FALLING UP

Status: 2nd Draft

FALLING UP

Status: 2nd Draft

FALLING UP

Book by: m w mccoy

Details

Genre: Action and Adventure

Content Summary

1. A mysterious phone tip has led Cajeda, a weary retirement age Reaper, to one of the assassins who have just killed his Crew, and his Boss. Rumor is a New Big Boss is moving tonight.
2. A new clue, the severed finger of his Boss, leads to Little Tokyo Two and the Red Top Yakuza.
3. The climb up the Red Top Reliable Insurance corporate fortress leads to an encounter in the Penthouse with Criminal Underboss; Boss Mao Mao and his security detail, who just happen to be waiting for the return of Tetsu “Red Top” Tarashima. The mentally challenged man-child homosexual son of Criminal Crime Lord Akira Tarashima.
4. The Reaper’s second encounter in the Penthouse is Tetsu and his closest pretty boy cronies who drag the beaten body of his father, Lord Tarashima.
5. Tetsu demands his father open his Secret Vault. He refuses, and the enraged son sword slices his father’s arm off in hopes the DNA will unlock the vault. It does not.
 

 

Content Summary

1. A mysterious phone tip has led Cajeda, a weary retirement age Reaper, to one of the assassins who have just killed his Crew, and his Boss. Rumor is a New Big Boss is moving tonight.
2. A new clue, the severed finger of his Boss, leads to Little Tokyo Two and the Red Top Yakuza.
3. The climb up the Red Top Reliable Insurance corporate fortress leads to an encounter in the Penthouse with Criminal Underboss; Boss Mao Mao and his security detail, who just happen to be waiting for the return of Tetsu “Red Top” Tarashima. The mentally challenged man-child homosexual son of Criminal Crime Lord Akira Tarashima.
4. The Reaper’s second encounter in the Penthouse is Tetsu and his closest pretty boy cronies who drag the beaten body of his father, Lord Tarashima.
5. Tetsu demands his father open his Secret Vault. He refuses, and the enraged son sword slices his father’s arm off in hopes the DNA will unlock the vault. It does not.

Author Chapter Note


Plot line; 9. The Yakuza Shuffle starts, close to two dozen weapons and men draw and dive for cover. 10. After the Death Dance, the wounded Cajeda, one of the last and best Reapers, stands slowly
trying to piece together what just happened. His numb fingers feel for injury when suddenly he realizes that now, only his DNA can open the vault containing a vintage but viable United States 4th
strike nuclear weapon. 11. a New Big Boss has arrived.

Chapter Content - ver.0

Submitted: February 28, 2017

Comments: 1

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Chapter Content - ver.0

Submitted: February 28, 2017

Comments: 1

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Falling Up

Mike W McCoy

2-27-17

 

<>11<> Bruiser Battles

All around the floor plan, the body count is horrible, gruesome, and worthy to gangster lore as the “Red Top Yakuza Shuffle.”

Cajeda ducks away, angling back towards the still wide open decorative door of the secret vault.Sidestepping, remaining mobile in a half crouch, the Reaper offhanded swings at the next convenient enemy.

 It isn’t a conscious thought that sends another strike at the near naked Japanese man sporting only a nail studded chrome cod piece below his Red Monkey tattoo dominated hard muscled torso.

Cajeda’s steel capped biker boot defeats the decorative defense, and smashes solidly enough to twist the Bruiser backwards to the open secret vault. Driven mad by pain, he reacts wildly to the cramped crushed testicles with a colorful corkscrew crazy collapse. 

Staying on the offensive, the Mexican lurches forward into the smaller man, tripping him backwards over a solid iron link of the massive ship’s anchor chain securing the aged atomic doomsday weapon.

Once hunched over the victim, the Reaper preps for a cue de gratis just as a wild haired Frantic Floozy woman jumps into his back!

Immediately lashing out with an elbow hammer, he tries throwing himself backwards to the open vault door.  The impact  beats the bitch breathless, but births a blaze of agony from both untreated bleeding bullet bites.

Instinct drives his hand up to nail the stunned assailant’s cheekbone.  There is a sickening crunch as something in the woman’s face brakes just ahead of her scream.

Fighting past the numb leg, Cajeda attacks the recovering Red Monkey again by landing jabs with piston like speed until the flamboyant fighter’s nose explodes with twin rivers of blood.

Eyes squeezed shut from pain, the Bruiser can’t see his imminent death.  A gut punch doubles him over and is immediately followed by a hammer blow dropped dramatically on Red Monkey’s back.

“Now wha-” KL-THOMB!

The gunfire shattered Soundtrack now draws almost all attendees attention to this isolated battlefield burp of  the man’s bruised flesh  abruptly accented by a cloud of blood and gore.

The tall Ruby Red Breasted Bruiser, unable to ride the powerful hand cannon’s recoil, stumbles back, colliding into a sword sliced silk screen, the coiling tatters of which seem to engulf him with sorrow.

Screaming like the queen he is; while eyeing his lover, who’s chest has now been destroyed by the cyborg killing .50 caliber bullet, his reflex is to lung forward, try to help, while blanking out the reality that a human body can’t take such damage and somehow still survive.

A sudden thrusting of legs collide with the still conscious dying body of Mr. Sumo, dragging his point of view off for several chaotic seconds of rapid gun fire.  After two screams and some moaning later, the near dead Headquarters Chief eyes the game’s final round.

The Reaper takes another unsure step, then perception peeks peripheral and sends him stumbling into the Japanese.  Their bodies slam awkwardly up against the concrete conference table.

A swift savage sightless swing by Cajeda clips a KO punch powerfully against the crimson kissed craven jaw of Ruby Red.  Gravity sucks, and both bodies drop onto each other, with the blood stained Mexican falling first, numb side hard.

Immediately yelling an incoherent jumble, the professional personality falters and allows pain and emotion to deal the game.

“Red Top!” sounding like a curse.  “Red To…” struggling with the broken body of Ruby Red.  “…o-op.”

“I’m coming,” slowly sliding sideways on his knees.  “Dealing the last now,”

While giving a smirk to the snail trail of blood dragged by his lame leg, “Red Top, he was my brother, motherfucker!”

The Red Top persona is now cracked in voice and vision, the ingested venom is vanishing, and is only projected now as strong willed Japanese curses.

“You hear me?” standing now, but flush with radioactive poison.

A clatter proceeds a distinctive baritone that booms a powerful Forced Joy vibe from some nearby darkness.  “No worry, brah.  Got Tetsu sighted straight.”

The Mexican eyes the shadow heavy Penthouse for the speaker, and slowly slides into a mesmerized stare inside the outside burning glow of Little Tokyo Two which tints itself a casual crimson after leaking through blood streaked windows.

“Boss Mao Mao?” again the overfamiliar tone.  “You still alive?”

“Right call brah,” grumbled over movement.  “Got a thing.”

The half-naked Reaper’s answers in guttural glued ground gravel sounding tone, “What thing?” 

“Temporary détente, brah.  No-” sliced short by Japanese curses erupted by the man child Tetsu only hidden by the vault door.

“You did this!” the Red Persona races inside a mouthful of hate.  “Fuck you Mao Mao!”

“Bring it brah.”`

First two badly aimed KBANG-KBANGS, then slow high pitched Japanese cursing ending on, “I will kill you!” KBANG-KBANG.

A short stitch shatters back from a suppressed MAC-10.

Cajeda eyes a moving SShadow in blue.  It’s a hard ident inside the parallax lit Penthouse dance floor, but the big Samoan images a greaves GSW or two.

Bullets rip from his MAC-10.  The flying line of copper tipped .45 caliber slugs races like a snake after the fleeing Red Top persona.  The last 2 rounds sink as fangs into the fat Japanese man’s ass, throwing off his stride, sidelining him into an ornately carved wood column. 

Anger pushes Tetsu into action, past the pain and into snatching a headless Yakuza thug’s dropped gun.  An incoherent Japanese curse bursts before the fast un-aimed .40mm fire.  3:7 odds hit, and the SShadow vomits blood on his fall dead.

The Soundtrack of the suicide shuffle slides, isolating the paused Penthouse players with a polite poise; allowing all the eyes, A.I.’s and otherwise, to view the souls un-numbered of the Ghost Culture tinting the light waves of the Now, forcing Realities into overlap.

Royalles Cajeda creeps closer, crouched low and slow, both eyes linger on the Headquarters Chief, while his own tattoos seem to squirm across his blood splattered flesh.

 The white knuckle tight grip on the Poniard size blade is more than strength, or pain, or training.  Vengeance is dealing this hand with anger riding an uncompromising shotgun.

“Crap…” interrupted by side reality.  “…are you?” 

The words are warped and delayed just like the So-honbucho’s fading field of vision that blurs to black before reopening with a propped up prostrate position.  The arm’s length distance from the Mexican’s eerie smile shock-starts a verbal reaction.

“Hai. ”

SLA-CLIX, SLA-CLIX, brakes the spell ahead of .9mm sparks.  Cajeda shoves himself sideways, groping for leverage on the blood smeared stone floor.

Stage-lighting brightens as a crew of un-affiliated Yakuza soldiers file forward from backstage.  Their faces are masked, above their matching tuxedos and hardware. They keep formation towards the Red Top Yakuza Oyabun pinned between Cubeville and concrete.  With only grunts and nods this flying emergency squad of Street Soldiers form a wedge cutting off any open rush. 

“Now you will die!”  Red Top roars in repose, but it smells sick and weak, and ends on the scrape of a dropped empty gun. 

Mr. Sumo’s point of view starts to blur at the next round of action around the axis, so he spits up more blood, and lets a slight hint of a smile lift the corners of his eyes, as if he was glad to be a witness.

 

 

<>12<>  The  Final Play

The chess board is scrambled and spread thin all around the Penthouse killing field.  A village of mostly headless pawns lay scattered in mounds of macabre madness, with buckets of blood binding them all.  Even the few moaning wounded dare not move, as all see that the king, Tetsu Tarashima is in check.

A tuxedoed white haired Sonny Chiba clone deals first, and slowly steps out opposite the Reaper.  Despite a blood drenched arm, he still stands tall and firm, an old lifelong Hardboiled warrior.  With a total lack of accusatory anger, his humility towards the Reaper slowly states that ‘We are the Players, and This is the Game.’

The Mexican’s eyes stiffly smile respect, then glance over at his fallen blood dipped dagger, a conservative three strides away, the same as the old school Yakuza. 

The scramble starts and Cajeda’s experience grabs the emerging gun on the drawn.  A powerful twist levers the trigger guard against the finger, and SNAP.  The cry starts and dies during a reversed elbow strike to teeth. 

Muscle memory maneuvers Cajeda, making the maimed leg sweep the old man’s knee, but he loses balance and hit’s the hardwood floor first!  Despite the lance of pain shooting up his bleeding bullet wounded limb, his professional personality keeps the handgun as he rolls away.

Lying flat on his back; blood streaked naked torso and shoulders heaving, the crimson smeared executioner aims the flat black weapon at the crippled older solider, their eyes meet, hold the draw, and a lifetime of experience zaps between them, pro to pro.

Empathy immediately decides to dilute the vengeance vibe cramping Cajeda’s emotional center, and his eyes swiftly smirk with a ‘I will not to kill you vide’.  The old warrior seizes the chance and plays prostrate, folding into fast and fluid Japanese prayer.

“Relax, just…” struggling to stand.  “…just play dead.”

The Chiba clone unclasps his broken hand inside a deep voiced jumble of prayers before his personal personification of Death for forgiveness.

“Yeah, um,” almost a giggle at the asymmetrical absurdity.  “Or do that.” 

Vengeance smells the prize, less than two dozen strides away, and it’s vicious vibes violate the next deal.  Gathering his hand, the executioner scans the game table, tries to partition his pulsing pain, and falter’s forward to the open vault door.  Stumbling less and less, he lurches to the blood wet concrete conference table, nearly trips over a dead body, but catches himself. 

On the down stroke he paws across the mesa for support.  But a slip on the crimson flogged flagstone flooring swings a second smack straight onto the stainless steel evidence tray.  Severed flesh flips free, Cajeda reflexively reaches, and inadvertently triggers the ceiling light show.  Two held breaths late air hisses hard, and the wide open secret vault door slowly starts to close.

A blast of MAC-10 rounds suddenly spits a Static & Staccato Sidetrack, but before the clip empties, weak return fire darts from behind, all Pain & Piss.

The Mexican’s eyes seem far far away, seeing a galaxy of nothing and everything, until they laser lock tight into those of Mr. Sumo.  The fading So-honbucho’s sight stays straight, eyeing Everything from the Nothing, like the death that drifts around the room as sooty smoke serpents who’s trailed tails end at the Dark One, Cajeda.

“Um, umm…hey robot!” using an insult to get the Camel Suited cyborg’s attention. 

“Reaper?” spitting synthetic blood.  “Over here…friend.” 

Cajeda follows the cyborg’s strained sounding voice to a section diagonal from the wounded Red Top and his wedge of sacrificial Street Soldiers.

“I hate to ask you…” a painful grimace into a giggle, “…friend.  Could I get those two steps?”

“Mabee…but friend,” limping forward on a blasted left foot of shredded flesh over mangled steel, and favoring an arm that once cradled a wand of death, but is now a useless appendage pinned to a metal torso by a snapped off sword blade.

“I need a gun.”

“Yeah?” stopping to pick up an abandoned mammoth target pistol, and then waving it up high.

“I have one,” inane, intense, and insane.

“Hai,” the crippled bodyguard grins, recalling that Lost Bank job.

“That was a Hell of a day!” the Mexican’s voice is carried by chaotic acoustics across the eerie undulating under-lit game table to all those left living, leaving them with a laugh under his words.

“Hai.”

“Kind of like tonight,” the tone going flat, foundering, fatalistic. 

“Like tonight,” echoing the dread deal.  “Hai.”

A buttery silence of shuffling feet and nervous coughs from across the aisle supplant several siren voices of the Ghost Culture.  

“I pro…” the bodyguard booms behind his half hidden face, too ashamed to eye the witch woman now castled in the corner, the child he stole.  “I protected her!”

His words rush and rumble around the shallow room. “I alone defended her!” 

The Wedge looks uncomfortable.  Red Top squirms between cries and curse.  Mr. Sumo eyes only the closing vault, inside of which Red Monkey moans.  The praying Tuxedo talks a tight tempo with each breath becoming a living verbal current behind the shifting Slide Realities starting to twist the edges of everyone’s vision.

“I saved her life.”  A pause diverts the next line.  “Af…after I destroyed it.”

“Shintaro,” the shadow smeared woman warns weakly . 

“Death cannot absolve me.”

“Shintaro,” leaning out with both blood wet hands.  “No.”

“Maybe this will.”

“You ready?” the Reaper asks after a changed angle, aligning for attack. 

“Hai.”

“Ao, catch,” as the black abortion hurls across the gap close enough for an stretched arm.

“On three then?” the Mexican’s tone is a joyful evil underlined by the scrape of his blade. 

“Hai.”

“Three.”

A KRET-BOOM! powers from two car lengths away diagonal, and it’s echo halos the exploding cranium of the leading edge of the Wedge. 

Cajeda’s second step around the closing vault door brings him face to face with a big knuckled grip around a ridiculous looking gun.  The masquerade masked face behind the weapon grins and pulls the trigger.

KRET-BOOM!  CHUUTHK!  They match but miss.

The executioner feels the .40 round kiss his hip two inches above his belt while surging sideways.  Recovering his balance, Cajeda eyes the Yakuza centerpiece, trout twitching on the flagstone, gun forgotten, as both hands fumble on a punctured artery.

The overlapping limited lighting splits like ocean waves, breaking the cohesion of the Now.  Half a Reality plays at half speed, with .9mm bullets leaving sizzle streaks from the anchor pawn’s position, and the sounds of a “Sorry friend,” only half heard, from behind.

From Tetsu’s point of view, Death had found him.  It surges as a fast forward of reds, browns, and bruise, above dark denim and determined boots. 

CLI-BANG, CLI-BANG, CLI-BANG goes the last pawn’s life. 

The Reaper lurches the last late, and embraces the masked Japanese Yakuza, blade to breast, just as he embraces the executioner back bullet to belly.  They collapse facing, the blade holds them pinned as the  knees crunch, and Secret Vault door closes back stage.

Tetsu “Red Top” Tarashima wobbles with wide braced legs witch wobble under a shredded blood splattered kimono.  The fat man’s  face paint is mixed with blood, some his, some not, and his bald dome trembles.  The eyes have no false bravado, nor fear, just a sudden overstanding that it’s time to die.

 

 A lunge and a half away, the Mexican executioner eyes his prey, yanks his blade free from the Japanese corpse, and grabs at his bleeding gut shot.  The glance down is forgettable unlike the slow smile slowly smearing several seconds of reality, where shadows stiffen, colors cry crispy sharp edges, and only soft sounds thunder the Soundtrack

“Tetsu,” a whisper isolating killer to victim.  “Why?”

The cowering king mouths confusion without sound several seconds straight, before chocking “Honor.”

The Reaper scoots forward, belly blood oozing like cold coffee, “Honor, ugh?  For a coward like you?”

Tetsu’s smirks back, “Yes execu-”

His hand flashes, bloodstained fingers finding firm solid steel through a fluidity of motion, that punctures through cloth, flesh, and bone, tearing apart the Oyabun’s left lung and heart.

Leaving the blade, the severely wounded Mexican rolls sideways and collapses next to the dead king.  The sounds of the Penthouse flood over the floor, top down.  Shouting, banging, moaning and, pounding feet, clutter the acustics.

Cajeda bleeds with a cryptic smile below sleepy eyes..

 

<><><><>


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