Author Topic: Femme Fatale- (chapter 1, pt.1- 1179 words)  (Read 948 times)

Offline dr.key

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Femme Fatale- (chapter 1, pt.1- 1179 words)
« on: April 01, 2010, 08:33:37 PM »
PLEASE, provide any possible way to polish this work, any criticism is welcome, but bear in mind to point to the mistakes I've made, not to talk vaguely about my work. I appreciate a good review.

Chapter One
1.   Don’t fuck with me!

The streets of Casablanca might have been cold that night, or perhaps it was the chill that was caused by the massive extermination that had been led by this femme fatale. The terror that crept through the silent streets was out of the norm. The passion to be in control led her to adopt the policy of tolerance zero, which was the safest way to stay alive and to be on the go for sudden attacks. Being among ruthless beasts required caution and highly worked strategies.

 She was an unflinching predator, never knowing what fear means. In fact, she might have baked fear the way she desired; she was able to do whatever she wanted, as if she was gifted a magic wand, obeying her in everything. Errors were never tolerated in her territory. Every mission must be accomplished with a rate of a billion percent success: failure doesn’t exist in her world. She was knowledgeable in the Art of the Mafia, and to say the least, she was an encyclopedia of this dangerous and mysterious world.

Enemies were all around her, and everyone was seeking their way to conspire against her. Many of these gangsters out there found her to be a maddening nightmare lodging in their minds, exactly like a sharp thorn in their throats. How come that all these men were frightened of this woman; they were wishing her death but how would that happen? She was making her world far from their clutches. Her castle stood still in their monstrous and repeatedly harsh storms against her.

Actually, the most powerful gangs of the city froze at the thought of her; even they were fighting against her. They knew well if she took them in her serious manner, she will vanquish them as easily as throwing a useless butt of a cigarette. She had other concerns to worry about these trivial matters. She was empowered by the Mafia, and Casablanca’s gangs, drug dealers, and all of hell-who-they-were were in her grasp. In practical terms, she never confided in anyone her secret strategies. She knew one thing: Don’t Trust the clothes on you, they are capable of betraying you. That was why she stood still for years, and her reason and logic had made her gain a good reputation, trust and appreciation of the International Mafia Order (IMO).
***
December, 17th. Midnight, at the airport!

Pedro was in the airport of Mohamed 5, preparing himself to leave Morocco, taking direction to Madrid. Dressed in leather jacket and jeans and wearing sunglasses, he was taken aback by three men, dressed in black suits and wearing sunglasses, surrounding him. The bag he was carrying fell on the ground, and his eyes were bloodshot. He stood catatonic for what seemed eternity, and his hands were shaking. One of the three men fixed him with a stare, “come with us and behave”, said the man sternly with a frown. The four men forged ahead, getting out of the airport, taking direction to a black Mercedes Benz GLK 350 4Matic which was waiting for them. The man with bald head and rugged features addressed to the other men, “You go, and wait for my call until we see what orders the lady has”, said the man with an authoritative tone, “Keep an eye on him, any attempt to escape, finish him right away”. One of the two men, who had a scar on his eyebrow, said with a nod, “D’accord, chef”.

The engine of the Mercedes Benz GLK 350 4Matic roared and they left to an unknown direction. The man stayed there in front of the airport until he received a call. After half an hour,  the Lamborghini Reventon Roadster car was coming. The forefront lights were flashing, and the car was drawing nearer until it stopped, having the engine still on. The door opened automatically, and quickly the man got in the backseat of the Lamborghini and closed the door as he sat. The engine roared, empowering the road with maximum speed. The driver was breaking the silent whisper of Casablanca that night with this monstrous car. The experience had no parallel.
A young man that had been in the car asked the man in the black suit, “Ammar, Where is our guy now?”; with a steady voice the man replied, “Some safe place, I guess”. Ammar, that was his name, gave that young man a grin. “Deal is a deal, isn’t it?”. The young man gave a long sigh and drew a half-hearted smile, “Great!”, he said. He took a Marlboro Light cigarette out of his box and lit it with a golden lighter, then he dragged on it, and exhaled a fog from his nose, like the fire coming out of the nose of a dragon.

“I’m glad you made it. How about 3 million Euros?”, the young man asked. Ammar exploded with laughter as he heard this suggestion then his face morphed in a serious demeanor, squeezing that young man with an pitiful stare, as if saying to him “you’re kidding me, right?”. Silence hovered for a moment. Then, Ammar uttered his death sentence, “I think I’m not a fool to have risked my life for 3 million Euros?”, he looked with grim expression at his face, “Look, Mr. Fawzi, deal is a deal, and as we agreed upon, you send 15 million Euros to my account; otherwise, I’m sorry to disappoint you”, lifting his head up in a condescending manner.

Mr. Fawzi, that young man, who had settled himself as one of the most powerful gangs of Casablanca, found himself in a confusing situation. It was the deal to give Ammar 15 Million Euros; that was insane. Greedy Ammar knew exactly the weak spot of Mr. Fawzi. He wanted his guy back to complete the mission, otherwise everything would be ruined. For some obscure reason, everything seemed to slip from the hands of Mr. Ramzi. Many questions were forming a cloud over his head, one of them “What’s the fuck with Ammar?”, “Is this some sort of humor?”, he was thinking and thinking.

“Ammar, don’t fuck with me”, Mr. Fawzi began, “You won’t get more 4 million Euros, and this is far more generous than you might have ever dreamt about”. Ammar looked dissatisfied; Mr. Fawzi offered a cigarette and said, “let’s work this out without hard feelings”. Ammar studied him with a long stare then dragged on the cigarette, drawing in a deep breath, “I don’t give a fuck; fifteen means fifteen”. Mr. Fawzi seemed to have missed something, Ammar was not that sort of gangs that can be defeated or negotiated with, and besides, it was a folly to go back on his word. What went wrong then? 

A ringtone interrupted this fumed discussion; Mr. Fawzi took his iPhone out of his pocket to answer the call, the caller was anonymous. As he said “hello, who’s this?”. The Lamborghini Reventon Roadster was blown out, destroyed to small pieces. Everything was torn into pieces, even the dead bodies were.

Offline Katinka

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Re: Femme Fatale- (chapter 1, pt.1- 1179 words)
« Reply #1 on: April 01, 2010, 09:04:07 PM »
Chapter One
1.   Don’t fuck with me!

THE NEXT 3 SENTENCES START WITH THE  The streets of Casablanca might have been cold that night, or perhaps it was the chill that was caused by the massive extermination that had been led by this femme fatale. The terror that crept through the silent streets was out of the norm. The passion to be in control led her to adopt the policy of tolerance zero, which was the safest way to stay alive and to be on the go for sudden attacks. Being among ruthless beasts required caution and highly worked strategies.

 She was an unflinching predator, never knowing what fear meanT(s). In fact, she might have baked fear the way she desired; she was able to do whatever she wanted, as if she was gifted a magic wand, obeying her in everything. Errors were never tolerated in her territory. Every mission must be accomplished with a rate of a billion percent success: failure doesn’t exist in her world. She was knowledgeable in the Art of the Mafia, and to say the least, she was an encyclopedia of this dangerous and mysterious world.
ALREADY TOO MUCH TELLING,ALL YOU SAID SO FAR WOULD BE MUCH MORE INTERESTING IF YOU SHOWED IT BY ACTION AND DIALOGUE. I THINK I'VE CRITIQUED THIS ONCE BEFORE. ANYWAY, ANOTHER QUESTION IS, WHO IS SHE, DOES SHE HAVE A NAME...?
AT THIS POINT I WOULD LIKE TO SEE A REWRITE.  ;)
Enemies were all around her, and everyone was seeking their way to conspire against her. Many of these gangsters out there found her to be a maddening nightmare lodging in their minds, exactly like a sharp thorn in their throats. How come that all these men were frightened of this woman; they were wishing her death but how would that happen? She was making her world far from their clutches. Her castle stood still in their monstrous and repeatedly harsh storms against her.

Actually, the most powerful gangs of the city froze at the thought of her; even they were fighting against her. They knew well if she took them in her serious manner, she will vanquish them as easily as throwing a useless butt of a cigarette. She had other concerns to worry about these trivial matters. She was empowered by the Mafia, and Casablanca’s gangs, drug dealers, and all of hell-who-they-were were in her grasp. In practical terms, she never confided in anyone her secret strategies. She knew one thing: Don’t Trust the clothes on you, they are capable of betraying you. That was why she stood still for years, and her reason and logic had made her gain a good reputation, trust and appreciation of the International Mafia Order (IMO).
***
December, 17th. Midnight, at the airport!

Pedro was in the airport of Mohamed 5, preparing himself to leave Morocco, taking direction to Madrid. Dressed in leather jacket and jeans and wearing sunglasses, he was taken aback by three men, dressed in black suits and wearing sunglasses, surrounding him. The bag he was carrying fell on the ground, and his eyes were bloodshot. He stood catatonic for what seemed eternity, and his hands were shaking. One of the three men fixed him with a stare, “come with us and behave”, said the man sternly with a frown. The four men forged ahead, getting out of the airport, taking direction to a black Mercedes Benz GLK 350 4Matic which was waiting for them. The man with bald head and rugged features addressed to the other men, “You go, and wait for my call until we see what orders the lady has”, said the man with an authoritative tone, “Keep an eye on him, any attempt to escape, finish him right away”. One of the two men, who had a scar on his eyebrow, said with a nod, “D’accord, chef”.

The engine of the Mercedes Benz GLK 350 4Matic roared and they left to an unknown direction. The man stayed there in front of the airport until he received a call. After half an hour,  the Lamborghini Reventon Roadster car was coming. The forefront lights were flashing, and the car was drawing nearer until it stopped, having the engine still on. The door opened automatically, and quickly the man got in the backseat of the Lamborghini and closed the door as he sat. The engine roared, empowering the road with maximum speed. The driver was breaking the silent whisper of Casablanca that night with this monstrous car. The experience had no parallel.
A young man that had been in the car asked the man in the black suit, “Ammar, Where is our guy now?”; with a steady voice the man replied, “Some safe place, I guess”. Ammar, that was his name, gave that young man a grin. “Deal is a deal, isn’t it?”. The young man gave a long sigh and drew a half-hearted smile, “Great!”, he said. He took a Marlboro Light cigarette out of his box and lit it with a golden lighter, then he dragged on it, and exhaled a fog from his nose, like the fire coming out of the nose of a dragon.

“I’m glad you made it. How about 3 million Euros?”, the young man asked. Ammar exploded with laughter as he heard this suggestion then his face morphed in a serious demeanor, squeezing that young man with an pitiful stare, as if saying to him “you’re kidding me, right?”. Silence hovered for a moment. Then, Ammar uttered his death sentence, “I think I’m not a fool to have risked my life for 3 million Euros?”, he looked with grim expression at his face, “Look, Mr. Fawzi, deal is a deal, and as we agreed upon, you send 15 million Euros to my account; otherwise, I’m sorry to disappoint you”, lifting his head up in a condescending manner.

Mr. Fawzi, that young man, who had settled himself as one of the most powerful gangs of Casablanca, found himself in a confusing situation. It was the deal to give Ammar 15 Million Euros; that was insane. Greedy Ammar knew exactly the weak spot of Mr. Fawzi. He wanted his guy back to complete the mission, otherwise everything would be ruined. For some obscure reason, everything seemed to slip from the hands of Mr. Ramzi. Many questions were forming a cloud over his head, one of them “What’s the fuck with Ammar?”, “Is this some sort of humor?”, he was thinking and thinking.

“Ammar, don’t fuck with me”, Mr. Fawzi began, “You won’t get more 4 million Euros, and this is far more generous than you might have ever dreamt about”. Ammar looked dissatisfied; Mr. Fawzi offered a cigarette and said, “let’s work this out without hard feelings”. Ammar studied him with a long stare then dragged on the cigarette, drawing in a deep breath, “I don’t give a fuck; fifteen means fifteen”. Mr. Fawzi seemed to have missed something, Ammar was not that sort of gangs that can be defeated or negotiated with, and besides, it was a folly to go back on his word. What went wrong then? 

A ringtone interrupted this fumed discussion; Mr. Fawzi took his iPhone out of his pocket to answer the call, the caller was anonymous. As he said “hello, who’s this?”. The Lamborghini Reventon Roadster was blown out, destroyed to small pieces. Everything was torn into pieces, even the dead bodies were.