Summer Short Story Contest! (2013)

[Mkuki]

I have two questions.

1) Where do we post the stories, just on this thread?
2) About writing a new or original story, what does that extend to? Does that mean that the story has to be written specifically for this? Or does that mean we're completely banned from using an older story?

1) The process is normally to post things in this thread, and as far as I know that hasn't changed at all. Remember to spoiler the thing, otherwise it gets dreadfully hard to scroll the page.

2) It just needs to be something never posted online/published before. Old stuff you've left in a drawer somewhere can be (and has been) submitted. Essentially, will it pass an academic plagiarisn filter?

What if it's something we wrote for a class?

[Tlik]

1) The process is normally to post things in this thread, and as far as I know that hasn't changed at all. Remember to spoiler the thing, otherwise it gets dreadfully hard to scroll the page.

2) It just needs to be something never posted online/published before. Old stuff you've left in a drawer somewhere can be (and has been) submitted. Essentially, will it pass an academic plagiarisn filter?

What if it's something we wrote for a class?

Unless it's been published elsewhere, I'd imagine it's fine. I defer to CM for a complete understanding of the rules, but I think what he's trying to get across is that it shouldn't be copied from elsewhere.

[Mkuki]

What if it's something we wrote for a class?

Unless it's been published elsewhere, I'd imagine it's fine. I defer to CM for a complete understanding of the rules, but I think what he's trying to get across is that it shouldn't be copied from elsewhere.

Okay then.

[Nazi Flower Power]

1) The process is normally to post things in this thread, and as far as I know that hasn't changed at all. Remember to spoiler the thing, otherwise it gets dreadfully hard to scroll the page.

2) It just needs to be something never posted online/published before. Old stuff you've left in a drawer somewhere can be (and has been) submitted. Essentially, will it pass an academic plagiarisn filter?

What if it's something we wrote for a class?

I think it's OK. The idea of the rules is not to keep people out. It's just to make sure you're entering your own work.

[Occupied Deutschland]

Alternative title: REFERENCES! The short story...

I Believe in America…and All that Jazz

“Fuck man, grab yourself a beer or something. I don’t want a mess all over my place, and you’re sweating like a stuck pig.” Tiffany paused for a moment and giggled slightly at the pun.

Leaning over, she gripped the taller man’s arm and hugged against it. Not for any reason of warmth, the night wasn’t actually all that cold and two people together made it just a bit too uncomfortable to be worth the closeness. But it was perfect for comedic effect.

“Everybody has their first time, Jonesy-baby. Just relax, I’ll take good care of you.” She said in a high, sing-song, Marilyn Monroe impression. Unfortunately the voice was about all she could do. Blonde hair and sizable breasts weren’t exactly possible for her unless she got her hair dyed and silicone enhancements stuck inside her.

Regardless of how accurate the impression was, however, Jones seemed to be one of those some who didn’t like it hot. Shrugging out of her grip, the man snorted and retook his position leaning over the balcony railing staring out at the freight handler to the world. The old steel bars creaking and groaning in protest of the middleweight interloper, but despite their protest they didn’t send him tumbling to the ground thirty floors below.

“Oh, you’re no fun.” Tiffany pouted, resting one hand on the railing and using the other to withdraw a cigarette from the breast pocket of her suit. Rolling the filter in her mouth, she bit down until there was a satisfying crunch from the filter of the cancer-causing pleasure stick. She didn’t really prefer the menthol taste the action supplied, but the action, almost more than the smoking itself, was deliciously addictive. Leaning over slightly towards Jones, Tiffany raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“Aren’t you going to light my cigarette, big boy?” she said around the filter.

Jones’ eyes snapped from their examination of the skyline to glaring at Tiffany. He offered no explicit refusal, but made no move to do anything.

Tiffany sighed as she removed the cigarette from her mouth. “Listen bub, you want me to off the Outfit, we at least need to be on speaking terms.” Tiffany offered another giggle, “It’d just be so awkward otherwise.”

Jones was quiet for another moment, broke Tiffany’s gaze, and finally pulled a lighter from his pocket. Striking it, the flame held on the first catch in the still night air. Tiffany leaned in and puffed her cigarette to life with a series of quick breaths. The cherry lit, she wrapped up the action with a longer, slower draw.

“Jonesy, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. You want one before we get to it? Normally I’d wait until after but the excitement is just too much.”

Tiffany laughed. Jones did not.

“I don’t want your cigarettes and I don’t want your friendship.”

Tiffany raised an eyebrow and coughed slightly on the smoke she’d just inhaled. “So the silent man CAN speak. I’m relieved. I mean, I like the strong silent type in a Western movie but in real life it makes things so much more pleasurable when people talk back.”

Jones returned to his earlier reticence and just stared at Tiffany.

“Oh relax, Jonesy-baby! I know what you’re here for. I’m just trying to make this as fun as I can.” Tiffany leaned over again against the man’s arm again and tilted her head to look into his eyes. “That’s my job after all.” Tiffany let out a slight giggle after a moment. Once again, Jones did not. After a long moment, Jones shrugged out of her grasp again.

The two stood silently on the balcony for a still-aired expanse of time too short to require noting but long enough to be difficult to pin down. The lights of the city below blinking and flashing with a wild abandon that bathed the small offshoot of the hotel in a half-light reflection from the sky that was neither bright nor dark. The lights were the modern incarnation of a bygone era—the last vestiges of the jazz age and its prohibition-fueled cabaret dancers’ domination over the city. Modern times had set this old model of fantasy fulfillment and vice against the new. Jazz was replaced by techno, cabarets by dance clubs, and the cabaret dancers of questionable morals themselves replaced by the prostitutes of none. Amidst it all, the progress, the pleasure, and the veneration of vice, the lights stood. Desperately they called to the surrounding farm boys, begging them to taste of the city’s forbidden pleasures, to come and join the fun.

Both occupants of the balcony stood above those street-level sirens of vice, but only one looked down on them. One of them was silently smoking and the other simply silent. One waiting for their chance to be crooked, and the other already being so. Each of them was eagerly awaiting their chance to straighten out the other.

“You really want this Jonesy-baby? It ain’t too late to bow out.” Tiffany said as she finished the cigarette and flicked it off the edge of the balcony to go spiraling down, down, down to the street below.

Jones didn’t even hesitate. “Yep.”

Tiffany sighed and nodded, “Alright.”

Turning, Tiffany slid open the screen door that separated the balcony from the rest of the penthouse, and entered.

Contrary to the rustic appearance and upkeep on the outside of the hotel, and that in every other room in the place for that matter, the inside of the penthouse was immaculate in appearance. Though the wallpaper and carpet had clearly been done on a budget and were nothing especially pleasing with their lime green overtones, they also avoided the typical hotel trap of appearing completely inappropriate for the room. From previous experience staying in the penthouse, Tiffany knew the bedrooms were much bolder in their appearance. But as the main hall of the room, with its massive mahogany table, was used for conferences, it had called for a much more boring scheme. She had had to keep the old wop-wannabe fuddy-duddies who used it happy in previous years after all. It was so minor, but Tiffany was looking forward to redoing the room’s interior design in the near future. She’d given it a little thought, and it seemed like something with a really sharp contrast would be pleasant.

“Send them in now please, Javiar.” Tiffany spoke into the phone just in front of her spot at the conference table. She glanced over at Jones, “Time to make them an offer they can’t refuse, eh?”

The man gave her a blank look for a moment before the double set of doors that led into the room opened and six broad-shouldered members of the Outfit entered. All looking like they had been dragged out of fancy restaurants in order to come, which they likely had been. Many were clearly aggravated and glaring at Tiffany with thin-eyed anger. Distrust probably would have served them better in the circumstances. At their head was a modestly fat, balding man who resembled an Italian Droopy Dog. That had been the only way Tiffany had ever been able to see the cartoonish Corliogne anyhow, no matter how many enforcers he had. It was probably the jowls.

“Hello gentlemen. Wait wasn’t too aggravating, was it?”

“Aggravating? This is fucking ridiculous little girl! You know, we got a lot better work to do than sit here and play nice with you in your cute little Barbie playhouse for a half-hour until you can get your shit in order.” One of the Outfit capo’s grumbled.

“Undoubtedly.” Tiffany responded simply. The offhand surrender of the argument took the men by surprise, and their annoyance at the wait dissipated into confusion. She had a reputation for not letting insults slide, that she let this one go spoke to them in ways little else could except perhaps a gangland war. Or a good pasta, the fat, lazy, fucks.

Tiffany shrugged at the expressions the men were giving her. “I’m sure you’re missing a fantastic spaghetti dinner somewhere, Moretti. But I didn’t think it would be too much of a problem since that seems to be all the work you do anyway. Besides sleeping with your own call girls.”

They didn’t seem to like that.

“Listen you little—“ Moretti began, only for Corliogne to stop him with an upraised arm.

The room was silent for a long moment as Corliogne stared at Tiffany with an upraised eyebrow. He probably thought it was intimidating. Tiffany suppressed a laugh. All she could see was Droopy Dog threatening her.

“I don’t believe a slight measure of courtesy is too much to ask, do you, Senorigna? It has kept us peaceful for the last what, year and a half? It would be a shame were something so minor as an insult to change that situation, wouldn’t you agree?”

Tiffany thought about starting right then, but it didn’t quite seem right, too quick. She didn’t want this to be over with too soon. It was like a fine scotch…Or more appropriately sex…Enjoying the build-up was almost as good as the actual final act. A little more foreplay would be nice. She should let things get a little harder, a little wetter, before getting to the real thing.

“Sure, whatever you say, vecchio. Unlike your lapdog I’m actually making money, so I guess the insults are unnecessary. You have my apologies, signore.”

The Italians clearly noticed the apology sounded more like pity for someone with worse business skills than an actual expression of remorse, but there was little they could do. The words themselves had been spoken, which allowed them to ignore their code in favor of keeping the peace, and by extension their money-making. The peace had to be maintained in order for all of them to profit, after all.

Or so they thought.

At another gesture from Corliogne the offended Moretti seemed to deflate and the made men took their seats. Corliogne sat at their center directly across from Tiffany, trying to conceal the annoyance and curiosity that shared places on his face.

“My associates tell me you actually have an interesting proposal for us. Perhaps it would be best if we dispensed with the pleasantries, such as they are, and proceeded straight to business? It would be most unfortunate if one of our exchanges got somebody killed.” Corliogne once again attempted to sound menacing. Tiffany once again suppressed a laugh.

Tiffany bobbed her head to one side and reached into her suit’s pocket. The Italians immediately sat forward on their own seats slightly and curled their hands towards their sides.

“Chill yourselves gentlemen, no need to whip out your pieces so soon! The night’s still young and you haven’t even bought me dinner yet. This is what I called you for.” Tiffany withdrew the small bag from her pocket and tossed it across the table to Corliogne. The flunkie to his right almost immediately grabbed it to examine.

“This is pure one-hundred percent Columbian cocaine, ladies and gentlemen. Disco shit. Pure as the driven snow.” Tiffany quoted, glancing to Jones. No recognition at all. What a square, no culture at all. Had the man never seen a movie? Fuck.

“My newest associate here has given me the cocaine equivalent of a pallet sale. I don’t know what Columbian he had to blow for it, but for this deal I’d do the same. With a swallow and a thank you afterwards.”

The Italians blanched at the crude language, but didn’t get any less interested in the package before them. They were not, however, all that impressed. Cocaine wasn’t exactly a new product.

“He’s offering me up to seven-hundred kilos for fifteen a piece.”

The Italians to a man whipped their heads between Jones and the bag. The going rate in Chicago was floating around twenty-two thou a kilo. Tiffany wasn’t certain what the Outfit was getting the stuff for. They kept themselves relatively far removed from that end of the business; it wasn’t ‘honorable’ enough for them. But it was quite obvious from their faces that their price was not as good as Jones’ supposed price.

“My people are good. And I’m even better. But that much coke could be hard for me to move. Not to mention how much the market would be fucked afterwards. I wouldn’t be able to make money on the stuff for months, maybe years.” Tiffany frowned dramatically and took on a false tone of sadness. “A girl’s gotta make a living. And a girl can’t live off selling pussy and extortion alone…Well, maybe I could. But think of all the poor street pushers who’d be out of work. It’d be a goddamned tragedy.”

Tiffany clapped lightly, the frown and mock solemnity disappearing. “So, I was hoping we might come to another mutually beneficial understanding, where we split the product between us. Lower the price a bit to get the junkies happy and hold onto this shit for the long-game. In exchange for a modest finder’s fee on my part, of course.”

The Italian capos now couldn’t hide their intense interest. They immediately saw the possibilities. If they held onto the stuff they could get months and months of higher price out of it. Corliogne seemed to be doing slightly better hiding his own interest, but that was likely because he had heard the dangerous words ‘fee’ associated with the product his men were fawning over. The man had been a bookie in the beginning, it was only natural he pinched pennies.

“Just what kind of a finder’s fee are we talking signora?” the boss-man asked, jowls drooping as he scowled in anticipation of the number that would come.

“Seventy percent. And finally making me.” Tiffany answered immediately.

The capos excitement seemed to disappear in an instant, and Corliogne gasped in spite of whatever mental preparations he had taken. The head shake was immediate. The reasoning didn’t follow all that far behind.

“Absolutely not. There’s not a drop of Italian in you, and the money’s the kind of deal a pimp would make with his whores. You expect us to—“

“Yes. Yes I do. I expect you to become my whores.” Tiffany said loudly and finally. The room was silent for a moment in shock. The Italians weren’t exactly used to anyone comparing them to whores.

“This is the twenty-first century Corliogne. Civilized people ditched race restrictions in their clubs decades ago and I’m tired of just being the damned odd-girl out step-cousin you Mafia bastards always try to fuck in the middle of the night. Metaphorically.” Tiffany smirked, “Don’t worry about the money, I’ll buy you nice things and take real good care of you. Maybe you can even be my bottom bitch Corliogne.”

Corliogne stared at Tiffany for another moment, hands curling and hatred oozing out of his eyeballs like tears. The capo to his right opened his mouth to say something, but Corliogne held up a hand before the words escaped from the other man. The head of the Outfit blinked slowly, holding his eyes closed for a brief moment, and let out a rough sigh as he stood.

“I think we’re done here.”

“I don’t, Mister Corliogne. Sit. Back. Down.” Corliogne didn’t sit back down. “Either you agree, or you will have a war on your hands Corliogne. I will destroy us both. This is an offer you literally can’t refuse.” Tiffany continued as the man began to turn to leave, ignoring her order.

“You aren’t in a position to make such an offer, young lady.” Corliogne returned as he refocused on Tiffany. “You think you can take us on? We own this city! We’ve owned it since the thirties and we always will! I don’t care how cheap your coke is or how willing you are to blow random strangers for a better position, we aren’t giving you our dealers in exchange for a measly cut like that. And we certainly aren’t making you a member of the family for it! Seeing as I didn’t wake up to a horse-head beside me, I find it very easy to refuse your offer you upstart gook bitch! Do you really expect us to agree to something that fucks us in the ass?”

Tiffany smiled. “Of course I do not Mister Corliogne.” Soon enough though…

Tiffany paused for a moment as she returned the man’s stare. “Flip, by the way.”

The balding Italian shook his head at the change in topic. “What?”

“You called me a gook. I’m Filipino. The proper derogatory term is ‘flip’. Gooks are Korean. If you’re going to insult someone’s race, at least get it right you fat guido fuckwit.”

The Italians began making various exclamations of warning. Corliogne being the exception as he almost seized in anger at the dramatic failure of his insult, or perhaps he really was seizing. Wouldn’t that be disappointing?

“Twenty-five percent, you fucking flip whore.” Corliogne squeezed out through gritted teeth, spittle flying over the mahogany table. “But if you think we’re making you, you’re delusional.”

Tiffany smiled as she lowered herself slightly in her chair as if relaxing. That the man was even willing to keep talking to her after that exposed how utterly weak he was. Tiffany wouldn’t take someone insulting her. She suppressed a slight shudder, very soon now…

“That’s better. This is how business works my friend, I make an offer and you counter it, and then I counter that. American Capitalism!” Tiffany spread her hands out to gesture over the room, and instead of returning them to the table where they had been, casually placed them in her lap. Oh God! It felt so GOOD! The drama and the playing, it was downright sexy. “Unfortunately, I already gave you my final offer. Seventy percent and family status. Or both of us go down.”

Corliogne didn’t even pause this time, just laughed as he turned. A bone-deep, belly-shaking laugh that spoke of a life lived on good food and little hardship. This spoiled Italian bastard didn’t deserve his position. What the fuck had he done to earn it? His retainers were not so jovial, shaking in outrage and pounding fists against the table indignantly at the woman who would command them.

The time for foreplay was over, it was time for the fucking.

“Now Jones.” Tiffany said simply as the Italians screams of disapproval washed over her. It seemed they were going to try and refuse her offer. Now came the best part. The first few moments were always the best.

The lights of the penthouse snapped off, plunging the conference room into darkness. The only light the bluish-white glow on the outside of the window shades that did nothing to reveal the inner parts of the room. The Italians screams turned from anger to confusion, and then back to anger.

They quickly began to turn to screams of pain.

Tiffany ignored the slight pain in her shoulder dropping into her new position underneath the table had caused, and extended her arm. Taking aim just below the glow-in-the-dark tape on the underside of the table in front of each sear, Tiffany bit her lip to keep from making any noise. Squeezing quickly through the light pull of her pistol’s trigger, she smiled as the report was followed by a scream of pain. Unable to pause to enjoy the sound however, she shifted her aim once more. Faster! Faster! God! Yes! Faster!

From slightly behind her, Tiffany made out the dull roar and clack that signaled Jones had gotten the shotgun from its place taped to the side of the table and was using it. A second softer series of high-pitched popping told her that Javiar had also started working his way down the Italians from his spot in the entryway. This was as good as sex! Probably better!

Much like sex, just when it was getting good, it stopped.

Rising from her position on shaky legs as the lights returned, Tiffany quickly scanned the Italians lines. Corliogne was dead as could be, most of his face in rather bad shape as it seemed Jones had concentrated a blast from the shotgun on the man. Tiffany had a brief spasm of disappointment and jealousy. She had hoped one of her pistol rounds had been the one to penetrate the miserable cartoon-like gangster’s chest and tear at his insides. Darn. She just had to live with offing his flunkies instead. All five were—

Tiffany jerked in excitement as one of the Italians rolled slightly from his position. She still had two shots after all.

Practically leaping from her spot, she leaned over the man and excitedly pulled back the hammer on her pistol. His stomach was a dark red that belied he’d be passing soon, but why waste a good chance like this?

Grinning, Tiffany let out a snort as she recognized the man. “Why Moretti, aren’t you the lucky one? Would you like to make another Barbie comment? Huh?”

Moretti groaned and rolled a bit more as he clutched his arms around his stomach.

“Ah, no witty lines about my Barbie playhouse? Come on! You seem like such a wise guy! Give me more!” Tiffany screamed at the dying man. When he offered no response, Tiffany grunted and squatted on the man’s chest.

He didn’t seem to have enough breath to be able to scream. It was too bad.

“Please Moretti! I need it!” Tiffany continued, shaking the man’s collar as she held the gun to his head.

“C’mon, one more time Moretti! Give it to me one more time!

The man opened his mouth.

Tiffany jerked the trigger twice in rapid succession, and then slowly tilted her head back to bask in the warm, wet feeling.

Javiar entered and quickly shifted his head from his boss to the far side of the room.

“Well.” Tiffany said after a long moment as she stood. She returned the pistol to its proper place in the holster underneath her suit, which really was going to need to be dry-cleaned. “It was good for me. Was it good for you two? I might need another cigarette after that.”

Now she really did have to do some new interior decorating on the place. The carpet was going to stain, that was for certain and completely unavoidable at this point. Not to mention the two roughly .45 inch holes in the baseboard. It would have to be replaced entirely for sure, at least covered with new carpeting. The walls were a similar story. But maybe the table could be salvaged. A little bit of sanding should clean it up nicely. Besides, the stains that were on it could probably match decently well with a nice dark redwood stain or something.

Tiffany pulled on the lapels of her suit to try and readjust it into a more comfortable position. As she did however, she felt a burst of cooler air on her sweat-soaked back that told her the suit, much like the room, had not remained entirely intact. Sighing, she pulled on both cuffs to loosen them from their position, and shrugged her way out of the civilized attire.

The white undershirt she had on was greeted by Jones finally lowering the shotgun he had kept fixed on the bodies of the Italians as if they might rise from their position.

“God, you men. You just can’t keep it up, can you? You shoot your load and you’re done just like that.” Tiffany snapped. “Though I do have to admit, blowing it all over that Italian fucks face like you did does give me a bit of penis envy big boy.” Tiffany said with a glance at the shotgun and a wink. Holding the suit before her by the shoulders, she examined the back. There was a rip stretching a few inches up from the seam where the two sides of it met, but contrary to her initial belief, it wasn’t all that bad. Her tailor might even be able to mend it. Hopefully he could, at least. She really liked this suit.

Tiffany motioned to Javiar, and continued. “Seriously, if we’re going to work together I need you to be able to keep it up for longer than that Jonesy. Me have to be able to love you long time police-boy.”

Jones started and whipped his head around just as Javiar snatched the shotgun from him and turned it against the man. Fat lot of good police academy had done for the shocked bastard.

Tiffany threw the bloody and torn suit-coat over her shoulder and leaned against the table as she stared at the man. “Officer Collins, you are a naughty, naughty boy. And if you’re friends at the precinct are to be believed, you’re on vacation.”

Jones twitched at the revelation.

“Which means you,” Tiffany pointed to Jones, “as a private citizen, hired us,” Tiffany glanced to Javiar and then shifted her finger to herself, “to kill these men over here.” Tiffany swept her arm over the bodies on the far side of the table. “So naughty.” Tiffany said, dragging out the words as she knocked her fist against the table, stood, and crossed to the door to the balcony.

“I’d probably have to talk to that rat bastard of a lawyer of mine, but I’m pretty sure that means you can actually be charged with murder if I am, officer. Even if you try to claim you weren’t here.” Tiffany’s smile widened more than it had all night. “Plus, I could always tell the friendly Outfit enforcers who is to blame. Their standard of proof is a lot lower than a court’s. Their justice is a bit more…family-oriented as well, if you catch my meaning.”

“But lucky for you, I kind’a like naughty. Now,” Tiffany continued, glaring at the blood-spattered walls of the penthouse, “this hardly seems like the place to discuss business with a guest. So uncivilized and crude. Shall we return to the veranda, as our late guests would call it?” Tiffany placed her suit on a nearby rack and opened the door. Behind her, Javiar prodded the policeman forward.

Without the upper layer of her suit, the night had a much more biting feel to it. Gone was the temperate comfort that had been present before. It was replaced with a coolness that seeped through the buttons and collar of her shirt to make her skin shake and bump in an attempt fight it off. That or it was her excitement still doing it, afterglow was a wonderful thing. Either way, she doubted Jones would be too accepting of her hugging his arm for any warmth now, no matter how funny it would be. It was too bad really, he was kind of attractive and he knew how to handle a gun to some extent. What a waste he was in law enforcement.

“You’re not going to get away with this you know. There’s video of you doing this. They’re probably watching you right now.” Jones almost yelled out as he was pushed against the railing by Javiar.

Tiffany made a noncommittal grunt and shrugged. “Honestly, I think I preferred you when you were playing the strong silent type.” Tiffany placed a hand on Jones’ shoulder and gave him a rough shake, the railing groaning in tune with her pressure. “Please don’t insult my intelligence, officer. Stakeouts require coordination with the rest of your department. There hasn’t been any. Bluffs only work if there’s some kind of chance you’re not bluffing.”

“Besides, even if you are telling the truth, I’m sure the D-A would be more than happy to make sure any such evidence was quite carelessly misplaced somewhere. Police stations can be so disorganized after all. And the man has always emphasized how much he loves his daughters in his political campaigns.”

“Which leaves us with the question of you, Officer Collins. Whatever am I to do with you?” Tiffany’s smile morphed into a dark smirk. “I guess I could make you another Ken for my Barbie dollhouse.” She continued, nodding her head back towards the inside of the penthouse.

“But we could probably work out something more equitable for both of us Jonesy-baby. After all, because of you the Outfit is completely out of the picture for me, there should be some way I could thank you.” Tiffany said, glancing down to where the man’s hips contacted the railing.

“Yeah. You could go to prison and do whatever the all-female facility equivalent is of dropping the soap. I’m sure they’d appreciate a funny girl like you in Dwight Correctional.”

Tiffany raised an eyebrow as she withdrew another cigarette and held up a hand to stop Javiar. It was actually rather difficult not to laugh. The cop’s bravado was quite humorous. “What do you mean by funny?”

Jones just stared at her from his position leaning against the railing.

“What, you mean the way I talk? Funny how?”

Jones stood still for a long moment, opening his mouth once, then twice.

“Come on, how am I funny? Funny like I’m a clown, what? Do I make you laugh? How the fuck am I funny?”

Jones moved his mouth once more without saying anything before finally speaking. “Get the fuck out of here? Tiffany…”

Tiffany slipped the cigarette into her mouth and giggled around it as she smiled warmly at the cop. “You motherfucker. Finally something you’ve fucking seen. Jesus, I’ve been trying to find something you’d seen all night, ‘Some like it Hot’, ‘The Godfather’, ‘Full Metal Jacket’, ‘Blow’, fucking ‘Casablanca’. Fucking ‘Casablance’! Fuck, you cops just have no culture do you?” Tiffany glanced at Javiar. “I almost had him! I almost had him! You stuttering prick you!” she yelled, finishing the famous line and knocking Jones’ shoulder with her cigarette hand.

Javiar laughed along with Tiffany as he took a few steps forward. The balcony was awash in laughter from the two.

Awkwardly, Jones let out a single rough laugh.

Tiffany cut her own off. “I hate that movie.”

As if on cue, Javiar rushed forward and roughly grabbed the cop by the back. Leaning him over the old railing and giving him a rough shake. Again, the rails groaned in protest of the weight that was on them, but held.

Jones took a deep breath in preparation for a scream, before Tiffany slapped his cheek in an attempt to put a stop to that. “Hey, hey. Jonesy-baby, come on, I don’t want none of that.”

Almost miraculously, the man’s scream cut off in mid-birth.

“Oh my, so you can follow my orders? There’s hope for you yet Jonesy-baby!” Tiffany explained as she reached into the man’s pocket to grab his lighter, quite intentionally missing it the first couple times. “Now, I can excuse a poor taste in movies. I can even forgive you being such a rude bastard of a man. In my line of work, I’ve met worse, I assure you. Italian wiseass in there leaking brains all over my nice penthouse, for example, would probably qualify as worse. You’re okay compared to him. I’d take no culture you over poor culture him any day. I can fix no culture, but poor culture lasts a lifetime.” Tiffany flicked the lighter a couple of times, then was forced to shield it from the air in order to keep the flame alive long enough to light her cigarette.

“But you lied to me Jonesy-baby. I don’t like being lied to. So I think the only fair thing would be for you to do something for me in exchange for my teaching you some culture. Could you do that? Could you do some stuff for me in exchange for my forgiveness?” She spoke around the filter, sending clouds of smoke into the cop’s face.

Eyes watering, and sending rivulets of tears into the air to fall the thirty stories to the ground below, Jones could only nod.

“Excellent Jonesy-baby! Excellent! I’ll get you right back up” Tiffany said as she stepped back from the man and grabbed his pant-leg. Nodding to Javiar, Tiffany began to pull on the cop’s leg. Sometimes, drama for the sake of itself was worth it. Good practice at the least. Maybe one day she’d make a movie and act in it, which meant she had to be used to giving good performances and telling convincing lies in more situations than just court proceedings.

Javiar let go of Collins with a rough shove, keeling him further forward on the railing.

Tiffany’s loose hold on the cop’s leg lasted a bare fraction of a second, before gravity overcame her grip and the pig went, squealing, down, down, down to the street below.

“Oh dear, poor man just couldn’t rise to the occasion.” Tiffany said simply as she glanced over the railing and took another long drag on the cigarette. Rolling the cigarette in her mouth, Tiffany bit down on the filter until she heard a crunch and then took another, menthol-flavored breath.

“I suppose we had enough E-D suffering cops on the make anyhow. And seriously, he recognizes motherfucking ‘GoodFellas’ but not ‘The Godfather’? Sure, Scorsese is fun, but Coppola is a goddamn artist. Compared to him, Scorsese’s a fucking curse-worshipping hack! No fucking refinement at all. The guy relies on guts and goddamnits to sell his movies. He’s all debauchery and fun for its own sake, guy doesn’t seem to realize there needs to be a point behind it.”

Tiffany waved off a silent offer by Javiar for her to take his coat and turned back to reenter the penthouse itself, still slightly perturbed. “Get the boys up here to clean up this mess please Javiar. No use letting these Italians stink up the place any more than they already have.”

Perhaps a white floral wallpaper would be nice inside? Maybe not floral, and maybe not even white actually, but something real light with a dark red or black trim and curtain setup seemed like it would balance the room out nicely. Maybe she’d try it. It’d certainly look better than it did with the lime-green carpet. God that was terrible.

As she entered, Tiffany took another drag of the cigarette and carelessly blew the resulting smoke around the inside of the, technically, nonsmoking room. She had to get the place detail cleaned anyhow, and it wasn’t like the gunshots had been entirely smokeless so the rule had already been broken, which made it perfectly okay. Besides that, she owned the place. She got to do what she wanted with the places she owned. Especially now that the Italians were out of the way and she owned so much more.

“Ah,” Tiffany added absent-mindedly as she pointed the cigarette to her torn, bloody suit. “Would you get that dry-cleaned too? Tell them it’s alright if the color fades so long as it gets clean. I’m going to head over to Red’s and establish our alibi for our cop friend’s unfortunate fall.”

Tiffany stepped around the bloodstained carpet as she made her way to the elevator. Did she know anybody young and Catholic? Coppola had had a baptism symbolize Michael’s rise to power after all, and imitation was the most sincere form of flattery. It would be really poetic to meet her newest underlings, formerly in the employee of Corliogne, at a baptism while the remainder that were still loyal got picked off.

Unable to think of any Catholics she knew, Tiffany tapped the button for the first floor. Her driver would meet her at the bottom with an extra coat, and then she could go have a nice drink and a steak to think it over. Maybe even a movie. That sounded kind of nice. But what? ‘The Godfather’ would be good to see again, but as late as it was she might end up falling asleep on it, which would be such a waste of fine filmmaking.

As the doors closed behind her, the little light that made it into the penthouse from the city below faded out and left only the harsh glare and slow, city-apropos music of the elevator. But the city’s lights were still on. They were still lighting the wanton hunger of the homeless. Though no longer gas lamps, they still illuminated the painted women of the evening that trawled the streets, searching for a customer who held the desire for wickedness in their hearts and enough cash in hand to satisfy it. They were unable, however, to illuminate the insides of things.

This was not a negative to the Big Shoulder in the elevator. Just like the crooked ones in the city’s poem, she went free. Free to bathe in the city and life she loved.

“You can like the life you’re livin’, you can live the life you like…” Tiffany sang along with the elevator’s terrible speakers as she finished her cigarette and realized what movie she wanted to see.

The only reference in here that might not be common knowledge shows up mostly in the last few paragraphs. The 'gas lamps', 'painted women' 'Big Shoulders' and that whole section is referring to the Sandburg poem about Chicago (which, incidentally is where the story is set though that is never mentioned).

The last line is from the musical 'Chicago' as well (as is the latter part of the title). That might not be immediately noticeable or might be depending on one's familiarity with that material, but I feel like I should point it out just for my own peace of mind.

Hopefully ya'all can catch most of the other movie references, they're usually pretty obvious.

[Madda]

I already posted the story that I want to use in a thread, created by myself, on Nationstates already.
Is it okay if I use that same story?

[Vakolic]

Will give this one a shot

[StellarGate]

This is my kind of contest. Expect a story from me soon. *runs off to fictionpress to write a story.*

[Occupied Deutschland]

If I have the time I might do an 'unofficial' scoring of stories if CM is down with it. Who doesn't want more feedback after all? But, that might be only if I have the time and such.

This is totally not a bump to the thread to garner it some attention. I am making a serious detailed post about the topic of the thread and what I will be doing in relation to it. Can't you tell how serious I am?

<---Look at my serious face if you doubt how serious I am. I am super-serious. This totally isn't a bump. I would never do such a thing. The nerve of you to think this could be such a thing. Frankly, I'm a little insulted. Good day sir! Or madam!

[Norstal]

If I have the time I might do an 'unofficial' scoring of stories if CM is down with it. Who doesn't want more feedback after all? But, that might be only if I have the time and such.

This is totally not a bump to the thread to garner it some attention. I am making a serious detailed post about the topic of the thread and what I will be doing in relation to it. Can't you tell how serious I am?

<---Look at my serious face if you doubt how serious I am. I am super-serious. This totally isn't a bump. I would never do such a thing. The nerve of you to think this could be such a thing. Frankly, I'm a little insulted. Good day sir! Or madam!

You know we need a third judge...

[North Wiedna]

If I have the time I might do an 'unofficial' scoring of stories if CM is down with it. Who doesn't want more feedback after all? But, that might be only if I have the time and such.

This is totally not a bump to the thread to garner it some attention. I am making a serious detailed post about the topic of the thread and what I will be doing in relation to it. Can't you tell how serious I am?

<---Look at my serious face if you doubt how serious I am. I am super-serious. This totally isn't a bump. I would never do such a thing. The nerve of you to think this could be such a thing. Frankly, I'm a little insulted. Good day sir! Or madam!

You know we need a third judge...

is the deadline still the 25th

[Esternial]

If I have the time I might do an 'unofficial' scoring of stories if CM is down with it. Who doesn't want more feedback after all? But, that might be only if I have the time and such.

This is totally not a bump to the thread to garner it some attention. I am making a serious detailed post about the topic of the thread and what I will be doing in relation to it. Can't you tell how serious I am?

<---Look at my serious face if you doubt how serious I am. I am super-serious. This totally isn't a bump. I would never do such a thing. The nerve of you to think this could be such a thing. Frankly, I'm a little insulted. Good day sir! Or madam!

You know we need a third judge...

*ahem*

[Forsher]

You know we need a third judge...

*ahem*

One judge never stick around. It's like the Defence Against The Dark Arts post in Harry Potter. Except more IRL.

1) The process is normally to post things in this thread, and as far as I know that hasn't changed at all. Remember to spoiler the thing, otherwise it gets dreadfully hard to scroll the page.

2) It just needs to be something never posted online/published before. Old stuff you've left in a drawer somewhere can be (and has been) submitted. Essentially, will it pass an academic plagiarisn filter?

What if it's something we wrote for a class?

Done it a number of times. I'd chuck my story up but I'm currently using the book it is in as a prop so I'm aiming for Friday next week (as opposed to tomorrow).

[Occupied Deutschland]

You know we need a third judge...

is the deadline still the 25th

Unless CM makes a correction or change by popular/convincing demand, yes.

[Esternial]

*ahem*

One judge never stick around. It's like the Defence Against The Dark Arts post in Harry Potter. Except more IRL.

Thanks for the vote of confidence.

[Forsher]

One judge never stick around. It's like the Defence Against The Dark Arts post in Harry Potter. Except more IRL.

Thanks for the vote of confidence.

It isn't always the last one to join.

On the bright side, you're already more active than most of the replaced judges and the contest isn't even closed to entries yet.

[Nazi Flower Power]

*ahem*

One judge never stick around. It's like the Defence Against The Dark Arts post in Harry Potter. Except more IRL.

OD can't judge because he's a contestant.

We need some entries by people that don't have WWII-era German-themed nations! Don't the Allies write?

[StellarGate]

One judge never stick around. It's like the Defence Against The Dark Arts post in Harry Potter. Except more IRL.

OD can't judge because he's a contestant.

We need some entries by people that don't have WWII-era German-themed nations! Don't the Allies write?

I'm working on a story now. And my nation isn't German-themed.

[Nazi Flower Power]

OD can't judge because he's a contestant.

We need some entries by people that don't have WWII-era German-themed nations! Don't the Allies write?

I'm working on a story now. And my nation isn't German-themed.

Dude, what's wrong with you? Walking around with a nation that isn't German... Shameful!

[StellarGate]

I'm working on a story now. And my nation isn't German-themed.

Dude, what's wrong with you? Walking around with a nation that isn't German... Shameful!

If it makes you feel any better, at least 25% of my nation's population is of some German decent

[Conserative Morality]

Fourteen days until judging starts!

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Four days until judging starts!

Don't you mean fourteen?

Also, I look forward to the results coming back in December or so.

[Conserative Morality]

Don't you mean fourteen?

Also, I look forward to the results coming back in December or so.

Time has no meaning to me! Also, fixed.

[Occupied Deutschland]

Don't you mean fourteen?

Also, I look forward to the results coming back in December or so.

Time has no meaning to me! Also, fixed.

Time is a completely artificial creation of the book publishing industry designed in an attempt to get writers to meet deadlines by knowing when they were coming up.

It was, of course, completely unsuccessful in this. *nod*

[Wisconsin9]

I'm really unsure if I want to submit something...