06-25-2017, 10:12 AM
The sounds of blaring jazz music and the glare of neon lights echoed in the ears of Sergeant John Estes as the grey pinstripe suited crime boss ended his performance. The show was full of as much razzle dazzle as a New York City nightclub in the roaring Twenties, and the maestro of mischief himself could have even put Ricky Ricardo to shame.
"So I understand that you have been looking for me, is that not correct?” The roguish gentleman inquired. He stood dapper and clean from tips to collar, yet his ghoulish face shadowed a hidden truth that few learned to tell.
Mad Bull's jaw was locked tight in a grimace and his mustache bristled fiercely. He had been ambushed and embarrassed by the very target he had been sent into the contest to kill. His chest heaved as he huffed and puffed, squeezing his sizeable pectorals against the straining buttons of his blue police uniform. The memory of the glittering neon marquee mocked him,
“HARLAN!”
“HIGGS!”
“So it was you… this whole time it's been you,” Mad Bull muttered venomously. He paced like a caged lion at the base of the stage. Tension arched like electricity between the two mortal enemies, prompting the burly officer to tightened his grip around the oak handle of his revolver. The wood squelched quietly as his sweaty palm squeezed in malice.
“Oh come now, Sergeant, didn't you enjoy the festivities?” Harlan asked with the pizzaz of a master vaudevillian.
Mad Bull's revolver wielding fist quivered with unbridled rage, fueled by the embarrassment of the ambush and the audacity of the crime boss. “You listen to me, ya two-bit poff pimp! I know your name real good. It's on the tongues of every dope pushin’ dealer from here ta the tops of tha 5th Tier. It's layin’ in the bellies of every plugged kid shot in some drive-by turf war. It's marked with a palm print on the face of every battered dame, smacked around by some crumb high on your filthy stinkin’ junk you peddle to afford those cheap suits!”
Harlan gave the cop a murderous leer through his ghoulish eye-sockets, then an amused bow as if accepting a compliment.
Mad Bull spat in reply, “That's you, but as for me, I spent 27 years of my life as a cop trying to put big shots like you away. 27 years in the filth and dirt of the streets and there ain't no music down there. You watch the people on the streets, killing, raping each other, pumping dope through their veins, while big men like you sit in the fancy penthouses. And yet the poor slobs rot in hell. I know about you. As long as it puts money in your pocket, whadda you care?”
He paused, clicking back the hammer of his gun, “Today the nobodies who made you rich are gonna win. Die you son of a bitch.”
"So I understand that you have been looking for me, is that not correct?” The roguish gentleman inquired. He stood dapper and clean from tips to collar, yet his ghoulish face shadowed a hidden truth that few learned to tell.
Mad Bull's jaw was locked tight in a grimace and his mustache bristled fiercely. He had been ambushed and embarrassed by the very target he had been sent into the contest to kill. His chest heaved as he huffed and puffed, squeezing his sizeable pectorals against the straining buttons of his blue police uniform. The memory of the glittering neon marquee mocked him,
“HARLAN!”
“HIGGS!”
“So it was you… this whole time it's been you,” Mad Bull muttered venomously. He paced like a caged lion at the base of the stage. Tension arched like electricity between the two mortal enemies, prompting the burly officer to tightened his grip around the oak handle of his revolver. The wood squelched quietly as his sweaty palm squeezed in malice.
“Oh come now, Sergeant, didn't you enjoy the festivities?” Harlan asked with the pizzaz of a master vaudevillian.
Mad Bull's revolver wielding fist quivered with unbridled rage, fueled by the embarrassment of the ambush and the audacity of the crime boss. “You listen to me, ya two-bit poff pimp! I know your name real good. It's on the tongues of every dope pushin’ dealer from here ta the tops of tha 5th Tier. It's layin’ in the bellies of every plugged kid shot in some drive-by turf war. It's marked with a palm print on the face of every battered dame, smacked around by some crumb high on your filthy stinkin’ junk you peddle to afford those cheap suits!”
Harlan gave the cop a murderous leer through his ghoulish eye-sockets, then an amused bow as if accepting a compliment.
Mad Bull spat in reply, “That's you, but as for me, I spent 27 years of my life as a cop trying to put big shots like you away. 27 years in the filth and dirt of the streets and there ain't no music down there. You watch the people on the streets, killing, raping each other, pumping dope through their veins, while big men like you sit in the fancy penthouses. And yet the poor slobs rot in hell. I know about you. As long as it puts money in your pocket, whadda you care?”
He paused, clicking back the hammer of his gun, “Today the nobodies who made you rich are gonna win. Die you son of a bitch.”
Quote: Mad Bull challenges Harlan!