but as he does he gets an error.

“Why does it say that I can no longer buy that many-“

And that’s when we strike. The poor chap probably thought he could just click ‘buy max’ but MakinduBacon has already switched the amount available from 50 Xanax to 1. In the meantime, with his back turned, I strike.

YOU HAVE MUGGED SOMEBODY FOR $6,142,500.

“But… why…”

“Welcome to Torn, baybee.” Franky-G has a baby face that most mothers would take to Planned Parenthood while still in the womb. He’s just old enough to think he can taunt his victims and far too young to know that’s a bad idea.

It’s a small pittance, really – with the price inflation in Torn, we’ll barely be able to buy two energy drinks to split between the three of us. More importantly, the three of us are out here in hopes of fulfilling a planned robbery. For MakinduBacon, this is a waste of his time. For me, eh, it’s a nice break from robbing trains. Franky-G’s gotta start pulling his own weight, and what better way to teach him than hands on. The gig is simple – break into a local logistics company, control the crowd as we grab the cash that’ll be on hand, and sneak away. As the kids these days say, ‘EZ PZ.’

Originally, we’d planned to keep a low profile, but there’s a complication – we’re being tailed. Someone is taking photos of us, and we don’t recognize them. They aren’t flying any faction colors. MakinduBacon believe they’re an undercover cop, and if that’s the case I might need to do a quick kidnapping. There’s always some mob boss paying big for revealed undercovers. Just gotta trick this guy out into the open…

Franky-G gets a notification on his phone. “Looks like a new someone has listed me as an enemy, haha.” Don’t ask me why he says the words “haha” like he is laughing when clearly, he ain’t. It distracts me for a moment. That moment is all it takes.

“Hands up and hit points down!” screeches an overconfident detective. “There is quite the reward on you three. Him especially,” he states waving his Qsz-92 towards MakinduBacon.

Is that why we were being followed? Someone wasn’t looking for bounties, but to cash in on the reward the city jail was offering? How tedious.

“Friend,” I ask in a friendly tone, “do you know why we are all out here?”

“Yeah, I’ve been tailing you for a while. You’re part of a Natural Selection outfit, planning on robbing that logistics company up ahead.”

“Ok…” I pause, hands up. “And tell me friend, how many people does it take in Torn to do a planned robbery?”

When he saw the other two members of our crew, it was too late.

TORN CITY DOCKS

It was black outside, a small street lamp lit the docks in an eerie glow. She pushed back her coat sleeve and glanced at her gold watch. It was almost time. This had to be fast, she was on break and needed to be back at work in less than 15 minutes.

FERNANDO was due to arrive right at midnight. It was going to be a bloodbath, but she was ready.
She watched from her perch up high and could see thugs lining up at the docks, waiting for their chance. Fernando was new in town, and rumors had been swirling about what he’d bring. Everyone wanted to see.

“Go ahead suckers, see what you can do.”

The thugs already had their shiny GOLD AK’s out. She could see the glints from the small light from her view from above. Some even wore silly masks. “As if that’ll make a difference.”

The watch showed 11:57 the first few people began taking potshots at Fernando. One newbie went running forward guns blazing to be slowed to halt so fast he required a hospital trip. This was going to be a fast and bloody fight. Not everyone was going to make it, Fernando going down was the goal. It was going to happen.

Shots rang out in the night. Gold AKs glinting off the wealthy thugs, here to try and gain what they could.
Fernando fired back, it was hard to tell through the dark, and he wore a mask as well. He had a special piece he was using. It didn’t fire like any gun she’d seen before. THAT would be hers!

Bodies thudded to the ground, dropping like low levels flies. Twas time, she swooped down. And began the walk to the front. A few level 100s stood between her and Fernando, weakened, and crippled. “It’s all about timing guys!” she mumbled under her breath.

Quiet like an owl’s flight she went in stealthy, he was ready to fall, she could tell….patience. She took out her trusty Diamond Bladed Knife and walked forward in silence. Passing people she recognized, but they didn’t know her. That’s what happens when you’re new. You have the advantage of anonymity...she went up behind Fernando as he shot at players new and old alike; like a scene from rambo. She sliced him with methodical precision; her DBK right in the jugular. She was a doctor and had taken extra courses to land a killing blow, and that’s exactly what she did. She felt the blood ooze over her hands as he collapsed to the ground at her feet. The honour was hers, she’d done it. Wiping her knife and sticking it in her boot she crouched down to reveal her prize.

Now for the real reward, looting this new guy before anyone else.
A bandit mask, not for her, she tossed it to the side for a rogue who wanted it.

But what’s this, a poison umbrella, oh yes, yes, this will do quite nicely she thought to herself.

She grabbed the new umbrella and spirited away from Fernando’s body before anyone could recognize he was down and ripe for looting. The torn docks now littered with the bodies of poor players who needed a trip to the hospital. Jogging nimbly over them with the greatest prize swinging from her hands. Now the question becomes, keep it or sell it. But also the thought...better get a move on, works gonna be busy tonight.

Less than five minutes later she was walking through the revolving doors of the hospital; only to be greeted by the sounds of chaos, and moans.
“Hurry up doc, there’s work to be done.” A random surgeon told her.
“Freevive“ moaned a player laying on a gurney with a bullet hole visible through his shoe.
“All of Torn City is in chaos, it seems Duke’s hired some new guy and everyone wants a piece.”

“Fascinating... tell me more while we get to work makin’ money off these revives.” She said as she walked into the emergency room, the new umbrella safely tucked away in her white coat freshly stained with Fernando's blood.

Nothing better than helping people you just beat, and they have no idea. All in a day's work.

Kayle glanced at her watch.

2 minutes. Better make this fast.

She broke into the window of the warehouse. The docks were typically quiet, she only hoped the sound wouldn't alert the guard around the corner.

Repetition had made the gasoline pouring almost instinctual. Down, up, down the isles. Trail leading to her exit.

She reached into her pocket for her trusty lighter.

Nothing.

She cursed herself silently. She'd forget her head if it wasn't fastened on. Well, the authorities would find a gassed up warehouse in the morning. Nothing more to do about it tonight.

She got back to her vauxhall corsa and took off into the night.


But the illegal shit was just a side hustle. By day she was a respected doctor at the local hospital. Her lamborghini gallardo pulled into her normal parking spot and she slipped the key into her bra before walking inside.

Ward 4 was overcrowded, as usual. Long term care seemed to always be at or near capacity. So did 7, their drug ward, but at least the drug ward got people out quickly.

Kayle strolled up and down the aisle in 7, checking each board as she passed. She'd get flagged down occasionally but for the most part her time was spent pacing. Speaking of getting flagged down...

"Good to see you again, Kayle."

Kayle smiled. Mr. Ash was a friend of hers, but unlike most of her friends she rarely saw him in the ward.

"Hey, hun. How's the business?" Mr. Ash ran one of Torn's biggest property brokerages over on 39th and Main. She used to live on 39th and kept up with the area.

Ash chuckled. "Slow, as usual. But when is anything fast in this city?" He watched her as she signed his release form and thanked her before leaving the ward, already on the phone, presumably with a client.

Kayle could count on one hand the number of people she didn't have dirt on. Everyone had a vice, a secret sin, an illegal side hustle. Ash, for example, was addicted to drugs and pornography and had his hand in some organized crime. But he was a respected member of the community. Not because no one knew.

But because no one cared.

And she had to admit, Tornians might be f**ked up and liars but it could not be said that they were dillusioned about their deceit.

Kayle wrapped up surgery on Fat Tony, owner of a strip club when he wasn't busy serving as the town priest, and smiled.

God, I love this place.

August 22, 2020
RIPPING DREAMS



Darkness.

There is pain in your leg. Why? Had you fallen? Oh yes, now you remembered. You had fallen and twisted your hip last week-end. That was right. Hurt like the devil. That bitch.

The blessed darkness soon gives way to slate shadows, dim light barely penetrating the fog. The gray streets are slick, but all the rain this gritty sewer of a city had to give could not wash the corruption from its streets. The late summer swelter had given way to evening mists as the roadways cooled.

The stench of Them was everywhere, overpowering the filth in the gutters, the sewage on the road. You walk on, hoping to reach the sanctuary of your rooms without being attacked by one of Them. Pulling the collar of your greatcoat closer you hurry on through the winding streets.

One of Them looks at you, her eyes red with drink, and who knows what else. She steps out, onto the curb. You move away, but she beckons after you like the slattern she is. Her speech is slurred, strong drink or narcotics having robbed her of most of her wits, a mouth full of bad teeth proof of her lack of judgment, and she now seeks to weaken you, rob you of your strength, rip the manly seed from within you, leaving her womanly poison in it’s place. She curls her fingers about the wool collar of your vestment. You flinch in lurching horror, which she conveniently mistakes for shyness.

Her white apron shines like a streetlamp against her coal black dress reminding you of the horrors lurking beneath. The world was certainly gray, but there is nothing gray in the ghastly intent she represents. You can feel her corruption taint your flesh at her touch, skin literally crawling with revulsion.

You try to move away, but she has you by the coat, drawing you closer to her. Like a spider with a fly, you think, she would ensnare you with her wiles, lure you to your everlasting doom. Draw you into her maw, and eat you alive. That's what she wants. Her breath is redolent of bathtub gin, her hand reaches down and probes low upon your person. You jump back, out of her reach, your outrage and humiliation at a fever pitch. Your ears burn with humiliation, as your breath catches in your throat.

She leans back, against the filthy wall, and lifts her petticoats, then her skirt, exposing her fragrant weapon to the night air. Your doom now reveals itself to you, the smell thickening in your nasal cavity, just under the brain.

You have only one chance to survive, only one slim hope of saving yourself from this devil.

So you thrust your hands into her creased throat, catching her off guard. Pinning her to the wall makes her struggles less effective, and with a sharp shove she bangs her head on the brick, the dull thud thrilling you as she ceases her struggles altogether. You turn her head to the left as you slide her to the trash-strewn ground, the blade you always carry in your coat pocket for just such an occasion slicing deeply into her throat, from right to left, so the blood sprays away from you, like always. You swiftly cut through the harlot's garments, exposing her vile weapon, then cut into the peritoneum, exposing the devil’s intestinal tract, and rapidly separated the womb from its fleshly frame. Here was your proof, proof of her dark magics against you. You remove the womb with efficient strokes of your blade, and wrap it in her clean white apron, tucking the grisly bundle beneath your greatcoat in order to get it home.

You seek sanctuary then, and the darkness is your friend. Your rooms are but minutes away, and so you step into the shadows, into the darkness of Torn’s streets.

Sweet darkness.