07-17-2017, 09:56 AM
The summer sun was baking the streets of the 5th Tier barrios. April and May had packed out of town in a hurry like a couple of two-buck broads looking to desert their abusive pimp. The only lay left in town was good ol’ June, and she was as hot as they came.
Corsucant was a city of the future, filled with temperature controlled high rises that cared little for the annual rotation of the planet around it's burning star… as long as you were rich enough to get up and out to the Fourth Tier or beyond. For those sweating in the 34th Precinct of the Fifth Tier, you just had to thank your dear sweet abuelita that you weren't born further below.
The street sages and dumpster poets say the “common man” are innumerable on the Fifth, and who knows, they may even be right. The last census had counted millions upon millions of souls, and that was just the ones willing to write their names on the surveys. Who could really tell how many there were hiding in back alleys or bedded three abreast in the bedrooms of every neighborhood barrio.
Whatever the headcount was, this scorching summer day would have been the perfect one to take a tally on. The power had browned out yet again in the 12th Ward of the 34th Precinct and it seemed like every single citizen had spilled out of their suffocatingly hot apartments for the fresh air of the city streets. Men sat on their stoops, fanning their beer bellies with rolled up newspapers while their wives or side-bitches gossiped and compared manicures. Some kind-hearted fireman had opened a few hydrant valves, spilling the avenues with surging, cool water. The neighborhood children splashed, frolicked and fought like ducks in a pond, their bare chests slowly tanning in the endless sun.
Officer John Estes snored loudly in the passenger side of his police cruiser. His seat was reclined as far back as it would allow and his feet were kicked out and resting through the rolled-down window. His blue cap sat over his face, shielding him from the sun… and his partner’s smouldering glare. Officer Carlos Reyes sat erectly in the driver's seat, glancing intervally at his sleeping partner and the raucous city streets. The man was thin and dark complected, with a pencil thin mustache drawn along his upper lip. He had the skin of a young man, but his haggard and cruel eyes hinted that he had seen more than his years told. On his left bicep he wore a black armband, a symbolic remembrance for his brother, Officer Diego Reyes, who had recently died in the line of duty. (As seen in Chapter 2 of Mad Bull's first adventure, "Long Arm of the Law!") Carlos had become a loose cannon on the force since his brother's death, blaming Diego's demise on bean-counting suits to cheap to buy the department body armor and a rancid public that enshrined cop-killers. The Chief had realized the mourning cop needed a change of scenery, lest he become to much of a liability. Thinking it would help give Carlos some closure (and a hard-nosed babysitter), the Chief had temporarily reassigned Reyes to MAD BULL 34, the last man to see his brother alive.
From his cruiser parked along the curb, Officer Reyes continued to scan the avenue, watchful for trouble. His eye came to a pair of teenage boys talking angrily and gesticulating at the police vehicle. The boys wore short, breezy shorts and muscle shirts to provide some relief during the hot summer day. One began to light a cigarette while the other continued to rant, a wax paper cup filled with soda in one hand.
“It's these fucking pigs that get me going, you know?”
His friend shrugged, still trying to light an end.
“And this cabron, sitting in his car like he owns the block…” he spat dramatically towards the cruiser for effect.
The other teen finally got the end of his cigarette to show tiny flaking embers. He inhaled deeply and puffed out a dank smelling cloud of smoke, just like he had seen in the movies. Trying to give off an air of relaxed machismo, he placated his friend, “That's Carlos Reyes. He grew up here.”
Officer Reyes overhead bits of the conversation and had heard enough to shoot the boys a stern, disapproving look. The scowl was not lost on the youths.
“Then he's a traitor, Chico!” the boy fumed. His friend nodded a bit, not disagreeing. Growing irate, the boy bowed up and spat again at the police cruiser.
“Que pedo, la hada?” he jeered.
Officer Reyes scoffed at the insulting remark and waved the boy away dismissively.
“Vete a la mierda, cabrona. Hago lo que quiero!” the boy replied derisively before throwing the wax paper cup still half full of soda at the parked cruiser. The cup crashed against the driver's side window with respectable accuracy and showered Officer Reyes with hot, sticky Coke. In a fury, Reyes exited the car and stood two legs akimbo. Soda dripped down his sweaty uniform and stained his black armband. He looked down at his sodden clothes and a snarl cracked across his lips.
Corsucant was a city of the future, filled with temperature controlled high rises that cared little for the annual rotation of the planet around it's burning star… as long as you were rich enough to get up and out to the Fourth Tier or beyond. For those sweating in the 34th Precinct of the Fifth Tier, you just had to thank your dear sweet abuelita that you weren't born further below.
The street sages and dumpster poets say the “common man” are innumerable on the Fifth, and who knows, they may even be right. The last census had counted millions upon millions of souls, and that was just the ones willing to write their names on the surveys. Who could really tell how many there were hiding in back alleys or bedded three abreast in the bedrooms of every neighborhood barrio.
Whatever the headcount was, this scorching summer day would have been the perfect one to take a tally on. The power had browned out yet again in the 12th Ward of the 34th Precinct and it seemed like every single citizen had spilled out of their suffocatingly hot apartments for the fresh air of the city streets. Men sat on their stoops, fanning their beer bellies with rolled up newspapers while their wives or side-bitches gossiped and compared manicures. Some kind-hearted fireman had opened a few hydrant valves, spilling the avenues with surging, cool water. The neighborhood children splashed, frolicked and fought like ducks in a pond, their bare chests slowly tanning in the endless sun.
Officer John Estes snored loudly in the passenger side of his police cruiser. His seat was reclined as far back as it would allow and his feet were kicked out and resting through the rolled-down window. His blue cap sat over his face, shielding him from the sun… and his partner’s smouldering glare. Officer Carlos Reyes sat erectly in the driver's seat, glancing intervally at his sleeping partner and the raucous city streets. The man was thin and dark complected, with a pencil thin mustache drawn along his upper lip. He had the skin of a young man, but his haggard and cruel eyes hinted that he had seen more than his years told. On his left bicep he wore a black armband, a symbolic remembrance for his brother, Officer Diego Reyes, who had recently died in the line of duty. (As seen in Chapter 2 of Mad Bull's first adventure, "Long Arm of the Law!") Carlos had become a loose cannon on the force since his brother's death, blaming Diego's demise on bean-counting suits to cheap to buy the department body armor and a rancid public that enshrined cop-killers. The Chief had realized the mourning cop needed a change of scenery, lest he become to much of a liability. Thinking it would help give Carlos some closure (and a hard-nosed babysitter), the Chief had temporarily reassigned Reyes to MAD BULL 34, the last man to see his brother alive.
From his cruiser parked along the curb, Officer Reyes continued to scan the avenue, watchful for trouble. His eye came to a pair of teenage boys talking angrily and gesticulating at the police vehicle. The boys wore short, breezy shorts and muscle shirts to provide some relief during the hot summer day. One began to light a cigarette while the other continued to rant, a wax paper cup filled with soda in one hand.
“It's these fucking pigs that get me going, you know?”
His friend shrugged, still trying to light an end.
“And this cabron, sitting in his car like he owns the block…” he spat dramatically towards the cruiser for effect.
The other teen finally got the end of his cigarette to show tiny flaking embers. He inhaled deeply and puffed out a dank smelling cloud of smoke, just like he had seen in the movies. Trying to give off an air of relaxed machismo, he placated his friend, “That's Carlos Reyes. He grew up here.”
Officer Reyes overhead bits of the conversation and had heard enough to shoot the boys a stern, disapproving look. The scowl was not lost on the youths.
“Then he's a traitor, Chico!” the boy fumed. His friend nodded a bit, not disagreeing. Growing irate, the boy bowed up and spat again at the police cruiser.
“Que pedo, la hada?” he jeered.
Officer Reyes scoffed at the insulting remark and waved the boy away dismissively.
“Vete a la mierda, cabrona. Hago lo que quiero!” the boy replied derisively before throwing the wax paper cup still half full of soda at the parked cruiser. The cup crashed against the driver's side window with respectable accuracy and showered Officer Reyes with hot, sticky Coke. In a fury, Reyes exited the car and stood two legs akimbo. Soda dripped down his sweaty uniform and stained his black armband. He looked down at his sodden clothes and a snarl cracked across his lips.
Quote:Abuelita - Granny
Cabron - Bastard (Masculine)
Que pedo? - What's up? (impolite)
La Hada - Derogative slang for police (Originates from Puerto Rican gangs in Chicago)
Vete a la mierda - Fuck off
Cabrona - Bitch (feminine)
Yo hago lo que quiero! - I do what I want!