Part of the 1st Chapter of my Novel Born Savage(long)

This is the prologue and part of the 1st chapter of my novel Born Savage. I would like to have constructive criticism from you guys. thanks.

Born Savage​

Police sirens echo through the alleyways of East Oakland’s Walnut slums. The rain creates pools of dark, black water in crevices in the concrete. Water as black as night, as black as death. The rain creates a rhythm, a pitter patter that resembles that of heart beat. As the rain begins to stop, so does the heart beat. A large, run down factory lies in the middle of this darkness.

Three police cars smash to the entrance of the factory. The officers exit their vehicles, guns drawn and head towards the entrance. An eerie silence fills the air as they approach the open door. They yell into the opening but, are only met with more silence. As they go through the door sounds dripping sounds hitting the floor are amplified with the echo of the empty building. The inside of the building is pitch black, so they were forced to use their flashlights. They stumble around looking for the light switch until one officer points his flashlight towards the wall near the entrance. It’s an old fashioned, giant light switch that resembled the switch to the electric chair. He signals another officer to flip the switch. The officer hesitates before hitting the switch. He neatly removes the spider webs and then flips the switch. As the lights are turned on the officers all experience the shock of a life time.

A sight that is enough to send the officers through a number of clichéd feelings. Enough to make an entire head of hair turn white. To make goose bumps jump out of the skin. To make the hair on the back of your neck stand up straight. To send shivers down your spine. What they witnessed is a horror beyond anything they have ever experienced on the job. There it was the naked body of reputed mob informant Mike “Dookie” Brown, hung from the ceiling of the building by fishing line. The hooks are neatly and methodically put into the skin with such precision that he wouldn’t bleed much from the wounds. The killer did not want him to bleed to death. The hooks, accompanied with Dookie’s body weight, have stretched the skin on his back, arms and legs like play dough or rubber. His intestines hang down from a huge wound on his stomach like vines from a tree. His fingers smashed to bloody little stumps. His throat slashed and his tongue pulled through it. It was a Colombian neck tie, often used by cartels to make an example of those who run their mouths.

One of the officers vomits at this gruesome sight. He realizes that the sound of water that they had heard earlier was in fact the sound of Dookie’s blood and feces hitting the ground. Another stands in awe; he had just talked to Dookie no more than five hours ago. The lead officer thinks back to the call they were responding too. A sound of screams and laughter coming from an abandoned factory in Walnut, East Oakland. He thought it was just another gang party that they had to bust up. Another routine violation that would result in a couple of citations and few arrests. He was wrong. It was him, a killer that has eluded the law for years. An expert assassin that has never been seen. A demon that walks in the shadows. It was Sav and he had come back home.

Chapter 1: Stool Pigeon

Five hours earlier around 10 o’clock pm, Dookie was at the Oakland police station giving out the names of everyone involved in a drug shipment, as part of a plea bargain that would insure his immunity.

“It was me, Ant, the nigga Craig B and that nigga C,” Dookie said, cracking his knuckles.

“Wait a minute Mike,” officer O’Boyle said “Slow down, now it was you, Antoine Powell, Craig Simmons and Chris Ellis right?”

“Yeah nigga, that’s what I said, blood,” Dookie answered.

Dookie was as nervous as he had ever been in his life. He knew that giving the names of these people would make him a marked man on the streets but, Dookie was willing to do anything to stay out of jail. He was always a rat, doing anything to survive. As long as he was in protective custody, he thought, he was safe.

“Alright, now you know you have to point them out in court right,” O’Boyle exclaimed “there’s no turning back.”

“I know, I know,” Dookie said, shaking and quivering “I… I’m gonna be safe right?”

“Yes, I promise,” O’Boyle remarked.

Dookie gave a nod signaling that he understood Officer O’Boyle. This was it, he thought, mere days before the trial and he had sold out. Labeled a snitch for the rest of his life. A life that would end sooner than he thought.

“Now, go with Officer Johnson,” O’Boyle declared “He’ll take you to your jail cell.”

“Yeah man, it’s nothing” Dookie said.

Dookie got up from his chair and was escorted away by Officer Tim Johnson. Officer Johnson was a tall Caucasian man that showed no emotions in his face. He had a far away look in his eyes as if the sight of Dookie made him ill.

“Damn nigga, you sick or something?” Dookie asked.

Johnson gave no response. He just guided Dookie through the precinct. Johnson was known to have a deep hatred for gangsters. They were scum, the lowest of the low to him and a snitch was even worse. Snitches were scum below scum, they were garbage and Johnson wouldn’t like anything better than to send this clown to San Quentin. As they walked through the police station Dookie began getting a funny feeling. The station was dark and abandoned. Just a few minutes ago the precinct was bustling with cops, secretaries and criminals. “Where are they all,” Dookie thought. They were all gone and he wondered why.

“Yo, the fuck is everybody at?” Dookie asked.

Johnson paused before responding.

“Today’s Monday the slowest day of the week,” Johnson answered “People clock out early and the late shift hasn’t showed up yet.”

“Aight, aye nigga where the fuck is we goin?” Dookie asked, looking around.

Johnson took a wrong turn and started heading towards the exit.

“What, didn’t O’Boyle tell you,” Johnson said “I’m taking you to your cell.”

“Yeah but, the cells and shit are that way.” Dookie said, pointing in the other direction.

“No, you got it all wrong,” Officer Johnson exclaimed “you’re in protective custody and that building’s down town buddy.”

“Oh, aight.” Dookie said.

As they walked towards Officer Johnson’s police car Dookie began to feel increasingly uneasy.

“This shit don’t seem right but, what is it?” he thought. “A set up maybe, no it can’t be I mean they need my statement and O’Boyle seems to know this nigga Johnson. What the fuck is this shit? The fuck is this muthafuckin feeling I can’t shake?”

Dookie couldn’t shake this feeling but, there was nothing he could do about it so he went with it. When they got to the car Johnson opened the back door for Dookie. As Dookie got in, he started to lighten up. This whole thing would be over with in a couple of weeks and then he can go on with his life. As they drove through Oakland Dookie began to daydream.

He thought back to the incident that got him in this mess. Dookie and the heads of his turf Ant, Craig B and C were in the Crest Side of Vallejo. They were waiting on a shipment of cocaine and counterfeit money. Thirteen cakes and three hundred thousand in phony bills. This was to be their big come up. This was Dookie’s retirement fund. But, as the shipment came in, the Vallejo P.D. that were quietly waiting made their move. Dookie was the only one captured out of the crew. He was interrogated for hours before being shipped back to Oakland where he cut his deal.

As the car came to a stop Dookie snapped out of his daydream. The car had stopped at a big run down looking building.

“The fuck is this,” Dookie yelled out “what am I doing here?”

Dookie asked but, Dookie knew, it was a hit. His life was coming to an end. Dookie chuckled inside, so close; he was so close he thought. His legacy was to go out like a snitch but, soon it would be over so none of it mattered. A few gun shots and then silence, sweet silence. He was never more wrong. As Johnson opened the back seat he seemed different. Dookie couldn’t see his face but, as he opened the door he finally saw what was in store. It wasn’t Officer Johnson at all. It was a smiling mask of death. Black and red demon hair. He knew who it was. It was Sav.

Dookie thought back to the stories he heard in the streets growing up. Stories of a mob assassin that enjoyed his work and did it with a smile. A mob assassin that was good at extorting money and information. The description he remember being told was clear, a smile now cry later theatre mask, black trench coat, black gloves, black boots, black pants, and a black wife beater. Then another memory began coming back to him. He remembered seeing a dead body ripped to shreds in the Ville. He could remember hearing it was Sav’s work. As he remembered the twisted and painful look on the bodies face he began to panic

“No, hell no,” Dookie screamed “fuck this shit, fuck this shit!”

Sav pulled the struggling Dookie out of the car with relative ease, then, BAM. Just like that Dookie’s lights went out. Sav had hit him over the head with a blackjack. With the strength of many men, Sav easily threw Dookie over his shoulder and nonchalantly walked to the factory. Dookie began to snap out of his coconsciousness just as Sav began to shut the factory doors. Dookie saw the doors shutting on his life along with them.

Sav violently threw Dookie down on a prepared table, tearing off all of his clothing and then rolling him onto his stomach. Still a little dazed from the shot to the head, Dookie put up no resistance. Sav then began to strap Dookie’s limbs to the table. First his wrists then his ankles. The leather straps bound the now fully conscious Dookie to the table. Not able to hold a strong front, Dookie began to sob hysterically.

“Stop it, please. I’m begging you don’t do this.” Dookie whimpered.

Sav chuckled a little bit before going into a black bag and grabbing a hammer.

“I’m going to make an example out of you.” Sav said in a very demonic, mechanical voice.

“No please don… ahhhhh!” Dookie screamed as his fingers were crushed by Sav.

Sav began to laugh. His laughs grew louder and louder with every swing of the hammer. The blows started becoming harder and faster as he slammed it into Dookie’s fingers. It was as if Sav was pounding the hammer to a rhythm that only he could hear. Dookie squirmed as much as he could in agony, wincing with every strike, screaming in pain.

Then as quickly as it began it ended. An odd silence filled the air. The laughter, the pounding, the only noise that could be heard was the whimpering of Dookie. Thinking his pain was nearly over, Dookie let his guard down and slipped into a world of quiet bliss, closing his eyes and envisioning the land of milk and honey. Sweet silence and then…

“AHHHHHHH!!!” Dookie quickly snapped out of this strange euphoria as Sav plunged an oversized fishing hook into his upper back.

With precision and elegance, Sav began sticking hook after hook into Dookie’s back. Sav’s body flowed in a ghostly waltz like splendor as he pricked his victim. Again, Sav began to laugh. But, unlike before, this was not a devilish psychotic laughter. This was glee, happy laughter one would hear after receiving a present or hearing a joke. Dookie continued to scream in pain and then it became too much to bare. Dookie again slipped into unconsciousness, a defense mechanism to mask the pain.

“Not this time,” Sav thought.

Sav slapped Dookie across the face to wake him up. Dookie now unable to talk because of the pain tried to beg for mercy one last time.

“P p p… please.. I don’t.. I won’t tell any b b b body.. anything… p please.” Dookie pleaded very weakly.

“Are you already done? The party is just beginning.” Sav exclaimed.

Sav unstrapped Dookie from the table and backed up, admiring his work. Sav then grabbed a handful of wires hanging from the ceiling and began to yank. Dookie grimaced as his body was lifted into the air by the hooks on his back. Sav tied the wires to a hook on the wall and walked up to Dookie.

“You’re like a human piñata,” Sav said. “Let’s see what comes out of you.”

Sav then grabbed a baseball bat from the side of the table and began beating Dookie. Striking Dookie’s midsection relentlessly over and over again. Again, Dookie screamed in pain and again Sav laughed maniacally. Dookie’s skin began to stretch as he swung back and forth from the power of Sav’s swings.

“I can’t seem to get the candy,” Sav remarked. “Let me try something else.”

Sav then dropped the bat and went back into his bag. Delirious, Dookie looked up at Sav and Sav’s image turned into that of the Devils and the walls of the factory, fiery pillars. Imps began jumping on Dookie’s body, laughing and whispering to him.

“You belong to us.” They said giggling.

Sav pulls a butterfly knife out of his bag and walks slowly back to Dookie. In Dookie’s eyes the Devil was approaching with a fiery sword.

“And with this I cast thee into the Abyss.” The Devil said.

Dookie shook his head and his senses came back to him. He looked at Sav, panicked by what he saw. Sav lifted the Butterfly knife to his chest.

“Via con Diablo.” Sav said as he thrust the blade upward into Dookie’s midsection. Dookie fell into shock as the cold steal tickled his innards. Dookie began choking on his own blood, his bowels no longer able for him to control. Sav then sliced, oblique to oblique. Dookie’s vision began to change again, Sav IS the Devil, he IS in hell and then… nothing. Dookie had finally been put out of his misery. Sav pulled the knife out of Dookie’s lifeless body. He used the knife to carefully make a slit in Dookie's throat. It was time to create the message. Sav put his fingers into the slit and pulled Dookie’s tongue through it. Dookie was a rat, and this is what happens to rats. That was the message. Sav then went over to the wires, unhooked them and began to pull. The higher up Dookie went the more stretched and deformed his body became. His guts began to leak out of his wound; his feces began to leak down his legs.

 

too dark for you guys? It started off as a Mafia movie screenplay and kinda spun into this. any critique would be a big help.

 

hmm.. well i have to say it's definatly gory. a lil' too dramtic, but thats just my opinion. some of the sentences seeed to end, and that would seems good, but then you piled another paragraph onto that, and it got to dramtic. I dont know, i'm not the best critic

 

well you have to ask yourself why you didnt tell us about the other stuff rain does - I mean why is it important to say "in the concrete crevices" why not just say - "wherever it collects"?

Then why go on and elongate the description - we know what the colour black looks like

No it doesnt, it creates a sort of drumroll effect.

I'm just saying I think you need to think about the descriptions more
apart from your descriptions its quite a funny story !

 

Now that I've had time to read this I am glad, because it is excellent. I laughed my arse off. This would make a fantastic comedy. Although you have quite a bit of gore in it, I do think your story would benefit with just a little bit more, for example, after the snitch gets his throat slit, his tongue pulled out, stabbed, pierced by fishing hooks and stretched with his guts and shit falling out, I was thinking that you could add a midget stir-frying his guts with his shit then using a funnel feeding it to him again. Since the shit and guts would fall straight out. You could have the midget continuously walking up and down a step ladder with a funnel then working on a wok to cook the guts and shit thus creating a kind of ecological horror with guts and shit going into perpetual repetition. This would get the message across that the mafia are not only sadistic killers, but they are environmentally friendly killers who recycle their garbage and guts and therefore would have some respect as well as fear from the local community. You could even stick a wind turbine up the victim's arse so that every time he farts he produces free electricity.