Could I get some feedback on this (Short, just 2 pages)

This is a very small excerpt from a novel I wrote. I'm going to rewrite it as soon as my other novel comes out (due in the fall, hopefully, if my editor stops toying with me lol). Hard to explain, but this is sort of a first draft. I went through roughly 5 revisions of the novel back when I first had the idea. But that manuscript was almost 400 pages and I wanted to go into a more 'gangster' direction, so I scrapped it and rewrote the whole thing.

Anyway, this passage hopefully captures the feel of the story. It's a novel about a small-but-dominant organized crime gang from a fictional Irish neighborhood (based on the area I grew up in). The main character Rags clashes with his boss Darrel, although the two share a very warm father-son relationship (even though it's all predicated on drugs, extortion, and murder lol)

I hope it's equal parts funny and shocking. Anyway, I'll appreciate any feedback.

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Flat Iron (from chapter 1)​

The river stretched endlessly to the north and south, glittering in the moonlight. Bronson, being the largest, dragged Cormac by the ankle through the bushes that had long ago broken through the concrete and populated this industrial beach with shrubbery, trees, and hideouts for various creatures that roamed the shore. Cappo led the way, pushing aside brush, far off the rigid path that led to the water. Rags trailed them, still cocooned in the warmth of alcohol and weed. Before they dragged him from Bronson's hummer, Rags duct taped Cormac's mouth. This kid who was one year Rags' senior was trying to scream through the tape, trying to break the weed whacker twine that bound his wrists and ankles. They had no time to stop for weapons; they didn't bring so much as a pocket knife to the induction, as it was against the rules to have anything close to a deadly weapon at such a gathering, a rule Darrel insisted upon. Rags made due. He found a crowbar in Bronson's truck, which he carried as he trailed. Cormac wouldn't look away from it.

There was only darkness around them. Here and there, Rags heard the scuffle-shuffle of rats watching from afar, scurrying behind them, peeking at the giants invading their home. In the distance he heard water lapping gently against the concrete shore, and across the water the lights of Philadelphia made this small wilderness seem miles away from civilization. But most of all Rags heard the constant, muffle squeals of Tommy Cormac.

Within minutes they reached the shore. Bronson lit a cigarette and caught his breath. Cappo walked to the edge of the concrete and took in the air of the night. Rags, meanwhile, kicked Tommy Cormac in the teeth, then ripped the duct tape from his mouth. Blood instantly poured from Cormac's lips.

“Oh God please what the fuck did I do guys I didn't do shit,” Cormac cried through a river of blood and loose teeth.

Rags stepped over him. “So how do we start?”

“This one's all you,” Bronson said.

Cappo nodded. “Get it on, bro.”

Rags looked down at Cormac.

“Oh fuck fuck fuck...”

Rags raised the crowbar.

“Don't do it Joey, don't do it I'm begging you I don't even know what I did wrong...”

He turned to Bronson and Cappo. They were watching proudly.

“Joey please man,” Cormac said. “Shoot me instead man please just shoot me don't do it with--”

Rags brought the crowbar down on Cormac's skull. Cormac didn't scream, didn't have time to. Rags smashed him again, and again. Of course he understood why Darrel ordered them to do this. Cormac was stupid enough to break the rule, one of the few rules that everyone knew. And if Cormac couldn't follow that simple rule...

Then Rags remembered Dale. It felt as though Rags had forgotten his own name, something so obvious and blatant that it was almost impossible to forget. Dale had been fighting his own heroin addiction for years now, if you could even call it a fight, as much as it was an absolute submission. Yeah, Rags understood that Darrel didn't trust addicts, that they were a weak point of the operation that were more likely to talk to police, but Rags also realized that Cormac was just a corner boy, even if Jimmy Palmer, for whatever reason, saw Cormac as an up-and-comer. Tommy Cormac wasn't privy to a fraction of the information that Dale knew. Throughout his entire life, Dale knew his big brother was the boss, grew up in the shadow of the Flat Iron crew, soaking in every aspect of the business.

“Rags?” Bronson said. “What the hell are you doing?”

Before Rags could answer, Bronson ripped the crowbar from Rags' hands.

“Look at this poor motherfucker,” Bronson said, pointing to Cormac, who lay on the concrete oozing blood from his skull, twitching, a dying animal. He drove the sharp end of the crowbar into Cormac's temple and Cormac stopped twitching at once.

Rags said nothing.

Bronson wiped sweat from his forehead. “You gotta realize something. We came here to kill this cocksucker. But that don't mean you leave a dying motherfucker laying there with half his brain dangling out.”

“Sorry man,” Rags mumbled. “I guess I'm a little more fucked up than I thought.”

“I hope so,” Bronson said. He planted his finger in Rags' face. “When you do somebody, you do it and get it over with. It don't matter if it's a gun, or a mothafuckin cinder block. If you're just getting rid of him, you do it the way you want it done to you.”

Rags looked down at Tommy Cormac. His eyes were still open.

“Okay,” Rags said. “I'm sorry, B.”

Bronson nodded. “It's cool. Just remember what I said.”

Cappo stepped in front of them. “Yo, let's tie this douchebag to some rocks and toss him. I'm trying to fuck that DJ chick before the party's over.”

 

Sound like a cool story, I like the way you described the setting.

 

Description, spelling and grammar are good. Equal parts funny and shocking? Well, it's about as funny as a kick in the balls.