Post by The Submission Technician on May 18, 2008 14:00:01 GMT -4
Tuesday, 05-13-2008 17:00hrs
The scene opens in the subterranean hide out of Vin “E” Lambardo. The air is dank with the smell of mold and rat feces. The old stone constructed walls of the brown stone that Vin had spent most of his younger days in were green with decay. A lone light bulb dangles from a chain in the ceiling and rattles with the passing of each subway train in the near by tunnel. Several cracks in the mortar spewed forth the run off of last night’s rain. Several rusty, aluminum, shelved cabinets line the south wall. Each one filled with a full complement of shop supplies. The north wall, consumed with an enormous, old school, wooden work bench. Nude pictures of women are strewn across the wall. To the east an old, rickety, cage style elevator sits opposite a small wooden locked door. A dart board hangs on the locked door. On it, the fixation of all Vin’s rage, a picture of the Blackwell brothers. Several throwing knives have been imbedded in various locations of the still shots.
Vin sits at the workbench deep in concentration. A crazed look of psychotic vengeance plastered across his young face. He reaches into one of the draws and pulls from it a can of Sterno that he got from his caterer friend, and removes the lid. He punches a hole in the lid with a scratch awl and places it to the side. He then grabs a bag of m-80’s and gingerly submerges the small explosive in the gel, the fuse left sticking straight up. Weaving the fuse through the hole in the lid he presses tightly. Next a roll of electrical tape is pulled and meticulously wrapped around the can, six layers thick. A misogynistic chuckle slips from his lips as he places the home made fire bomb in the milk crate with the others.
Vin: “There now, an even twenty.”
Vin pulls out his pack of Camel non filter cigarettes, places the last one in his mouth and lights it. The slow drag of a maniacal mad genius kills half of the short butt. He exhales the toxic cloud and stamps the cigarette out on the cold ground. Vin walks over to the dart board and removes the twelve mini throwing daggers. He walks across the room and stands staring at the dart board, his eyes wide with wrath. As the sound of guttural rage comes forth from his soul and out passed his gnarled lips, a hail of steel hurls forth from his capable hands. And each of the twelve instruments found their mark. The flames of hell raged in his eyes as his mind flashed back to his fifteenth birthday party. There he was amid 75 of his closest friends in this very building. The music was loud, the drinks strong. He was searching for his best friend in the whole world, Lee Hopke. He climbed the stairs to the third floor and made his way to his bed room door. The door swung open and Vin’s face turned, as he came face to face with his long time friend and confidante in a naked embrace with Vin’s girl. His friend met a similar fate to the one he had in mind for the Blackwell. That was the day that he swore no one would ever betray his friendship again, EVER! This was also the day that he would forever change. This would be the day that he lost his innocence and took a life. That act would consequently catch the eye of one Sammie “The Bull”, and would shoot the young man right into the lower echelon of the most powerful New York family of the time.
All of the emotions of that fateful day rushed back with unbridled animosity. Vin reaches into the back of his jeans and draws his Sig Saur. He blasts fifteen shots into the dart board and it falls to the ground in pieces. His demeanor changes and an eerie calm falls over his, as the last remnants of his sanity leave the barrel with the last shot. He stoically plods back over to his work area and begins to contemplate. An evil grin creeps across his face as he begins to hatch another dastardly weapon.
He grabs the gas can in the corner. As he opens it the rich smell of kerosene fills the air. A box of polystyrene, a funnel, three empty forty ounce beer containers, some cloth rags, and a magnesium bull float get collected and brought over to the mad scientist’s creation desk. He fastens the handle of the bull float to the lathe and places a bucket on the floor. He switches the machine on to its slowest setting, and with the patience of Hannibal Lector himself begins to grind the handle into powder. The bucket of powdered magnesium gets put to the side. Next Vin pours the contents of the gas can into a small, metal waste paper bin, and adds to it the entire contents of the box of polystyrene. He uses a piece of metal rebar to mix it until it has the consistency of thick man load. The powdered magnesium gets mixed in next.
Vin: “Almost done.”
The bottles lined up like soldiers on the bench await the oozing concoction. He funnels each one of the bottles full and caps them with a rag each.
Vin: “He likes Molotov’s? Well let’s see how he likes these.”
Vin cracks a beer and guzzles it down with the thirst of a tortured prisoner.
Vin: “And now for a test.”
The Technician scrapes the remnants of his mix into the bottle and caps it with a rag. He unlocks the small door and walks through, grabbing the fire extinguisher and his sun glasses. He walks into the far corner of this anti-chamber for the sewers. A match gets struck on the side of his boot and he lights the rag. A quick toss at the wall and the whole chamber gets lit up bright white as the magnesium burns in the crude napalm mixture. The tremendous heat pushes Vin back. He pulls the pin on the fire extinguisher, but the heat keeps him from getting close enough to be effective.
Vin: “Fuck, too much magnesium. Damn it.”
Vin runs and grabs his Nomex coat. Thick black smoke fills the anti-chamber as he reenters. So blinding is the smoke that the only way he knows where the fire is, is the heat. Twenty minutes later the fire is extinguished. The walls permanently scared from the volatile mixture. A sinister laugh bellows from his face. The second tool of his vengeance has been completed.
Vin: “I don’t think Jeff understands, I don't think any of them do, to me no DQ means license to kill.”
22:30hrs
Vin E, like a tireless man possessed makes his way over to the cabinets once more. Only this time he pulls some scraps of sheet metal over to his acetylene and oxygen torch. He traces and cuts the shape of two small shark fins just longer that the length of his hand, and a “T” shaped flat piece stretching the length from his knuckles to half way down his forearm out of the metal sheet. He measures the width of his hand and cuts a piece of rebar to that spec. Vin skillfully welds the rebar to the center of the shark fins, and the T to the straight side of the fins. A little leather strap later and we now have the third instrument of destruction.
Vin: “Well Trevor what do you think?” he whispers to himself.” “Does this not entertain you?” he smirks and chuckles a sinister laugh.
Wednesday, 05-14-2008 01:45hrs
As Vin slowly starts to lose his last grip on any semblance of human decency he has left, he decides to smoke a blunt to calm his edgy nerves, and further contemplate the destruction of his new enemies. Only this blunt would be slightly different.
Vin: “I gotta calm the fuck down or I’m gonna blow a fucking O ring.” He said with a strain in his voice.
Vin: “I need a little different perspective.” “Gotta relax.” Vin sighs and grabs his lock box.
A small metal box with a three digit combination lock built into the face is pulled out from under the desk. The Vin rolls the tumblers to line up the combination. And in one quick squeeze to release the latch, the box is opened. Inside several bags of various drugs and paraphernalia. He grabs his weed, a grinder, blunt wrap and a small vile of little beige clumps of what appear to be sap.
Vin: “Afghanistan’s finest.” “Only damn thing that fucking county is worth any more, X and Opium.”
He grabs the bud and the grinder. Loads a fluffy little nug in to the steel teeth. A few turns later and viola. He unrolls the blunt wrap and pours the contents of the grinder into the paper.
Vin: “And now for the new perspective.”
He crushes the opium and sprinkles it like snow on the awaiting bed of rich, leafy goodness below. And the ballet of fingers begins, as he rolls the blunt with all the grace and talent of an Olympic figure skater. Vin painted the outside of the moist blunt with the flame from the freshly lit match, as if he were Leonardo Da Vinci working on the Mona Lisa.
The sweet smell of the blueberry flavored blunt wrap mingled with the aroma of the sticky bud. Vin salivated as he lit the match. Even the blast to his olfactory lobe from the harsh sulfur was no deterrent from the inevitable. The flame hit the paper wrapped bud and released from it an intoxicating, cloud that blasted his brain with serotonin and dopamine. A warm glow came over Vin’s body as he felt his extremities go numb. His eye lids fell quick as he drifts into his alternate perspective.
13:07hrs
Vin comes to shaking the grogginess from his head. He checks his cell phone for the time.
Vin: “Shit, well that was definitely a different perspective.”
And he was right, it was. This new perspective however did not change the final result. It only added to the devious nature with which he would carry it out. He made his way quickly back to the surface. A subway and two busses later he found himself standing in front of a gunnery on the lower east side. He entered the building with a nonchalant swagger in his step as he sought out the owner.
Owner: “Good afternoon sir, can I help you with anything?”
A large man, in his mid fifties, sporting a handle bar moustache and a slicked down comb over rises from behind the counter.
Vin: “Yes actually I hope you can anyway. You see my brothers and I are looking for a birthday present for our grandfather. He is a collector of really old cap and ball pistols. So we are all chipping in and buying him a new one, and it’s my job to get the powder. I think my brother told me to get the F2 powder for pistols, he said that worked the best. Do you have any?”
Owner: “Actually we do. We carry three sizes, four, eight, and sixteen ounce cans. The four ounce is 30.99, the eight is 49.99 and the sixteen is 89.99.”
Vin: “The eight should be fine.”
Owner: “Ok boss, is that it?”
Vin: “Yeah.”
Owner: “Would you like some wadding with that for another five bucks? I’ll through in some oil for the pistol.”
Vin: “Ok, why not. I mean hell you can’t beat that with a stick.”
They both laugh and Vin pays.
As soon as he is clear of the building he laughs to himself. “Works every time, good to see I haven’t lost my touch.” He thinks with a wicked sneer. He walks down the street to a women’s cosmetic store and goes inside.
Vin: “Excuse me miss but could you tell me where the paraffin wax is?”
The cute little brunette girl behind the counter shows him to aisle three in the skin care section. She looks bewildered as to why a man would be buying a wax bath.
Cute Girl: “Why do you need this?” the girl inquires.
Vin: “Well if you must know my girlfriend is black and she has ashy elbows. It will be her birthday soon and I want to surprise her.”
Cute girl: “That’s sweet, I wish that my man would do stuff like that for me.”
Vin: “Well why don’t you take my number and have umm “Him” give me a call, I’ll let him know how to treat a lady such as yourself.”
Cute girl: “Ok that uh sounds great. I’ll have um “Him” give you a call soon. By the way, my name is April, like the month.”
Vin: “What a pretty name, I’m Vin “E”. I hope that you have “Him” call me soon.
April: “I sure will, see you soon Vin.”
Vin: “Bye gorgeous.”
And he walks out chuckling to himself as he can’t believe that she forgot to ring him up.
Vin: “One last stop and back to work.”
He hops on the subway and starts back home, making one last stop at the photo store to pick up some film cans. As he rides the subway home he starts to replay the last overdrive in his head. That was no match that was an old fashioned challenge. Well it the Blackwell’s wanted war Vin would bring Iraq to them. The burned with anger and vitriol, as he seethed in his seat. This truly would be the sickest shit either of the two of them could have ever imagined.
19:21hrs
Upon returning the maniacal Vin “E” gets right to work. He sets up the film containers to receive the powder. He packs the black powder as tight as a virgins honey pot. Vin makes the appropriate holes in the caps and runs makeshift fuses out of rope, dipped in gasoline, and rolled in the black powder. He turns the wax bath on and melts the paraffin. He grabs the tightly packed charge and dips it in the wax. While it sits in the wax he grabs a pack of Copperhead BBs. The charge is removed from the wax and dipped in the pellets, cooled and done again. The process is repeated until there are three layers of pellets.
Vin: “Nothing like some good old 360 degree claymore action to brighten their day.” “And now for the coup de tat.”
Vin stets the claymores to the side and grabs a metal baseball bat, a pair of metal snips, some barbed wire, iron workers pliers and the welding torch. He sits over a bucket and meticulously snips the barbs off of the wire. And with the controlled intensity of the worlds hate begins to fashion a new school version of an old school classic, the spiked mace.
Vin’s stomach signaled the union mandated one hour lunch break. Even vengeful sociopaths have to eat after all. A quick phone call to his buddy Pete to set up dinner arrangements, a fast shower upstairs, and he exits the brownstone.
22:45hrs
Vin decides to meet Pete at a small pizzeria called Little Michael’s in Sheep’s Head Bay. The two friends enjoy a nice filling meal and a cappuccino as they shoot the shit. Pete goes to wish his friend a good night with a hand shake, and happens to notice that Vin’s fingernails have black powder in the cuticles.
Pete: “Vin what the hell is that shit on your hands? Have you been in the fucking basement again?”
Vin explains everything to his dear old friend and street mentor. A look of disapproval swells up in Pete’s face.
Pete: “Vin we’ve spoken about this haven’t we? This guy’s not Lee, and his brother is not doing anything you would not have done in there either. Plus didn’t you tell me that half this shit is scripted anyway? What the fuck are you thinking Vin? Ya can’t keep doing this. One day your gonna get sloppy and the cops are going to put you away for a long fucking time. The family wouldn’t even be able to protect you on this kinda shit, not since the Patriot Act. Think Vin fuckin would ya. Come the fuck on.”
Vin: “Listen Pete I’ve done this shit for a lot of years, I know what I’m doing.’
Pete: “A lot of fuckin years, Vin your only fucking 18!”
Vin: “I know, I know. I’ll be careful ok?”
Pete: “Ok, Vin ok.” “Listen you take care and if you need me you call ok?
Vin: “Thanks Pete I will. Talk to you soon man.”
They hug and walk in separate directions. Vin heads home, stopping only for a bottle to help him forget.
The scene opens in the subterranean hide out of Vin “E” Lambardo. The air is dank with the smell of mold and rat feces. The old stone constructed walls of the brown stone that Vin had spent most of his younger days in were green with decay. A lone light bulb dangles from a chain in the ceiling and rattles with the passing of each subway train in the near by tunnel. Several cracks in the mortar spewed forth the run off of last night’s rain. Several rusty, aluminum, shelved cabinets line the south wall. Each one filled with a full complement of shop supplies. The north wall, consumed with an enormous, old school, wooden work bench. Nude pictures of women are strewn across the wall. To the east an old, rickety, cage style elevator sits opposite a small wooden locked door. A dart board hangs on the locked door. On it, the fixation of all Vin’s rage, a picture of the Blackwell brothers. Several throwing knives have been imbedded in various locations of the still shots.
Vin sits at the workbench deep in concentration. A crazed look of psychotic vengeance plastered across his young face. He reaches into one of the draws and pulls from it a can of Sterno that he got from his caterer friend, and removes the lid. He punches a hole in the lid with a scratch awl and places it to the side. He then grabs a bag of m-80’s and gingerly submerges the small explosive in the gel, the fuse left sticking straight up. Weaving the fuse through the hole in the lid he presses tightly. Next a roll of electrical tape is pulled and meticulously wrapped around the can, six layers thick. A misogynistic chuckle slips from his lips as he places the home made fire bomb in the milk crate with the others.
Vin: “There now, an even twenty.”
Vin pulls out his pack of Camel non filter cigarettes, places the last one in his mouth and lights it. The slow drag of a maniacal mad genius kills half of the short butt. He exhales the toxic cloud and stamps the cigarette out on the cold ground. Vin walks over to the dart board and removes the twelve mini throwing daggers. He walks across the room and stands staring at the dart board, his eyes wide with wrath. As the sound of guttural rage comes forth from his soul and out passed his gnarled lips, a hail of steel hurls forth from his capable hands. And each of the twelve instruments found their mark. The flames of hell raged in his eyes as his mind flashed back to his fifteenth birthday party. There he was amid 75 of his closest friends in this very building. The music was loud, the drinks strong. He was searching for his best friend in the whole world, Lee Hopke. He climbed the stairs to the third floor and made his way to his bed room door. The door swung open and Vin’s face turned, as he came face to face with his long time friend and confidante in a naked embrace with Vin’s girl. His friend met a similar fate to the one he had in mind for the Blackwell. That was the day that he swore no one would ever betray his friendship again, EVER! This was also the day that he would forever change. This would be the day that he lost his innocence and took a life. That act would consequently catch the eye of one Sammie “The Bull”, and would shoot the young man right into the lower echelon of the most powerful New York family of the time.
All of the emotions of that fateful day rushed back with unbridled animosity. Vin reaches into the back of his jeans and draws his Sig Saur. He blasts fifteen shots into the dart board and it falls to the ground in pieces. His demeanor changes and an eerie calm falls over his, as the last remnants of his sanity leave the barrel with the last shot. He stoically plods back over to his work area and begins to contemplate. An evil grin creeps across his face as he begins to hatch another dastardly weapon.
He grabs the gas can in the corner. As he opens it the rich smell of kerosene fills the air. A box of polystyrene, a funnel, three empty forty ounce beer containers, some cloth rags, and a magnesium bull float get collected and brought over to the mad scientist’s creation desk. He fastens the handle of the bull float to the lathe and places a bucket on the floor. He switches the machine on to its slowest setting, and with the patience of Hannibal Lector himself begins to grind the handle into powder. The bucket of powdered magnesium gets put to the side. Next Vin pours the contents of the gas can into a small, metal waste paper bin, and adds to it the entire contents of the box of polystyrene. He uses a piece of metal rebar to mix it until it has the consistency of thick man load. The powdered magnesium gets mixed in next.
Vin: “Almost done.”
The bottles lined up like soldiers on the bench await the oozing concoction. He funnels each one of the bottles full and caps them with a rag each.
Vin: “He likes Molotov’s? Well let’s see how he likes these.”
Vin cracks a beer and guzzles it down with the thirst of a tortured prisoner.
Vin: “And now for a test.”
The Technician scrapes the remnants of his mix into the bottle and caps it with a rag. He unlocks the small door and walks through, grabbing the fire extinguisher and his sun glasses. He walks into the far corner of this anti-chamber for the sewers. A match gets struck on the side of his boot and he lights the rag. A quick toss at the wall and the whole chamber gets lit up bright white as the magnesium burns in the crude napalm mixture. The tremendous heat pushes Vin back. He pulls the pin on the fire extinguisher, but the heat keeps him from getting close enough to be effective.
Vin: “Fuck, too much magnesium. Damn it.”
Vin runs and grabs his Nomex coat. Thick black smoke fills the anti-chamber as he reenters. So blinding is the smoke that the only way he knows where the fire is, is the heat. Twenty minutes later the fire is extinguished. The walls permanently scared from the volatile mixture. A sinister laugh bellows from his face. The second tool of his vengeance has been completed.
Vin: “I don’t think Jeff understands, I don't think any of them do, to me no DQ means license to kill.”
22:30hrs
Vin E, like a tireless man possessed makes his way over to the cabinets once more. Only this time he pulls some scraps of sheet metal over to his acetylene and oxygen torch. He traces and cuts the shape of two small shark fins just longer that the length of his hand, and a “T” shaped flat piece stretching the length from his knuckles to half way down his forearm out of the metal sheet. He measures the width of his hand and cuts a piece of rebar to that spec. Vin skillfully welds the rebar to the center of the shark fins, and the T to the straight side of the fins. A little leather strap later and we now have the third instrument of destruction.
Vin: “Well Trevor what do you think?” he whispers to himself.” “Does this not entertain you?” he smirks and chuckles a sinister laugh.
Wednesday, 05-14-2008 01:45hrs
As Vin slowly starts to lose his last grip on any semblance of human decency he has left, he decides to smoke a blunt to calm his edgy nerves, and further contemplate the destruction of his new enemies. Only this blunt would be slightly different.
Vin: “I gotta calm the fuck down or I’m gonna blow a fucking O ring.” He said with a strain in his voice.
Vin: “I need a little different perspective.” “Gotta relax.” Vin sighs and grabs his lock box.
A small metal box with a three digit combination lock built into the face is pulled out from under the desk. The Vin rolls the tumblers to line up the combination. And in one quick squeeze to release the latch, the box is opened. Inside several bags of various drugs and paraphernalia. He grabs his weed, a grinder, blunt wrap and a small vile of little beige clumps of what appear to be sap.
Vin: “Afghanistan’s finest.” “Only damn thing that fucking county is worth any more, X and Opium.”
He grabs the bud and the grinder. Loads a fluffy little nug in to the steel teeth. A few turns later and viola. He unrolls the blunt wrap and pours the contents of the grinder into the paper.
Vin: “And now for the new perspective.”
He crushes the opium and sprinkles it like snow on the awaiting bed of rich, leafy goodness below. And the ballet of fingers begins, as he rolls the blunt with all the grace and talent of an Olympic figure skater. Vin painted the outside of the moist blunt with the flame from the freshly lit match, as if he were Leonardo Da Vinci working on the Mona Lisa.
The sweet smell of the blueberry flavored blunt wrap mingled with the aroma of the sticky bud. Vin salivated as he lit the match. Even the blast to his olfactory lobe from the harsh sulfur was no deterrent from the inevitable. The flame hit the paper wrapped bud and released from it an intoxicating, cloud that blasted his brain with serotonin and dopamine. A warm glow came over Vin’s body as he felt his extremities go numb. His eye lids fell quick as he drifts into his alternate perspective.
13:07hrs
Vin comes to shaking the grogginess from his head. He checks his cell phone for the time.
Vin: “Shit, well that was definitely a different perspective.”
And he was right, it was. This new perspective however did not change the final result. It only added to the devious nature with which he would carry it out. He made his way quickly back to the surface. A subway and two busses later he found himself standing in front of a gunnery on the lower east side. He entered the building with a nonchalant swagger in his step as he sought out the owner.
Owner: “Good afternoon sir, can I help you with anything?”
A large man, in his mid fifties, sporting a handle bar moustache and a slicked down comb over rises from behind the counter.
Vin: “Yes actually I hope you can anyway. You see my brothers and I are looking for a birthday present for our grandfather. He is a collector of really old cap and ball pistols. So we are all chipping in and buying him a new one, and it’s my job to get the powder. I think my brother told me to get the F2 powder for pistols, he said that worked the best. Do you have any?”
Owner: “Actually we do. We carry three sizes, four, eight, and sixteen ounce cans. The four ounce is 30.99, the eight is 49.99 and the sixteen is 89.99.”
Vin: “The eight should be fine.”
Owner: “Ok boss, is that it?”
Vin: “Yeah.”
Owner: “Would you like some wadding with that for another five bucks? I’ll through in some oil for the pistol.”
Vin: “Ok, why not. I mean hell you can’t beat that with a stick.”
They both laugh and Vin pays.
As soon as he is clear of the building he laughs to himself. “Works every time, good to see I haven’t lost my touch.” He thinks with a wicked sneer. He walks down the street to a women’s cosmetic store and goes inside.
Vin: “Excuse me miss but could you tell me where the paraffin wax is?”
The cute little brunette girl behind the counter shows him to aisle three in the skin care section. She looks bewildered as to why a man would be buying a wax bath.
Cute Girl: “Why do you need this?” the girl inquires.
Vin: “Well if you must know my girlfriend is black and she has ashy elbows. It will be her birthday soon and I want to surprise her.”
Cute girl: “That’s sweet, I wish that my man would do stuff like that for me.”
Vin: “Well why don’t you take my number and have umm “Him” give me a call, I’ll let him know how to treat a lady such as yourself.”
Cute girl: “Ok that uh sounds great. I’ll have um “Him” give you a call soon. By the way, my name is April, like the month.”
Vin: “What a pretty name, I’m Vin “E”. I hope that you have “Him” call me soon.
April: “I sure will, see you soon Vin.”
Vin: “Bye gorgeous.”
And he walks out chuckling to himself as he can’t believe that she forgot to ring him up.
Vin: “One last stop and back to work.”
He hops on the subway and starts back home, making one last stop at the photo store to pick up some film cans. As he rides the subway home he starts to replay the last overdrive in his head. That was no match that was an old fashioned challenge. Well it the Blackwell’s wanted war Vin would bring Iraq to them. The burned with anger and vitriol, as he seethed in his seat. This truly would be the sickest shit either of the two of them could have ever imagined.
19:21hrs
Upon returning the maniacal Vin “E” gets right to work. He sets up the film containers to receive the powder. He packs the black powder as tight as a virgins honey pot. Vin makes the appropriate holes in the caps and runs makeshift fuses out of rope, dipped in gasoline, and rolled in the black powder. He turns the wax bath on and melts the paraffin. He grabs the tightly packed charge and dips it in the wax. While it sits in the wax he grabs a pack of Copperhead BBs. The charge is removed from the wax and dipped in the pellets, cooled and done again. The process is repeated until there are three layers of pellets.
Vin: “Nothing like some good old 360 degree claymore action to brighten their day.” “And now for the coup de tat.”
Vin stets the claymores to the side and grabs a metal baseball bat, a pair of metal snips, some barbed wire, iron workers pliers and the welding torch. He sits over a bucket and meticulously snips the barbs off of the wire. And with the controlled intensity of the worlds hate begins to fashion a new school version of an old school classic, the spiked mace.
Vin’s stomach signaled the union mandated one hour lunch break. Even vengeful sociopaths have to eat after all. A quick phone call to his buddy Pete to set up dinner arrangements, a fast shower upstairs, and he exits the brownstone.
22:45hrs
Vin decides to meet Pete at a small pizzeria called Little Michael’s in Sheep’s Head Bay. The two friends enjoy a nice filling meal and a cappuccino as they shoot the shit. Pete goes to wish his friend a good night with a hand shake, and happens to notice that Vin’s fingernails have black powder in the cuticles.
Pete: “Vin what the hell is that shit on your hands? Have you been in the fucking basement again?”
Vin explains everything to his dear old friend and street mentor. A look of disapproval swells up in Pete’s face.
Pete: “Vin we’ve spoken about this haven’t we? This guy’s not Lee, and his brother is not doing anything you would not have done in there either. Plus didn’t you tell me that half this shit is scripted anyway? What the fuck are you thinking Vin? Ya can’t keep doing this. One day your gonna get sloppy and the cops are going to put you away for a long fucking time. The family wouldn’t even be able to protect you on this kinda shit, not since the Patriot Act. Think Vin fuckin would ya. Come the fuck on.”
Vin: “Listen Pete I’ve done this shit for a lot of years, I know what I’m doing.’
Pete: “A lot of fuckin years, Vin your only fucking 18!”
Vin: “I know, I know. I’ll be careful ok?”
Pete: “Ok, Vin ok.” “Listen you take care and if you need me you call ok?
Vin: “Thanks Pete I will. Talk to you soon man.”
They hug and walk in separate directions. Vin heads home, stopping only for a bottle to help him forget.
