Dungeons & Gangsters
Marco Frazetta
Copyright © 2019 by Marco Frazetta and Tempest Books
All rights reserved.
This is a work of satire and parody. Any resemblance to existing creative works is intended as such.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter 1
The gunmetal was getting warm against my skin as I watched the truck rolling toward us. Truth is, I always feel bad for the drivers before I shove a gun into their mouths—they didn’t do nothing, after all, just blue collar guys trying to make a living. But I figure, in this world there’s always someone getting fucked... and someone doing the fucking. And amigo, I ain’t never going to be the one to take it in the ass.
“You ready?” I said to Skreech, all three feet of scrawny green muscle sitting next to me.
He nudged the butt of his shotgun under the seat, itching to get at it.
“Ready, boss! Let me cap em’!” His voice was a laughing screech, where he got his name. “I swear I’ll get em’! Right in the eyes!”
“Calm the fuck down. We’re not making a Western here.”
“Oh. Right, boss.”
The truck, metal joints groaning with years of service, drove past us. I gave my Mustang some gas and rolled out of the parking lot where we’d been laying in wait. I had to focus, to stay on its tail, especially in all this traffic. At least it was easy to spot, a big white metal box lurching through the streets. We came to a stoplight. A homeless man practically jumped out of the street, holding ice cold water bottles in the LA heat. I rolled my Mustang’s black window down.
“Water! I got water here, sir!” His voice was a great anti-smoking commercial. His hair was a shit-stained grey mop. I slipped him a five and took a water bottle, then rolled my window up.
“But boss, you hate homeless bums!”
“No, Skreech, I hate beggars. That man there, he was a businessman. And that—that I can respect.”
The light gave the green and we rolled forward, tailing the truck like one of those fishes that latches onto the shark. Too bad the shark didn’t know that this little fish was about to rob him blind.
“What are we snatching again, boss? Diamonds?”
“Wine.”
“But you don’t even drink wine, boss! I don’t neither! Tastes terrible! Freaking rotten grapes.”
“It’s fermented. And we’re not going to drink it, you idiot.”
“Thank god.”
“It’s Domaine Leroy. Three grand a bottle. A hundred bottles on the truck.”
“That’s three million dollars, boss!”
“You… you let me worry about how much money it is.” I spun the wheel, turning, LA glare punching me in the face. This was a rundown industrial section of the city with an empty lot on the right side—some building that had recently been demolished—and a long abandoned factory on the left. “This is the spot. Let’s go.”
My engine growled and we shot out past the truck, driving in the opposite lane for a second, then pulling in front of it, screeching to a stop. The truck actually gave us a good, lurching shove from behind. I lowered the visor of my cap over my eyes, tightened the gloves on my hands, and slipped out the door.
“Hey motherfucker! You just hit my Mustang!” I yelled, long strides toward the truck’s driver door.
“You’re the asshole! You stopped right in front—” the poor bastard didn’t finish. My piece flashed. Ain’t nothing like a gun to make even the grumpiest fuck take a good long look at the human condition—give me all the snowflake philosophy bitches in college, and I’ll teach them everything they need to know about life in thirty seconds. This driver was one of these lunch pail blue collar guys, a thick worker’s jacket with his name sewn on, was shaking so much his fat cheeks wiggled like an old lady’s ass. He musta been forty at most, too young for that shit. Then again, humans were so soft.
“Listen, you poor fuck. you keep your hands up, do everything we say, and your brains’ll stay inside your head!” I leveled the gun at the driver, my sleeve peeling back enough to show my red hobgoblin skin.
“Alright! Jesus man, do whatever you want.”
“Does it look like I’m asking permission?!”
“No! I didn’t meant that!” The driver trembled. Suddenly Skreech’s shotgun barrel dug into his back, and he practically shat himself. “Ok! Ok! I’m sorry!”
“Heeheee!” Skreech squealed.
“Step the fuck away from the truck!” I gestured with my piece, and it shined bright as the sun angled on it.
“Alright…please...” The driver trembled forward, belly sagging over his loose jeans. “Let...let me at least get my wallet.”
“What did boss say?!” BLAM!!! Shotgun blast.
“Aaaaaargh!” The driver crumpled on the ground.
“Why the fuck did you do that?!” I stomped over to Skreech.
“I—I—only shot the ground, at his feet, boss!”
“It’s a shotgun! It ricochets!”
“Rico-what?”
My eyes went wide as I stared down at the fat driver holding onto his shin, writhing and squealing like a pig. “Shit! Ahhh! My leg! My leg!” The poor bastard would live, but he wouldn't be using his leg for a long while.
“Just get in the car and drive!”
Skreech scurried off and I slipped into the truck. It’s startling, when you get into a truck and notice how tall it is to drive. But I was hell of a lot more comfortable than Skreech, who could barely see over the steering wheel of my Mustang. I just hoped he didn’t fuck up that too. My Mustang jerked forward, almost running over the truck driver who was still writhing on the ground. He’d caught some shrapnel in the shin, from what I could tell. Poor fucker.
Driving one of these trucks is like being inside a fucking laundromat dryer. I was jerking all around, feeling all kinds of weird vibrations from the truck on my ass. Skreech made a turn, and ate a big chunk of sidewalk as he did. My Mustang made a loud bang.
“I’m going to fucking kill you, Skreech!” I yelled out the window, for a moment not caring that we were still in the middle of a heist.
“Sorry, boss!” I heard the faint screech come back at me.
We wove in and out of traffic, me following what seemed to be a drunk driver in a white mustang, and finally turned into the row of warehouses where we had a spot waiting for us. Screech jumped out of the car like our lives depended on it—which they did.
“Come on, hurry the fuck up!” I yelled, the truck engine still hot and chuggin’ under me. Skreech worked the lock, flung the garage door so that its slats started rolling together with metal clatter above him.
I eased the truck into the warehouse and hopped out. The rolling door shut, making a storm of metal noise. Skreech ambled over to me with a guilty grin.
“Say, boss,” Skreech eagerly began. “What do ya say to me gettin’ a little piece of this, eh? Somethin’ I can stash in my little piggy bank.”
“You're asking me about money after you fucked up?” My hand snatched him by his ragged t-shirt collar. “What’d I tell you about no shots fired unless absolutely necessary!”
“You're right! Sorry, boss! Sorry! Fuck-Fuck-Fuck!” He could go from cackling little devil voice to whiny Tourette's syndrome child in an instant. “I was trying to be smart! I really was!”
“Damn it, Skreech.” I let go of the greedy little shit. “We’re just gettin’ started and you’re already tryin’ to skim a little cream for yourself. You forgettin’ that we operate under the Dra
gon? That we’re tryin’ to get ahead, not fill your little pockets with fuckin’ walk around money?”
Skreech shivered a moment at the mention of the ruthless crime lord.
“You’re right, boss. Sorry, boss.” His shoulders slumped and he stared down at the ground.
I gave him a pat on his leathery, shiny green head. “Come on. Let's get to work.”
Climbing up into the back of the truck, I took a quick look around. Crates, unmarked. Nice touch, I thought. Don’t want just anybody knowin’ what’s in here and helping themselves to it, do we?
“Skreech,” I called over to the goblin. “Bring that crowbar over here and let’s pry these fuckers open. Carefully.” The goblin happily scampered over and, wielding the crowbar, shoved it into the top of the first crate and put all his little body into it. The top of the crate popped and opened with a noisy creaking of wood.
“Come to daddy,” Skreech began to say, his eyes growing wide. Being excited myself for a sizeable score, I moved closer to the crate and peered inside. There was a black covering which I snatched and tossed aside, to reveal those big, beautiful bottles of wine. Only instead of glass bottles and golden liquid it was...What the fuck…? I reached into the crate, and yanked out the first large box.
“Yu-Gi-Oh?!” I shouted. “What the fuck is Yu-Gi-Oh?!” I started yanking out more boxes, growing in fury as each box said the same fuckin’ thing as the first, and had some crazy looking cartoon kids all over ‘em. Definitely no wine, no champagne, nothin’. Fuckin’ collectible cards? Feeling duped and utterly disappointed with the heist, vowing bloody revenge on the driver if I ever saw his fat ass again, I looked over at Skreech.
“Well...” Skreech stammered, himself crestfallen at not being able to seize a bottle of the imaginary wine and count his hoped-for cut. “I think we can still get a few dollars out of these if—”
“A FEW DOLLARS?” I roared. “Let me tell you a couple of three things. One.” I stepped towards Skreech. “I don’t fuckin’ play card games, especially no Pokeman shit—”
“But they’re Yu-Gi-ooohh!” Skreech barely got this interruption out before I snatched him up by his shirt collar and brought his ugly green little face up to mine.
“Two,” I continued, “How the fuck are we supposed to move these things? You know anybody? We supposed to roll up to Lincoln Elementary and try selling these to little fucking Timmy and Billy?” Skreech shook his head. “I didn’t fuckin’ think so. What do you think, huh? We know dope dealers, we know whores, we know gangsters. You think they’re sittin’ around playin’ some kid’s card game in between jobs? You think the strippers are hurryin’ off the poles to go play a hand of fuckin’ Yu-Gi-Oh real quick?” I looked hard into the little goblin’s eyes for a moment. Skreech started to squirm and, his sneaky mind trying to find a way out of my harsh grasp, he looked at me as though he had just been struck by a brilliant idea.
“We can sell ‘em on Ebay!”
Chapter 2
This fuckin’ thing, I thought to myself, waiting for the computer to connect to the “world web” or some shit they called it. America Online. Yeah. I looked up at the screen, impatient for the little outline man to make his way across. This is a real hustle they got here. When it connects it sounds like a yeti tryin’ to fuck a loud-speaker, but this wide world web shit will be a gold mine to the right cat one day. I loaded up the Ebay website after the dial-up thing finally connected. I flicked through some of the offers on the web page briefly before doing some price comparisons and research on those fuckin’ Yu-Gi-Oh cards we nicked last night.
As I’m lookin’ through, seeing if I can get anything like a good price for this miserable shwag and trying not to hear the snores of that shit-eatin’ little goblin, I heard a loud banging on the warehouse door. Startled, I jumped up and frantically grabbed the nearest gun—my modified .40 caliber Smith & Wesson—and whistled over to Skreech.
“Skreech,” I whispered. “Grab the shotgun and follow me.”
The goblin grabbed the black tactical shotgun, nearly as big as he is, and we both headed down the stairs. Could be cops, I thought, worried, Could be—Banging on the door again, interrupting my thoughts. I snuck over to the door, taking a quick look behind me to make sure Skreech was ready to rumble.
“Who’s there?” I asked.
“It’s your sister’s cunt! Open up!” A loud, rough voice I recognized. Shit, it’s J-Maxx. I could hear raucous laughter from his cronies. They must think it the pinnacle of humor to play knock-knock and pretend to be a cunt. Not much pretending necessary, though. I reached to open the door before this orc and his crew woke up the whole hood, but I froze. The fuckin’ Yu-Gi-Oh cards. I panicked. If these fucks see ‘em, I’ll never hear the fuckin’ end of it!
“Skreech!” I spat through my teeth. “Go hide those fuckin’ cards! Quick!” Skreech scrambled up the stairs, his big ass shotgun bumping along behind him. I waited a few more moments before opening the door with a big fake smile.
“J-Maxx, what’s the good word?”
“Teek! How’s your rash? Haha! Let me in, me and the boys gotta chop it up with ya ‘bout a spot of business.” I took a quick glance past J-Maxx, saw he’s got an orc and some sallow-looking human with him. For a moment, I didn’t move to let them pass. I couldn’t help but think that they’re here to run my shit and lay me out. This is life, I guess. Worrying if you ever really got friends to begin with, or if those you think are your friends are gonna come rob and kill you one morning for no reason in particular!
I opened the door, leaning back to let them in, but feeling the gun tucked into my pants just in case. “J-Maxx, hey how's it hanging you big green bastard?”
“My balls are hanging real heavy, as always.” He strode in, his shoulders barely fitting through the doorway. He walked past me, and I caught sight of all the chiseled green muscle he let hang out for the world to see with the unbuttoned shirt he wore. The gold chain hanging from his neck must have run him three grand at least. “Teek, you remember Maurice?”
“Yeah.” I nodded to the orc lug. He was shorter than J-Maxx but just as muscled, and even angrier looking. Had a broken tusk and another one with a gold cap on. A black wifebeater on. I was a bit of a runt, for a hobgoblin, a little under six feet compared to some hobs who grew as tall as seven sometimes, so these orcs were huge compared to me.
“And that’s Vinny.” J-Maxx nodded toward the human that was with him. Unshaven, a bit disheveled. “A huemie, sure, but he’s real useful in places.”
“I bet,” I said, the sarcasm well hidden. “Can I get you boys something to drink?”
“Gimme a fuckin’ beer!” the other orc, Maurice, yelled.
“I’ll have a Arnold Palmer!” The human squeaked, surprised at this unexpected hospitality.
“Nah,” J-Maxx grumbled.
“Nah it is,” I said, walking further back into the warehouse. “I don’t have any fuckin’ drinks for you bums anyway.” J-Maxx was the only one I had to be a bitch and suck up to. The other ones could go fuck themselves. “Come into my office.” I motioned for J-Maxx to follow me up the stairs.
Once we were upstairs, the orcs got awkwardly quiet. This triggered my paranoia again, but I could tell from the look on J-Maxx’s face that he wasn’t plottin’ on me—that, in fact, he was just a dumb fuckin’ orc trying to think real hard about what he was going to say. Big fucker even flipped his bottom lip, playing with it absentmindedly. Amused but not wanting to be a dick to a guy that’s thrown some business my way before, I didn’t say anything. Just waited. After what seemed like standing around forever with our thumbs up our asses, the big orc looked me in the face.
“Listen, Teek.” J-Maxx leaned towards me conspiratorially. “You put in some good work for me before. I got somethin’ comin’ up, somethin’ major. You gotta keep your mouth shut though. This is on the low.”
I got a little excited when he finished, but I took a second to consider the implications. “When you say on the low
...do you mean…on the low from civilians, or on the low even from connected guys?”
“Yea, no one can know.” J-Maxx was irritated that I might not be catching on to what he was hinting at. “The package is hot,” he continued matter-of-factly, licking his big dark lips, a bit of drool trickling down from the left tusk protruding from his mouth. “I don’t know exactly where it is, but when we get it, we’ll all be fuckin’ set. The Dragon always rewards those who bring him what he wants.”
Great, I thought. This fuckin’ oaf wants to bring me in on some scheme where I gotta fish for gold in a river of shit. Skreech had snuck in from the other room, giving me the thumbs-up. He was hiding behind some crates. Wait a minute…
“What’s the dragon got to do with this?” I asked, beginning to see fantasy mountains of gold before my eyes.
The orc momentarily made a face that was both shifty and uncomfortable at the same time. “Just as I said. There’s a package that he wants.”
“And he’s sent you to go after this package. But the thing is, you don’t know where the fuck it is…?”
“Exactly.” The orc spoke quickly, a bit irate that this wasn’t going as easily as he thought.
I gave the orc a hard stare and stroked the stubble on my rough chin. My eyes quickly roved over the guns stashed around that I could grab real quick in case this little meeting of the minds got ugly. A handgun isn't always enough to stop a real angry orc. I could use a shape-up, I thought. For a moment, J-Maxx hesitated in meeting my gaze. There was something off about this whole fuckin’ thing. I could smell it, and it smelled like shit.
“So, just to get this straight,” I started, still eye-fucking J-Maxx. “There’s a hot package. The dragon wants it bad, he’s rubbin’ on his scaly balls in excitement over it.” J-Maxx and the other orc with him—the big dangerous scumbag called Maurice—scowled at this, but the human chuckled. “But he, for some reason, he doesn’t know its location, and in lieu of just sendin’ a crew of orcs to go on a happy smash and grab, he’s requested me on this job personally?” I asked this in such a way as to make it clear that I already smelled a dead fuckin’ rat and found the whole thing dubious.
Dungeons & Gangsters Page 1
