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  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Tue Mar 15, 2005 10:53 am

Patrick smiled crookedly as he watched the final minutes of Smithy's life lost away in scripture. He did not really feel sorry for him anymore, after his confession. Traitors were damned. It was the original sin, the sin of Lucifer himself.

Burn Smithy, and then I'll rise from your ashes and be what you could not.

Patrick crossed himself before sudden shots rang out. It must have been the traitor's informant. There was not time to think, only time to reach up under his jacket and unleash the american fury that stirred beneath his left shoulder. The gun truly was like a young mustang embossed on the grips, it practically snorted at the irishman to have it's bridle removed. It had heard the other guns and wanted a piece of the action. Though he was drunk, Patrick was rather accustomed to the feeling, and managed to hobbled with his head ducked, searching for some cover. He preferred a thick tree, but he would take what he could get. Pat flicked the safety from white to red, and cocked back the hammer. He searched for two things: A good spot to take cover, and Smithy. Patrick knew some things for sure, even given his inebriation. He knew he had eight bullets, one in the chamber and seven in the mag, and he knew that one was for the treacherous boy. To think, Pat had felt sorry for him! As he searched, he readied himself to cock the hammer back, aim and fire on the first man that came toward him, if it wasn't one of the group he had been with. If it was Smithy, Pat would pull the trigger again to make sure the bitch went down. From the moment the american steel Colt was cocked, it would be a matter of wagging a finger.


  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Mar 16, 2005 12:58 pm

The firefight began and the others were quick to respond, scattering like pigeons. Smithy was left with his fear for only a moment, before he scurried into a sprint. Patrick was not the only one keeping his eye out for the young man, the two red-headed brothers charged behind with little care for keeping themselves covered.

The rattling of machine gun fire spread through the park and snow exploded around the brothers' feet. Arthur had disappaered into the darkness and the other blond fellow could be spotted behind the trunk of a tree loading his weapon.

Patrick ended up behind a bush and the gunfire was directed opposite him. He could see the source coming down the park's path. A single man, not unlike an American mobster, firing with calculated ease and covered with a heavy trench coat and wide-brimmed fedora. There didn't seem to be anyone else. From his position, Patrick could either go for Smithy, or the gunman.


  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sun Mar 20, 2005 2:56 am

Patrick squinted and tried to slow his breath. The liquor coursed with adrenaline now, a mixture that ensured violence in any irishman. He grimaced as he finally recognized the weapon in the attackers hand. This was Al Capone shyte. A thompson M1A1 with what must have been a one-hundred round barrel clip. That was a hot number, rare in europe these days, the americans were reluctant to give them up. Their allure with the weapon was painfully clear at the moment. Pat was pretty sure his own Colt M1911 .45 was hard to acquire as well, Stephan hadn't been clear on the source. In any case, Pat had to put a stop to this rapid-firing menace. That was the only choice. He was sure the others would deal with their traitor.

Patrick wasn't very experienced in gunfights, but it seemed he had position on this attacker, so long as he could tag him a good one. The irishman closed his eyes for a minute, took a deep breath and crept slowly out from his cover, clicking the hammer of the pistol back while extending his arm. His left hand took position above the right, to reduce the recoil as much as possible. A large caliber pistol could kick, and if it did, he wouldn't be able to shoot fast enough to beat a tommygun. Some things in the universe were absolute truths, that was one of them.


  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Mar 21, 2005 6:26 pm

The gunman, braced and stable, let loose his spray of bullets into the park. Blinded by his own targeting, he did not see anyone in the vicinity, and certainly not Patrick's approach.

The heavy gun fired and the recoil through his arm hire than he expected. It didn't matter, though, his first shot was true. The gunman reeled back from a blast to his head, unleashing the automatic fury into the sky as he fell.

The rattling gunfire came to a deafening silence just as the brothers tackled their prey into the snow.


  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Mon Mar 21, 2005 8:37 pm

Patrick sighed in relief as the attackers' head was hit by his shot. His hand was numb and sore from the large caliber of the pistol, but it was well worth it. The american gun had saved him when he had needed it. Though the drunken haze, the irishman was shocked by the sudden silence. His ears were ringing, and he felt as though his nose was running. When his target fired shots into the air, Pat crouched down again, hoping not to get hit.

His first instinct, when he looked up, was to run to the body and retrieve the tommy, but rational thought prevailed. Instead, he simply shrugged down against the nearest cover and waited for some sign of conclusion. There might have been more of them. He was glad he took the time to sit down, because he caught a glimpse of Smithy getting caught. Patrick decided to sit tight and watch the show. They'd need some information first, since the gunman was dead. At the end of this, he hoped the men would accept him, but he was still cautious.


  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Mar 23, 2005 10:56 am

Patrick didn't wait long before Arthur crept up from behind. Slapping a satisfied hand on his shoulder he said, "Mighty fine eye y'got there, lad."

Glancing to either side of the bush he added, "Nice hammer y'got, too."

Standing up suddenly, the gang's leader waved toward the brothers and the blonde man, now dragging Smithy over to him. With a playful jab to Patrick's side, Arthur said, "The bloke thought a tommy could measure up against a group of pissed Irishmen."

The blonde went to the gunman and tossed him over with his foot, then reached skillfully for the man's wallet.

Arthur, putting his pistol back on Smithy's crying and sweating face said, "I'll let ye live. Aye."

He cocked the gun.

"If you tell me who yer friend was, then."

"Bloody American!" The blonde blurted as he took the dead man's ID, "Works for the fekkin' State Department. This bloke's a fekkin' yank G-man!"

Arthur shrugged.

"Alright, then."

And then he pulled the trigger. Smithy slammed back into the snow, the exit wound spilling velvet onto the fresh snow.


  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Wed Mar 23, 2005 3:46 pm

Pat jerked slightly when Arthur slapped his back, but was relieved at the compliment. He had not necessarily aimed for the man's head, at least in a strict sense of the word. He simply replied.

"Thanks."

After an incident with Smithy, everyone was enlightened. The dead man was indeed american, killed by an american pistol. Patrick wondered what had happened to the G-man's heat, glancing at Arthur. He wanted to spot that tommygun. If no one had claimed it yet, he wanted it. There were more important matters at hand, though, as a second corpse littered the snow. There was only one thing Patrick could ask.

"Why exactly do the americans want to talk to fekkin Smithy?"


  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Fri Mar 25, 2005 7:38 am

"It's not Smithy they were talkin' to," Arthur said simply, "This means the bloody Yanks are onto us. Not fekking good. Patrick, you've got no choice now, mate. Yer one of us. We're blood-sucking criminals and we do it in the name of the fekking Almighty. You took the man's hat off, so yer no better'n the rest of us. Welcome to the party."

He offered Patrick a binding handshake.

The heavy red-headed man said, "The G-Man's bound to have mates, let's fly."

Arthur nodded his agreement, "Follow me and let our new friend have the Tommy. He's earned it."

The gang ran toward the gates of the park and in the distance the seesaw of sirens echoed into the air.


  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sun Apr 03, 2005 2:53 am

It seemed that Arthur's crew had taken care of the problems, as he was handed an automatic weapon. Patrick made a conscious decision to click the safety mechanism back before running with the pack. He panted as they fled the authorities, thinking on the man's words. Pat had never killed a man before, even one who was threatening his existance. It was strange that he felt no guilt, especially gripping the stock of the dead man's thompson. For some reason, he could not really conjure the dead man's face, as he had never seen it. Maybe that was why he had no troubles. He would have to remember that. All he could think about what how he now had matching american military weapons. It was true that both the thompson m1a1 and the colt m1911 used fourty-five caliber ACP rounds. Such wonderful coincidences. After running a bit, he called out to the men.

"Criminals in the name of the Lord, Arthur? I'm strangely comfortable with that."

Patrick then through his head back and laughed as they ran from the double homocide. Where were they going?


  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Tue Apr 05, 2005 12:19 pm

The gang fled the park and took a series of back alleys in full sprint. By the time they stopped running Patrick had no idea how much time had passed nor where exactly in the city they were. Buildings were older there, teetering into Edwardian architecture. The streets were cobblestone and from the smell, the sewage was still medieval.

Taking a breath they all looked around at each other. Adrenaline subsiding the gang bust out laughing all at once.

"Fekkin' yank G-Man," Arthur said shaking his head, "I'd sooner think me mother's taken the holy fekkin' vows."

He stood up at last and then walked around the corner and opened a nearby gate where lush vines and gardens spilled out over the ancient walls. Patrick at once realized where they were: behind St Patrick's Cathedral.

"The irony's not lost on me," Arthur grinned.


  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Tue Apr 05, 2005 4:06 pm

Pat was gasping for air by the time they reached their apparent destination. The jubilee and fanfare seemed to dwindle in the back alleys and narrow pitted streets. Patrick had no idea how many turns he had taken, or how long it had been. The adrenaline had killed a bit of the drunk feeling and the run had upped his motabolism some. He was still inebriated, but at a more manageable level. The weight of the american machinegun was immense, though luckily the former owner had fired quite a few rounds. Patrick wasn't sure how many bullets were left, but he was sure that the clip plus one hundred rounds or so, its suspected capacity, would make the weapon quite heavy. He made a note to himself to pick up a couple of smaller magazines, perhaps the thirty-round capacity US military issue. The guns were nigh impossible to get ahold of, but mags were easy. Every side was at a shortage for bullets, and selling everything they could to get them, including used, empty clips.

Arthur spoke a little while the men laughed about their murders. It was a happy night, with a little adventure to boot. None of them, Pat included, seemed to realize the weight of their actions. It may have been because they were all raised poor and hungry, but there was something else, a thirst for blood that seemed a trend among Patrick's generation, though mostly against Nazi's, Japs, and bloody I-ties. Most of Pat's deceased childhood friends met their fate at the hands of the empire. It was a strange case, the enemies of Patrick's enemies were also his enemies. Suddenly, realization dawned on him, the men had fled to St. Patrick's. As a boy Pat had often joked about the place, and now was no exception. He smiled as Arthur commented, obviously aware at the humor.

"Well, lads, welcome to me church!"


  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Fri Apr 08, 2005 5:08 am

From their reaction it had to be the single funniest thing they'd ever heard. Still laughing, they went into St. Patrick's courtyard, hidden nicely by the low-hanging trees that infested the area. With little regarded to their recent activities or weapons, Arthur opened a back door to the Cathedral.

It didn't look like St. Patrick's on the inside. In fact it was a simple stone corridor going two directions. Arthur lead them in one direction to a staircase going three flights into the basement.

The basement had three bedrooms, a living area, and a bathroom. The living area, complete with a couch, radio, and make-do wet bar, also had a gun rack representing a couple M-1 Garands, EM-2 bullpups, and an AIA No.4 Mk10. Hardly the ritualistic arsenal of a church.

Each man came in and disarmed pistols onto a nearby table and fell into the couch or chairs in the living area.

"Well it's not the fekking Windsor, but it'll do," Arthur said grinning.


  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Fri Apr 08, 2005 3:04 pm

Alcoholics converged outside a church, drunken to such a level that mere mothergoosery could elicit such a humorous reaction. Pat felt pretty comfortable with the gents, and followed their lead, having somewhat cemented his place among them, though he was obviously the new guy. It didn't bother Patrick, at the moment, especially when everyone went to relax, unloading weapons near a rather impressive collection of guns on a rack. Pat noted the american arms and the american contact, and wondered at the depth of the connection between the yanks and his new found pack. Patrick found the most suitable place to unload the thompson first, making sure to eject the shell from the chamber. He glanced at the large round clip, trying to estimate the maximum and current capacities, clicking the bullet from the chamber into place on top of the bullets, and stowed the gun away where he thought was best, and went to the table, drawing the Colt, and ejecting the magazine with his thumb. He caught the clip with his left hand and stood it up on the table before placing it on the top of the gun, while shifting his right thumb over to the release for the action to eject the shell. Patrick slid it back, while raising his arms sharply, hoping to launch the shell into the air so that he could catch it with his mouth. It was a petty trick, but he was in quite a good mood, and it seemed fine to him. He had practiced this through clips and clips, but he still sometimes missed. In any case, hit or miss he would simply load the bullet into his mag, and lay it down with the pistol. He then found a spot near Arthur, and tried to spark up conversation.

"So...what do we exactly do? Could you just give me a run-through of anything I might need to know? Anyone?"

Patrick wasn't sure how well information would flow around here, but he hoped it would be better than his parents. He sighed mentally as he remembered he would have to go back at some point to get his things, that is, if he was to live here. It was somewhat implied by the furnishings, but it was better to get as much info as possible.


  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Sun Apr 10, 2005 8:55 am

Patrick pulled his trick off and the gang cheered with excessive vigor. the red heads, Job and Ben, immediately tried to imitate him, but Frankie sat back in the sofa opening a beer and tossed the beer cap in the air, snatching it with his teeth. Taking a short bow, he commenced drinking.

Arthur smiled, "Bout time y'know what's goin' on, isn't it? There's a bloke in the Vatican who gives orders to the Dean of St Patrick's. He tells us what to do an' we do it. Not much money in it, but they let us sleep here an' they feed us."

"Yeah!" Frankie barked, "They feed us fekkin' rat poison!"

"No one else in the clergy supposed to know about this. Actually, lad, no one else anywhere else is supposed to know this."


  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sun Apr 10, 2005 3:04 pm

Patrick spit the bullet out, and slipped it into the magazine to replace the one shot that had killed the G-man. He then layed both the pistol and the clip on the table and turned watching the two gather their pistols and give it a try. Arthur was more reasonable, choosing not to play with a loaded weapon to prove his drunken prowess. The leader of Pat's new pack then spoke, offering the very information he had asked for. Of course it was intended that they talk about it to no one other than each other. The IRA had the same stances. Perhaps it was possible to retain loyalty to both, while gaining independence from his parents? Patrick replied to Arthur, wiping a little moisture from the bottom of his nose.

"When do we go to work?"


  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Apr 18, 2005 3:21 pm

Arthur shrugged before opening another bottle.

"The Good Lord has us working almost every day. We'll need to talk to the Dean about tonight, that's for fekkin' sure. And we'll need you initiated. Don't be worryin' lad, we don't do devil worshipping, although you'll wish you were."

Arthur offered his bottle up for a toast.

"To our new fekkin' cherry, lads!"

The others cheered and pounded their drinks.


  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Mon Apr 18, 2005 11:16 pm

Patrick nodded as Arthur explained. He then smiled and glanced around at the group, wondering about his comment of devil worshipping. It was strange that he would bring it up, but Pat had no problem with it. In reality, Patrick was not religiously inclined. He had just been taught in the catholic way.

"All right then. Well, let's have a drink before bed."

With that Patrick scavenged some alcohol from someone, searching the place for party accessories. He planned on a having a couple drinks and then hitting the sack. It was easy enough so far. Who knew what the morning held?


  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Tue Apr 19, 2005 2:10 pm

Dawn came and went and by the time the gang was rolling out of bed, the noon bells of St Patrick's Cathedral were tearing through the walls. The brothers were up first, then the blond, then Arthur all of whom badly needed water to wash away the prior nights festivities. Arthur, however, skipped the water, and took a shot of whiskey instead. Rubbing reddened eyes and stretching, the group rose to greet the afternoon.

The day went without much going on. Like most of Dublin, the group stayed away from daylight and nursed horrific hangovers. Very little discussion piped up in the afternoon, and what little there was quickly went into obscurity.

By about midnight the boys were ready to leave the church, hangovers finally subsided. They had little regret about wasting an entire day to nausea and headaches and were emphatic to continue on with their destructive ways.

Arthur took the boys to a favorite pub of his, Mick's. The establishment was very quiet, still recovering from New Years Eve. A single bartender was present along with a sketchy drifter who remained quiet in the back. The soft sound of jazz piano radiated from a record player and the lights were dimmed allowing only candlelight from the tables to illuminate the place.

The bartender was far too old to be bartending, a broken hip from decades prior kept him with a cane and his depleting hair fell victim to a wrinkled and spotted face. A permanent smile was embedded on his face from a generation of laughing at jesting at the bar. Locals knew that this man was Mick and he kept any secret that passed through.

Finding a nice booth secluded from the single patron in the bar, Arthur placed a pitcher of Guinness in the center. After everyone poured he offered a toast.

"To fekkin' fekked up fek of a fek!"

The toast was well taken and the boys took rounds.


  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Tue Apr 19, 2005 3:16 pm

Patrick's head reeled as he raised it from the pillow. He watched the others rise, and noticed similar results in their tired faces. Patrick himself simply got up and searched about for water indeed. Arthur seemed to have the idea of preventing a hangover by staying drunk, which did have some logic behind it.

His stomache, though was part of the problem. Pat had kept an eye at the lavatory all through the afternoon and evening, but managed to get a handle on it before heading with everyone to a place called Mick's There was a toast, and the festivities began anew. Every day was the start of a new year in Ireland. Patrick himself drank dark ale, opting for a relaxing evening. For all he knew, they would be working soon, and he didn't want to be drunk again if some shyte when down. Well, a slight buzz might be okay. The irishman was dressed in his clothes from the night before, and still bearing the colt .45, a charmed posession to him. The pistol was fully loaded, eight shots total, with another clip of seven in a slot on the back of the concealed holster. It wasn't many bullets, but it was enough to get something accomplished. For the moment, Patrick was content to play along, but he thought there was a deeper purpose to their visit than a few drinks.


  • Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Apr 20, 2005 12:42 pm

After they took their round, the table fell quiet enforcing Patrick's belief that this occasion had a little bit more to do than only having drinks. The gang looked quietly at their leader who leaned backward casting a knowing and cocky grin at their new recruit.

"Now that y'had a chance to catch the lucidity of the Almighty, we have a few things to talk to you about. The boys and I want you to stay around and since you made your bones last night there is not reason for us not to trust you.

"We're not just a group of miscreants, this is a fekkin' brotherhood, mate. Now I've got to ask you . . . how do you feel about dumping yer entire identity. No home, no family, no name, no nothin'? In the cause of God, of course."


  • Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Wed Apr 20, 2005 10:24 pm

Pat smiled as Arthur spoke, nodding in affirmation. He had killed a cop, a foreign cop no less. The irishman was ambitious and calculating, not necessarily "good" qualities, but well suited to his lifestyle. He risked his life because of his ambitions, when he had to, but it was all about number one at the moment. Patrick did feel a connection with the men, but he hoped there would be no misconception about him taking Smithy's place. Pat was not meek. He had been born with the new year, nineteen forty-seven. Arthur continued, while he remained silent, offering him the one thing he had been seeking all along. A chance to shrug off his father's name and become his own man. Perhaps they would think he died...there was a bit of a something to accomplish in making someone dissappear in Dublin, though. Patrick voiced his concern.

"Look, I'd be more than happy to forget my name, but I'm sure people would recognize me on the street and tell my father about it. If we're to stay in the city, I don't know how that will work. How far does our work take us?"

Patrick wanted more information, he thought it was rightfully so at such a cost. His identity, and he would most likely have to kill people. It was one thing if they opened fire on him, but quite another when a man begs for his life. Perhaps they would have to make their way up into the body of europe and create a stir, before retreating back to the isle.

"There are some things I need, but I can get them without being seen."



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