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 Arcade Champion: Frogger

Registered: 06/30/03
Posts: 8,451
Loc: space
Another Gangster Story (more short fiction)
    #3712622 - 02/01/05 11:50 AM (11 years, 8 months ago)

This one is hot off the hard drive. Hope you guys enjoy it. Please don't be offended by the use of racial slurs. I am not a racist, but some of my characters are.

High Score
J. Smith

A synergistic symphony of synthesized sounds filled the dingy arcade. Travis paid this no attention as he glanced through the paper from behind the counter. All the front page headlines were about the terrorist attacks at the World Trade center that had occurred three days before. Travis didn?t really give a shit about the attacks, but they made his superiors happy, so he supposed it was a good thing.

Travis Werner was Jewish by creed but German by race. His boss gave him shit about that all the time, since it was such a seemingly contradictory combination. Travis?s boss was a full-blooded Israeli national, with skin so dark, he could be mistaken for an A-rab. Travis?s skin was European pale, which went nicely with his short stature, slim physique, and chiseled features. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, just like Hitler had wanted.

Travis took his blue eyes off the newspaper for a second as someone entered the arcade. It was a high school kid, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Travis watched as the kid walked over to the Street Fighter II machine, where two other kids were playing a match. The new arrival casually put a twenty next to the machine?s controls. One of the kids playing the machine quickly slipped the bill into his pocket, throwing a sideways glance at Travis as he did so. Travis pretended to read the paper, but he was really watching the kids the whole time.

Thinking he wasn?t being watched, the kid playing the game reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked to Travis like a few squares of blotter acid. He handed it to the kid with the backpack, who then thanked him and left. The kid at the machine then returned his attention back to the match. He had already lost one round because of the distraction, and was now bitching at the other kid for playing so cheap.

Travis chuckled to himself. Fucking kids think they?re getting away with something. If only they knew what this place really was. Then they might not feel the need to be so sneaky.

Thinking back on his own days as an arcade-dwelling druggie punk, Travis let out a little sigh. Things were so much more interesting back then. Life just seemed to hold more mystery. Now that he was almost thirty, he had everything all figured out, and that bored the hell out of him. Travis was a man who appreciated challenges.

But at this point, Travis?s life was so neatly wrapped up that it bored him to tears. Ten years of being the brains behind Dallas?s largest dope production operation had given him everything he could ever want. He had stocks and bonds. He had a brand new BMW M3 parked right outside. He had three steady girlfriends that would give him head any time he wanted. He had a house in Highland Park close enough to SMU to watch all those well-taken-care-of ?burban bitches walk to their classes every morning. But still, something was missing. It was action. Challenge. Adversity. He missed that shit.

Maybe that was why he spent so much time in this place: a dark smoky cave that flashed and gleamed with a hundred screens and a hundred sets of speakers going full blast all at once. He supposed it was a connection to his roots. Travis remembered the days when the city of Dallas was a vast, uncharted urban jungle, a maze of possibilities to explore. Now, he?d spent so much time here that he already knew what was around every corner. He?d been to every bar and nightclub. He knew all the major players. He?d been on every side street and back alley there was, and the city of Dallas no longer held any mystery to him.

Travis recalled that old River Phoenix (Was it River Phoenix? Maybe it was Christian Slater) movie about the pirate DJ who operated an illegal radio station. One of Travis?s favorite lines from that movie was when River said some shit about how he didn?t want to go to heaven when he died, because heaven would be boring. No conflict. Nothing to do but sit on a cloud all day. Travis hadn?t understood this logic when he was a teenager, but now he was beginning to see the motherfucker?s point.

When Travis was younger, he?d been in some shit. He?d been in more than a few fights, spent some time in the County lockup. Dodged a few bullets even. But it seemed to him that all that fun and adventure were over now. Travis wasn?t even thirty years old, and he was already practically retired. Funny thing was, when he was a teenager, all he had ever dreamed about was being the man on top. The man in the penthouse, looking down on the whole city thinking ?What a bunch of schmucks.? But now that he had that life, he didn?t really want it.

These thoughts abruptly came to a halt when Travis noticed the two homeboys sitting in an old Lincoln Continental across the street. One of them dressed real nice, the other one wearing shit from Goodwill. The one in the suit real slim, the one in rags kind of a fatass. They both seemed to be staring into the arcade?s front windows. Travis figured it was time for a smoke. He could see what those homeboys were up to while he was outside.


Derek gave Marcus a dubious glance as he pulled into a parking space across the street from the arcade. Marcus had swung by the ?Grove and asked Derek to go for a ride with him earlier that day. Marcus was known around the ?Grove as a connected guy, a serious G. When Marcus asks you to go for a ride, you go with him. Nobody was stupid enough to pass up that opportunity when it came knockin?.

But still, Derek had his doubts about this little job. It seemed like too much risk for too little reward. He turned towards Marcus in the Lincoln?s faux-leather seat.

?So, tell me again why we casin? this place?? he asked Marcus.

?Because, dumbass. We gon? rob that shit.?

This answer did not satisfy Derek?s doubts, so he asked Marcus another question.

?Why the fuck we gon? rob an arcade? That shit couldn?t make more than a hundred bucks a day. You could get more out of a coke machine.?

Marcus smiled and used one of the fingers on his right hand to push his Oakley?s down to the tip of his nose, revealing his eyes from behind the dark shades.

?The arcade ain?t a place that makes money. The arcade is a place that washes money. You dig??

Derek, who had never had enough money to need an accountant or an investment banker, still didn?t understand. He gave Marcus a blank stare. Marcus blew out a breath in exasperation.

?OK,? said Marcus, ?Let me start over. According to the IRS, the guy that runs this place is just a small business owner. But actually, the nigga?s a chemist. You ever heard of that shit they do in nightclubs? You know, them raves and shit? Ecstasy. That?s what it?s called. It?s a rich kid?s drug. You don?t hear too much about it in the ghetto.?

Marcus continued, ?Well, the dude that owns this place be cookin? that shit, man. Not personally, mind you, he just helps these Jewish cats set up their labs. Makes sure they don?t blow up and shit. I mean, cookin? ex isn?t like cookin? rocks, man. It?s more complicated than that. You gotta have all this special equipment, like vacuum tubes, and special glassware for boilin? alcohol and shit. So I guess you could say that this dude is the brains of that whole operation. I have it on good authority that the Jews pay that nigga a quarter mil a year in cash just to do that shit for them.?

?But what does that have to do with this place?? Derek interrupted.

Marcus gave him a mean look. ?Nigga, shut yo fool mouth and let me explain this shit to yo dumb monkey ass. You might learn some shit that?ll elevate yo mind outta that stupid-ass hood you livin? in.?

Derek wasn?t too wild about hearing his set insulted like that, but he wasn?t about to talk back to Marcus, the notorious gangsta who claimed to have twenty-seven hits under his belt. ?Boy, I done put twenty-seven bodies in the ground already. Don?t make it twenty-eight.? That?s what Marcus would say when someone pissed him off. So Derek shut the fuck up. After a few seconds, Marcus?s angry face slackened to his usual expression of jovial pimpness.

?Now,? he said, ?If you knew anything about havin? lots of dirty money, you would know that the shit has to be washed. That?s where this place comes in. When you think about it, it?s really a good idea.?

?See, Travis, that?s this cat?s name, he puts all that dirty income down on this place. As far as the IRS know, this place makes $250,000 a year. Ain?t no way to verify how many coins been pumped into those machines, you dig? I mean, short of surveillin? the place all the time, but they ain?t gon? do that. So ol? Travis can just say he got all that dirty money legit, from the arcade, and it keeps the Federal Gov?ment offa his back.?

?Don?t them machines have counters on ?em??
Marcus smiled a little wider. ?Well now that?s an intelligent question. Yes, the new arcade machines do have counters on them, because they have hard drives. Them old machines though, they stored all that shit in what?s called the RAM. That?s why when you unplug one of them old arcade machines, it erases all the high scores. Now, if you look in that arcade over there, you ain?t gonna see no new machines. You only gonna see old games. And that?s why.?

Marcus pulled a Black and Mild out of his suit?s breast pocket and lit it with a Zippo. This made Derek want to smoke too, so he pulled a pack of Newports from his paint-stained blue jeans and lit one up with a plastic Bic.

?So you sayin? this nigga got a lot of cash money up in there, then?? Derek asked between puffs.

Marcus laughed. ?Now you see what I?m sayin?. The Jews make quarterly payments to that motherfucker. They drop off the money in a manila envelope, and then the nigga drives the shit to his bank from the store, you know, in order to make it look legit. The people at the bank don?t suspect shit. They just think he?s a small business owner that does pretty well.?

Marcus blew one smoke ring, and then quickly shot another right through it. ?And tomorrow?s the end of his fiscal quarter. Which means, of course, that this motherfucker is gonna have over sixty grand in that place when the Man come by and make the delivery.?

Derek mulled this over in his mind for a minute.
Marcus continued to talk.
?Now lemme ask you a question,? said Marcus, ?How much did you clear on the last liquor sto? you jacked??

Derek thought a minute before answering: ?About three grand.?

Marcus gave a hearty laugh. ?Three grand. That ain?t shit. And what?d you have to do for that shit? Face down some mean-ass store owner who?s been robbed so many fucking times he real tired of that shit. You keep robbin? them liquor stores, son, you gonna get shot. And for what? Three fucking grand? Nigga, you gots to think bigger than that if you gon? come up. Now I did a lot of homework settin? all this shit up, so Ima take the bigger cut. But if you come in with me on this thing, I promise your cut will be ten grand, cash.?

Just then, the front door to the arcade opened and out walked a small white man wearing corduroys and an untucked polo shirt. He had blonde hair and wore a small gold chain around his neck. One of his wrists was adorned by a gold Rolex, the other by a diamond tennis bracelet.

?Hold up,? said Marcus, putting a hand to Derek?s chest, ?Here he come now. Look but don?t look, you feel me??

?He?s just a little motherfucker!? said Derek, ?He couldn?t be more than 5?5?, 150.?

?Yeah, but don?t let that fool you,? Marcus?s tone became more serious, ?He a bad motherfucker.?

Derek gave Marcus another quizzical look, then let out a laugh. ?Nigga, please. I could break that motherfucker in half with one hand.?

Marcus rapped the nigga on the head and gave him a scowl. ?Don?t be stupid, man. You just as prejudice as them goddamn honkies. You look at that motherfucker?s size and think he ain?t dangerous. That?s the kind of attitude that?ll get you put away, nigga. You think that motherfucker never been in a fight? I guarantee you he got picked on every fucking day in grade school. I bet you he?s had his ass whipped enough times not to be afraid of it anymore.?

Derek still looked doubtful, so Marcus continued.
?Listen man, if I tell you some nigga is a bad motherfucker, you best believe that nigga is a bad motherfucker. But since I can see you still have some doubts, I?ll tell you a little story about this nigga right here.?

Marcus put his Black and Mild out in the car?s ashtray carefully and put the unsmoked remainder back in the pack, saving it for later.

?You remember when all those Vietnamese came to town a few years back, tried to take over the drug racket? Well, this motherfucker right here was on they list. They sent three professional assassins after him, little Asian dudes that know kung fu and shit. Those the type of motherfuckers that?ll slit your throat with a two inch blade before you even have a chance to bust out yo gat. You can?t even hear ?em comin.?
?Now, them Gooks sent these motherfuckers after that nigga, but they didn?t come back. Not one of them. No one ever even found the bodies.?

This last seemed to accomplish the goal of getting Marcus?s point across, so he left it at that.

?Damn, nigga,? said Derek, ?Why you gonna tell me all this shit? You got me all paro up in here now.?

?I?m just telling you so you know. Because if you know this shit ahead of time, there won?t be no surprises. Less likely, anyway. Besides, this shit still safer than knockin? over a liquor store, or one o? them check cashin? places. For one thing, the nigga ain?t expectin? to get robbed because he thinks that everyone else thinks he?s legit. For another thing, that place ain?t got no security. No silent alarm, no cameras.?

This seemed to reassure Derek. ?So how we gon? do this, then??

?This is how it?s gonna go down,? said Marcus, ?Tommorow you and I are gonna wait down the street for the delivery. As soon as them niggas leave, we gonna run up in the place. You gonna be the one holdin? the gat to that motherfucker. I?ll do all the talking.?

Derek cocked an eyebrow. ?You ain?t gonna have no gun??

?Sure, I?m gonna have a gun under my jacket. But I?m gonna need my hands to open the safe and carry the money.?

This seemed to satisfy Derek, and Marcus was glad for that. He didn?t want Derek to realize the real reason he wanted him to hold the gun on Travis. Marcus had been through enough robberies to know that if anyone gets shot by the victim, its gonna be the nigga holdin? the gun. Even though this cat was Jewish, Marcus was willing to bet that he would save his own ass before he tried to save his money. If Travis tried to make a move, it would be on Derek, and that would give Marcus enough time to jet out the front door with the money. Marcus figured that if Derek made it out of this thing, he?d pay him his little ten grand and maybe use him on another robbery. If he didn?t make it, well, Marcus figured he?d just buy six kilos instead of five. Marcus didn?t really give a fuck either way.

It was about that time that Marcus noticed that the little blonde haired honkey was giving their car a few sideways glances. He was looking at them, but trying not to stare.

?Shit,? said Marcus, ?He seen us. Tell you what to do: Get out of the car and go to the trunk and act like you?re fiddling around with my amp back there. Then, we?ll pull away bassin? and this nigga will just think we pulled over to fix the stereo.?

Derek did as he was told, and a few minutes later they were rolling down the street, away from the arcade. Marcus kept his eye on the rearview long enough to see the whiteboy give them an uninterested glance as he tossed his cigarette but into the gutter. The expression on his face told Marcus that their ruse had worked, and that the kid was about to forget what he had just seen instead of mentally filing it away.

?See,? Marcus told Derek matter-of-factly, ?That nigga thinks we small time. That?s the thing about these organized motherfuckers: they over-confident. They think some ghetto niggas like us can?t fuck wit ?em. That?s why we gonna have the jump on this motherfucker right here.?

Derek smiled. ?Hey man, I just got one more question to ask you.?

?What?s that??

?How you know all this shit??

Marcus smiled, and gave out a little chuckle. ?I got eyes, son,? he said, ?I got eyes all over tha place.?


The next day around noon, Travis sat in his usual spot behind the counter. He?d hung the sign in the door that said ?Sorry, We?re Closed?, even though he knew he didn?t have to. The place was always dead until the kids started getting out of school.

But it wasn?t exactly dead. The machines still played their demos, blaring light and sound, enticing would be customers to ?INSERT COIN, PLEASE?. To a senior citizen, it would probably sound like a calamitous cacophony of shrill noises, but to Travis, it was a soothing as ocean noises. This was his environment. This was where he belonged.

At 12:30 PM, an large van marked ?Elohim Cleaning Service? pulled up to the front of the arcade. A large, dark-skinned man wearing an expensive tan Versace suit got out of the van, flanked by two men in black suits. The two bodyguards were both carrying Uzi?s. When the three men entered, the two men in black stood at the door while Travis?s boss walked up to the counter.

?Travis, my boy,? the boss said, ?How are you doing? How?s business??

Travis smiled. ?Fixin? to be a lot better, Zeke.?

They bullshitted for a few minutes. Travis wanted to know how the latest pill press run was coming. Zeke asked if it was OK to use papaya enzyme as a binder because they were all out of sterric acid. Travis said it was OK as long as Zeke had his pushers tell the customers to chew the pills instead of swallowing them whole. The reason being that papaya enzyme doesn?t break down as easily as sterric acid in the stomach. Zeke told Travis that they were sitting on ten kilos of MDMA powder at the moment, but after this run they would have to set up another lab.

After a few minutes of talking business, Zeke handed Travis the thick envelope he had been waiting for. He went to the back to put it in the safe. When he came back out, Zeke was at the door, waiting to leave. Travis shook his hand and Zeke gave Travis a pat on the back.

?You know,? said Zeke, looking back at the place, ?You really oughtta get a little more security in here if you?re going to be keeping that kind of cash around.?

Travis shrugged and gave Zeke a look that said ?Yeah, but what are you gonna do?? Zeke smiled at this and left, his two bodyguards following closely behind. Travis watched the van pull off, and then walked back among the rows of arcade games, marveling at the design of each one. He had all the old classics: Frogger, Asteroids, Defender, and the Space Invaders machine which held the world record for highest score, with his initials in the number one slot. He had some old shooting games, the kind where you aim a light gun at the screen and shoot the bad guys that pop up. He had a whole row of fighting games, including Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat, with all of their respective sequels.

He stopped at one of the Street Fighter machines to watch the demo that was playing, two fighters both controlled by the computer, squaring off in a fictional reality composed of pixels and sprites. It was kind of a zen thing, watching the computer fight itself. You could get lost in it, like staring at a lava lamp when you were stoned.

All of the sudden, the screen went blank, jarring Travis from his trance. He looked around to find that all the other screen were blank, too. An eerie silence filled the arcade. For some reason, the power had gone out.

Travis?s first thought was that he only had a few minutes before the backup battery on the Space Invaders machine conked out and deleted his world record score forever. But these thoughts quickly vanished from his mind as he saw that big ghetto nigger from the day before kick his front door in, aiming what looked like a .45 automatic at Travis?s head. The big man ran right up on Travis, grabbing him by the shoulder and digging the gun into Travis?s temple. The slim, well dressed black dude came into the store a few minutes later, holding a pair of hedging shears. Upon seeing the shears, Travis realized immediately why his power had gone out.

?This is a stickup, fool. We want all yo money,? said the one in the suit, as he dropped the shears on the ground.

?There?s only three hundred dollars in the register. You can take that if you want it so badly.?

The darkie in the pimp suit clocked Travis hard in the jaw with his gloved hand. ?You holdin? out on us, Jew-boy. We want the sixty g?s in yo safe, bitch. Don?t even try to tell me you don?t know what I?m talking about. We could just cap you out right now and take the whole safe home with us, crack it later. But I figure it?ll be easier on both of us if you just cooperate, nigga.?

The two jackers marched Travis to the back room, where the safe was, the big one never taking his gun from Travis?s head.

The one in the suit asked, ?What?s the combination to this thing??

?Here, let me open it for you,? said Travis. This earned him another punch in the face.

?You must think I?m real stupid, man,? said the suit in a harsh tone, ?Like I don?t know you got a gun in there, ready to pull it on both of us when we ain?t lookin?. Gimme the motherfucking combination and I?ll open it my damn self, bitch.?

Travis gave him the sequence, acting as if he was watching the suit to make sure he was doing it right, but really watching the big ghetto boy?s face. He was much more concerned about that guy, because that guy was the one holding a gun on him. After a few seconds, Travis heard a click of the tumblers opening the lock to his safe.

The next sound Travis heard was the safe?s door swinging open. The sound seemed far away, because he was looking sideways at the fatass?s eyes, concentrating on them, waiting for his opportunity. A few seconds after the safe swung open, Travis saw the change in fatass?s face he was looking for. He knew this ghetto nigger had never seen that much cash before in his life. So when the kid?s eyes widened at the sight of the money, he used the opportunity to grab the nigger?s wrist, twisting it a certain way, shattering it. It was not a clean break. The fatass gave a surprisingly high pitched yelp of pain right before Travis drove two fingers into his esophagus, collapsing it.

The kid dropped his gun and fell to his knees, hands on his throat now, gasping for breath but unable to take any in. Travis picked up the gun and swung it behind him-

-only to find he was aiming at an empty safe, and nothing more. Travis heard the sound of the door to the main arcade room swinging shut, and muffled footsteps fading from the other side. Travis glanced down at the fallen jacker on the floor. His face was starting to turn strange colors now, and one of his legs convulsed helplessly. Travis gave him about five minutes until brain death.

He stepped over the big black man and burst through the door, sweeping the room with his newly acquired weapon as he did so. A bullet whizzed past his cheek and into the door behind him. Travis turned towards the direction the bullet came from in time to see the suit duck behind one of the rows of arcade machines.

Suddenly, the jacker burst from behind one of the machines and fired two shots. Travis ducked behind the counter just in time. Then he sprung up again, ready to shoot. Now the suit was running in between the arcade machines, headed for the front door. Travis fired off five shots, each one careening off a different arcade machine, all close, but no hits. Travis thought of the game Duck Hunt.

The next time the nigger popped out from behind a machine, Travis nailed him in the left chest, spinning him and causing his weapon to fly into one of the screens, shattering it. The suit fell to the ground as if he were dizzy from spinning too much. The shopping bag full of cash landed on the ground next to him.

Travis approached cautiously, not knowing whether or not the man had another gun. But when he was close enough to see the deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face, he knew the nigger didn?t have shit. He kept the gun?s sights trained on the black man?s forehead.

?You know what really pisses me off?? said Travis.

The jacker didn?t say shit, just continued looking at Travis with that helpless expression.

?It?s not that you tried to jack sixty g?s from me. I can totally understand that. Really, it?s my fault for not having better security.?

Travis dug the toe of his shoe into the jacker?s throat, not forcefully, but just enough to cause pain and breathing problems. Blood gurgled from between the jacker?s clenched teeth. Travis was pretty sure he?d hit a lung.

?The thing that really pisses me off is that you had to go and cut the power.?

The black dude looked confused at this. Travis continued, ?Do you realize that I, Travis Werner, hold the World Record for Highest Score in the game of Space Invaders? Seriously, if you look it up in the Guinness Book of World Records, under ?Highest Space Invaders Score?, you?ll see my fucking name.?

The jacker gave Travis a look like Why the fuck are you telling me this? Is this information really relevant to me? Still, Travis continued to speak:

?As a matter of fact, the machine I achieved that score with is right here, in this arcade,? Travis said, raising his voice, ?And when you cut the fucking power, you deleted that shit forever, YOU COCKSUCKING MOTHERFUCKER!?

The nigger closed his eyes in anticipation and let out a muffled scream. Travis shot him in the head three times at point blank range. After three shots, there wasn?t anything left to shoot at.

Travis looked around, his adrenaline still pumping. Now he let out a sigh, and sunk to the ground, his back leaning against one of the arcade machines. He drew a few ragged breaths, then stood up and surveyed the place. Oy, what a mess. Travis walked over to the bashed in front door and closed it as best he could. He stared out the window for a minute, thinking.

These punks caught me slipping, thought Travis. For a second there, he?d forgotten the pressure of being at the top of the high score list. He?d forgotten that when you get to the top, they don?t just give you a trophy. They give you a big ol? bulls eye, too. For a brief moment, he?d forgotten that, and had almost become bored with his life. But then these punks from they ghetto had come, to remind him that shit ain?t like that.

Travis reached into his pocket for his cellphone. He pulled up Zeke?s number and punched the call button. After Zeke?s boys got finished cleaning up this mess, he figured he?d try to put his high score back on the Space Invaders machine. He was pretty sure he could beat it.

peace, pot, and microdot!

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 Arcade Champion: Frogger

Registered: 06/30/03
Posts: 8,451
Loc: space
Re: Another Gangster Story (more short fiction) [Re: DoctorJ]
    #3782827 - 02/15/05 11:54 AM (11 years, 8 months ago)


I dunno if you guys are reading this garbage, but if you do read, I would appreciate some comments (even if they are negative)

peace, pot, and microdot!

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Registered: 02/15/04
Posts: 1,456
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Last seen: 8 years, 4 months
Re: Another Gangster Story (more short fiction) [Re: DoctorJ]
    #3784450 - 02/15/05 06:39 PM (11 years, 8 months ago)

Ahahahahaha.... that cat Travis is hardcore. :thumbup:

"I'm afraid of losing my obscurity. Genuineness only thrives in the dark. Like celery."
- Aldous Huxley

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