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It's been 12 days, and not a single short story has been properly posted by any of you. You've all lost. It is a sad day, a VERY SAD DAY! and you should all feel nasty and terrible for having caused it.

No time for grieving though, you've had like 12 whole days to get the fuck over that. Screw what I said about Numero first and a half, you're not going to get to do any of that. You failed utterly and entirely, so there will be no backup.

I'm going to rope in everyone who posted in the last piece of shit. @Mizal @Orange @MinnieKing and also @crescentstar because she probably likes this kind of thread, and @Chanbot because for fuck's sake we need to get you to write something less unholy.

Anyway, Prompts. This week's theme is "People who wear Tuxedoes!"

1: The Mafia. How the fuck does it work? Nobody knows. But hey, they do make some cool stories about them. Write a story about a crime syndicate of your own design, whether it's Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Steampunk, comprised entirely of Predator aliens, or whatever. Bonus Frijoles for each subverted Mafia movie/Yakuza movie trope you can throw in.

2. Hollywood has recently coined the oxymoron phrase "Financial Thriller" to describe a genre made mostly up of all the boring logistical segments of Jason Borne, but with none of the security cameras and cool gadgets, circling around rich douchebags fucking other rich douchebags on the ass for no reason other than to be rich douchebags. Try writing one of those. If you can cobble something together that manages to be both financial and thrilling, than bonus frijoles unto you.

3. Write about a secret agent with bizarre and unusual methods. Bonus frijoles if it's not even clear they're an agent until they turn in their espionage assignment or whatever.

I started a vampire story...I think that makes me win by default but I'm also OK with never speaking of it again.

If Usain Bolt entered a race with two other people, but the two other people died shortlt after the race started, and then he had to stop halfway through the race because he shit himself, I feel like nobody wins that race.

The 'shitting halfway through' part came for me when I realized my plot wouldn't fit to a practical word count, and that you could just mix Buffy and Hellboy together in a jar and shake it around and that was easier than finishing the thing, and with basically the same result.

20 points to The Bring Ford Back To Life Charity Fund per week of literature entry or just 20 points if I participate in one?

Frijoles are not the same thing as points. They're better than points. You'll see what I'm talking about once you have more than anyone else.

Sorry that offer's expired, you specifically had to write the vampire clown story I outlined.

Ah darn. Must've not read carefully enough and forgot about it.

^^; I'll try something. Maybe.

Alright... I feel like this is a bunch of bs. xD I had given up by the time I got through it.

---

What history doesn’t know is that the Amazons was an effing mafia. Hippolyta wasn’t just the most famous almighty queen of a ferocious tribe of women. She was the almighty godmother or whatever people called it of a belligerent pack of she-wolves. Not really.

They happily traveled through Europe and the northern parts of Africa to found many cities and conquered others. The ones they conquered, they required heavy tributes from them and threw fits when they didn’t get whatever spices or gold or metal they wanted.

The Amazons were split into three different groups under a single queen—Themiscyreians, Lycastians, and Chadesians. They all fed her riches and wealth and whatever she wanted. Below each tribe ruler were cavalry leaders that led their own forces of warriors. They were the largest organized crime society in the godsdamned world as of then, holding fighting competitions to elect their generals and procreating with the Gargareans despite wanting to kill them. They were the “slayers of men” after all with their javelins, axes, bows, and lovely crescent-shaped shields.

Despite being the legendary creators of cavalry, they couldn’t kill dragons. Which made them sad. The Greeks attacked them around that time, so they took out their anger on the Greek men, who were all graceless and sweaty. They lost and something about a boat and Scythia and killing some more people. Eventually, they merged with a group of young Scythian men and learned Scythian because the men were too infatuated with the women that they couldn’t learn amazon.

Perhaps that was the end of the great mafia, or perhaps that was just the beginning of a darker organization of killer women. Of course they still ruled on, becoming rich and wealthy and all that from tributes and intimidation. Who knew how they began? Who knows how they ended if at all? *brow wiggle*

You're right, a totalitarian, feudal military society works a lot like a crime syndicate. But there's a big difference between a Feudal government and The Mafia- Namely that The Mafia is breaking the laws, not being the laws. This was just a summary, and then a vague conspiracy theory ending, of the Amazons doing Amazon things and not a story about crimes at all! 

You've failed me! For a story idea that evokes awesome visions of Wonder Woman chewing cigars and waving Tommy Guns around at its laziest, you've gone and managed to limbo your way under my every expectation and not even meet the basic requirements!

T-T I got lazzyyyyyyy. >_<

Do the fantasy crime people have to wear suits, because suits weren't invented in fantasy times and I don't want a low rating from Fazz.

I had a loanshark wearing a suit in Innkeeper and Fazz didn't rate me low for it, so I'd say you're golden.

The prompts were suit-inspired, but it was never explicitly stated in the rules, so you're free to write whatever you want as long as the fantasy crime people are actually fantasy crime people and not whatever hamby-Pamby was happening in Crescent's story.

Feelsbadman.

I haven't been on the forums much recently (or at all tbh), but thought I'd try my hand at prompt 1.

---

The Predator alien sat uncomfortably at the bar, pulling at the collar of his shirt. He didn’t like tuxedos, much preferring his body armour, but the new Predator mafia syndicate demanded a strict dress code. It didn’t make much sense to him, but rules are rules. He pulled at the collar of his shirt again.

“Hey look, it’s Johnny two times!” announced a grating voice. A tall Yautja swaggered over and sat on the bar stool next to him. “I’m sorry to say Johnny, but I heard the boss is somewhat displeased with your service.” He leaned in closer. “How many times you gonna fuck up Johnny. That’s twice now that you cost the family its money. Perhaps I should send Don Sain’ja your head. I’m sure he’ll reward me well.”

“Fuck off Paulie,” said Johnny.

“What was that?” asked Paulie, a grin on his face. “Is little Johnny two times gonna get angry with me?”

“Fuck off Paulie,” said Johnny again, louder this time. He necked the two shots on the bar in front of him, and then stood up and drew the two swords he had at his waist.

“Whoah there buddy,” said Paulie, an amused grin on his face. “We’ve left those ways behind remember? You gotta use a tommy gun, like the one big Tony has.” He gestured at the other large Yautja that stood behind him, tommy gun in hand.

Johnny growled, and looked around the bar. There were several mafia members sat around, all ready to leap to Paulie’s aid should a fight begin. He growled again. Several hands moved to guns, ready to fire in a moment’s notice.

But before the fight could begin, a massive human walked in through the bar door and said, in a monotone voice that should never have been used in anything other than an action film, “I’m back.”

Paulie looked over. “Hey, is that Arnold Schw

It looks like this got cut off midway through. I'm going to edit lock it now for no other reason than being a bitch.

It was meant to be a reference to the Sopranos, which ends mid sentence.

Aha, classy references. Ben is winning so far. Not that he has any competition at all, but if he did...

>:T Meanie.

First ever try:

 

"Mitsy always wanted to be a secret agent, but unfortunately she failed the civil servants test."
"But she still stole the tuxedo!"
"Yes. Yes she did."
"Do you have her in range yet?"
"No. Not yet."

    Mitsy Fitts was not quite twenty years old, yet her affinity for trouble was fit for someone half her age. Her short blonde hair and steely grey eyes bore a striking contrast against the men's tuxedo she wore. She stuck her thumbnail in her mouth, biting it as usual. Her thoughts returned to the test. She didn't think she could blow it. Well, not as badly as they said. How could she have known Belaria wasn't a country. It sounded right.
    Walking down the bleak wet street, she turned a corner. It had to be here somewhere. It just had to be. She knew she had a nose to be a spy. It got her into enough trouble. Why just a few months ago - what was that? Just then she spotted movement near one of the apartment buildings. Was it him? Flicking her thumbnail from out her mouth she began to cross the street. Suddenly -

"Hey, same to you girly!"

    Some random guy getting out of his car suddenly broke the eery silence. Startled, Mitsy looked at him with wide eyes. He suddenly made a fist with his right  hand. His left violently grabbed the inside of his right elbow and flexed with his fist pointed up. Confused at this unexpected and strange gesture, Mitsy continued across the street.

***

"Is she in range yet?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
"She just gave some guy a cutis and he gave her the moutza."
"Really? Odd."
"Well, are you ready?"
"Eh. What?"
"Clive, I said: Are you ready?"
"Oh, yeah I am Stu."
"Well, take your shot."

    From the rooftop, Clive had his target in perfect range.  The shot wouldn't ring out. Not a soul would hear it. He fired the tranque, and Mitsy Fitts went down.

***

    Mitsy had a wonderful dream. She was floating around the Earth taking note of all the weapon installations, which all the governments of Earth, had parked in orbit. When suddenly she was drowning!

"Pugh! Like, what the hell?"

Mitsy looked around the room. It appeared to be someplace familar yet strangely not. A parking garage? And why was she tied to this strange looking chair? And why were there so many people here? And why, why, why was she naked?!

"Like, ew. Why am I so wet? Are you guys like, pervs, or somethin'?"

Laughing, the men glanced at each other. Mitsy knew that look. It was, like, the kind of look her teachers in her school used to give the smart kids whenever she would talk. It made her mad.

"So, like, is this how you people get your, like, rocks off and shit?"

Mitsy made sure to use the phrase "You people", just like a teacher would. Like, when they made you feel like, stupid and stuff. It must've worked, because one of the men came over.

"So, you can't figure shit out for yourself can you, BIMBO?"

Bimbo. It had that certain ring to it that made Mitsy think of clowns. So stupid a word, it has a clown-name feeling to it. At least they didn't call her a bitch or a cu-

"Larry, get that bitch in the trunk! Do like I ask, capishe?"

Mitsy was suddenly floating again. She was too shocked by Larry's strength to speak. Then she noticed it. The trunk wasn't part of a car... It was a flying saucer thing! It really, really was! By the time she had regained her wits about her, they had placed her - and along with the strange chair! - inside the trunk of the ship. And was it HUGE! At least 12 feet long by 16 feet wide and 8 feet high. She could feel the ship move for a second, and then nothing.

Suddenly, a strange man-thing entered. It had an androgynous look about it, with green skin, and pale yellow eyes which shone in the bright white light. Mitsy blinked, she couldn't believe it!

"Like, what the- Like, why are you naked?"

Her mind raced at the thought of being violated by this... this... THING!

"Don't worry, paisan.", the thing stated confidently, "We have a little... test for you.".
"What kind of test?"
"Let's just call it - The Foreign Exchange Interbank Market Regulatory Commission Test."

With that, Mitsy screamed, waking up.

***
Mitsy was in bed, drenched in sweat. Her laptop monitor was still showing that terrible forum page: "Week of Literature: El the second one". Taking a deep breath, she closed her laptop and placed it on the night stand. She had to take a few breathes before getting out of bed. That's when she noticed she was still wearing that stupid tuxedo. What she didn't notice was the anal probe sticking out from underneath the tails, still sending the signals to the Martian Mafia: The Cosmos Nostra.

The End.

Weird secret agent AND an alien mafia! Everwriter wins.

The other guy comes in at a close second, and I'm hesitant to even have Crescent plce at all since she hasn't even met the prompt, but at least she wrote something. So Crescent gets third just to shame all the noncommittal posters who think they can just walk in here and write NOTHING! The entitled cockflops.

It's only been seven days. It just so happens I only write about fantasy Mafias on weekends, and need at least two.

That's fine, because it's probably going to take me a while to figure out what to do with the upcoming prompts. Still, SHAAAAME!

I won? Yay!

Now, what did I win?... (and please, don't say "Respect", because I tend to lose that too easily!)

There is no respect involved with posting anywhere on this forum.

It seems tame here though...

You've clearly never seen The Steve. Either that, or you've come back from a forum without moderators.

I usually only frequent sites where the moderators ARE the trolls. Great places for discussions on politics, religion, metaphysics, and gaming. Unfortunately, I couldn't handle the more "progressive mods" who were advocating violence against those unable to protect themselves - like the infirmed, mentally imbalanced, and anyone who wouldn't worship at the feet of the mods! I did find some people whose ideas were enlightening, in a trollish kind of way.

So, comparatively, it's pretty tame here. (What is "The Steve"? Is that a mod, or a warrior cat? - just askin'!)

Steve is one of the members on here. If you haven't met him yet, I'm sure you will the next time he gets into an argument with someone. No, he isn't a mod.

Oh, the ambiguously gay person I read about. I get it. While mildly amusing, he stirs up butthurt among the more innocent within the unwashed masses on these particular forums. By the way it sounded a few posts ago, I thought it was someone else. Thanks for the info! :)

What forums were these?

As far as active writing communities go anyway I'm fairly sure CYS is the last bastion against the SJW hivemind controlling the hordes.

I will never divulge the name of the forum on the grounds that it may be a bannable offense somewhere out amongst the 'net. As a friend told me once: Never screw around with things that make other people money.

(Then again, she hated black people for being black just to spite her... It was always hard to tell what level of insanity she was during any given moment.)

;_;

Okay I wrote for a couple of hours. Unlikely I'll get around to finishing this, but it's a good prompt and which the exception of Everwriter's the other posts so far were just sad. Sad!

*****


The Karan-ta messenger had been pale as death and looking ready to piss himself as he was ushered into the lift, and once he had his audience with the heads of the Selar family eighteen stories higher he really did; well, not himself, but the polished mahogany table the very elegant and refined elves of the elegant and refined clan were sipping their brandy and tea at. Ballsy fucker just whipped it out and started hosing everything down. Not the kind of message that could really be ignored. The Karan-ta wanted nothing less than to goad the Selar into an all out war with such insults, and seemed confident they could win it.

All this Herida picked up in bits and pieces as she lounged on a balcony nearby, wind-beaten hat pulled low over her eyes to block the sun’s glare. A human enforcer, even a highly trusted one, of course wasn’t invited to the family tea times, which was fine with her; she’d been trying to read her periodical. They’d discovered a new variety of parrot in the Sunken Tomb Isles that could allegedly be spoken through by the spirits of the thousand year old dead. Research was ongoing as to whether this was a legitimate phenomenon, or (as skeptics suggested) the work of demonic impostors or simply some wizard’s trick. Fascinating stuff.

But it didn’t seem she’d be left in peace to read and relax today. Herida was interrupted first by servants pitching the offending table and a couple of sullied chairs over the ledge, scattering the little flock of green finches she’d been sharing her lunch with and then standing around to gossip. And then of course, there was the screaming. Awful lot of it and kind of hard to ignore.

It seems the man had gotten himself into debt to the Karan-ta family, with no way to get himself out, and delivery of today’s ‘message’ had been the way offered to repay and keep his wife and kids from getting sold off to some underworld brothel. Well, whatever. The Karan-ta could be ugly like that. The Selar were generally above such things, and she figured it likely if his story checked out, they’d let him go only missing a few fingers and teeth. Also he had hopefully not planned to father any more children.

It had been sort of rough times for the Selar family and those in their employ these last couple of years. Being a family of reputation and means, with standards and a code of honor to uphold was difficult enough in these times without say, the Lady Chemeile’s estranged daughter marrying into that den of vipers, or her nephew suffering the shame of being arrested, and then of all things, cutting a deal with the king’s men instead of slitting his wrists before being questioned.

As much looked down upon as the marriage had been, at least it has slightly eased tensions between the rival families. Each feeling they were being crowded out by the other when it came to the smuggling operations on the docks was still an issue, but they’d actually briefly worked together, sort of, in taking out a few high level members of a human run thieves’ guild.

This thing with the nephew though. It was a fucking disgrace. It stung when a family as low as the Karan-ta could denounce their betters as turncoats and cowards, and there wasn’t much you could say because they kind of had a point. Some of the Selar’s lower level servants and contacts had been clearing out, and the last time she’d been out buying feed for her birds, Herida herself had been approached with an offer to switch sides.

She’d spit in the man’s face, and only the fact that they were in a public market patrolled by kingsmen kept her from knifing him. Things weren’t looking great at the moment, sure, but her father and her father’s father going back five generations had served the Selar. The city and the politics of it all had changed, but there was still something to be said for loyalty.

“Herida, the Lady Chemeile would have a word with you.”

Well, no saying ‘just a moment’ to that. Her periodical would just have to wait. After hastily brushing off her clothes and removing her hat to smooth back her hair, she was led to a chamber on the nineteenth floor. Sun poured in from open doors leading out to the covered balcony, and the Lady was seated and sipping at a fresh cup of tea. Her rich, lustrous brown hair was drawn up elegantly to show off her pale, slender neck and pointed ears, but despite her composed appearance Herida quick, dark eyes couldn’t help but pick up the slight tremble in her hand as she lifted her cup.

The Lady wasn’t alone. There were a couple of enforcers Herida was only vaguely acquainted with loitering nearby, watching her closely as she moved to pay her respects, and, hanging back in a darkened shadow of the room, an unassuming gnome called Lasimor, the family’s watch-smith and jeweler. For whatever reason his mother Lasima was there as well, an ancient gnome who had to be wheeled in a chair, recognizable after a moment as a pair of red-rimmed eyes peering out from a shapeless bundle of rags.

Those two gave her chills. They were probably--no lie--responsible for more cold blooded murders than the entirety of every crime family in this city combined. She had no idea what they were doing here, and unfortunately it wasn’t really her place to ask.

The Lady Chemeile spent a few minutes on small talk and pleasantries before getting to the point. “I assume you’re aware of that...unpleasantness a short while ago?”

“I heard some gossip and...the man was screaming pretty loud. You know I don’t like to speculate however.”

“Good. That’s a trait one likes to have in a servant. I’ve always liked that about you, Herida. That and your loyalty. I always can trust you’ll do anything I ask.”

“Of course.”

The lady seemed to be weighing her next words. “Now, will you tell me about the incident in the market place a few days ago?”

That gave Herida a start. Casting a suddenly nervous glance toward the other enforcers, she haltingly relayed the details of the encounter. She’d reported it right after it happened, of course, and was told she’d behaved rightly, but there was a niggling little bit of fear now. Had she not been believed? If the stress of recent events was now leading to paranoia--after all, if kin would turn traitor, who could be trusted not to?--could she be about to receive her walking papers here?

The fact that in the Selar tower, the walk in question was usually a long one right off a balcony’s edge was what made the situation so worrisome. She stole another glance at the enforcers, wondering if she could reach her whistle in time. This high up, they were close enough to the aerie to be heard.

“I see I’ve unsettled you. Calm down dear, everything is fine. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Herida politely declined. With the gnomes still watching silently from the corner, it was hard to forget the stories of how old Lasima the ‘apothecarist’ had made a name for herself and first gained employ. She had had a withered, liver-spotted hand in the recent thieves’ guild assassinations as well.

“The reason I brought that incident up is that it gives us a certain opening. They’re looking to recruit our people out from under us, and that’s an angle to use. Now, what I’d like you to do is go to the Karan-ta and tell them you’re considering the offer.”

“Ma’am?”

“It’s a bit unorthodox, I realize, but they’ve forced my hand here. They’ll be skeptical, obviously, but that’s when you ask to make your case before my daughter. She’s such a sentimental thing, she’ll believe you. You used to get on well with her when you were a child, did you not? I remember you would train the birds together.”

Herida took a steadying breath. She wasn’t sure she liked where this was all going. “Y..yes ma’am. We did.”

“At any rate, do whatever you need to gain their trust enough that you’re allowed to speak to her privately. That part I’ll have to leave to you; you’ll have to go with your instincts.” It’s now Chemeile’s turn to draw a deep breath. “Then, I have a message for you to give her, and it’s that...her mother still loves her very much, and wants her back by her side. However the marriage vows she rashly bound herself with bring a great deal of pain to me, and all of our family, and must first be undone. And then give her this...”

Without quite looking their way, the elven lady held out a slender hand in the direction of the gnomes, and Lasimor shuffled forward to place a small black box in her palm before bowing and stepping back to his spot beside his mother.

Chemeile set the box upon the table and opened it, gesturing Herida over. “You may examine it if you wish, but do be careful. Do not touch the inside of the band.”

Inside was a man’s ring, gold and set with diamonds and emeralds. Tasteful, yet masterfully worked and undeniably worth a fortune. It took her a moment to recognize it as an exact replica of the ring gifted to and worn by Chemeile’s Karan-ta son-in-law, as a sign of the Selar family’s grudging acceptance of the match.

Herida waved off the lady’s offer to let her hold it, feeling ever so slightly ill. She didn’t doubt the counterfeit was perfect, right down to the inscription within the band. And cleverly hidden there as well would be a pressure plate that released a tiny barb, coated with the nastiest and fastest acting poison gnomish apothecary skill could concoct. Another tactic borrowed from the removal of the thieves’ guild, where methods of clean efficiency had been preferred to avoid drawing the attention of the kingsmen.

“If she accepts it, and does what’s required, then she is my daughter again and you must defend her with your life, and bring her home safely.”

“And if not?”

The Lady Cameile’s voice was flat and emotionless. “Then remove her, through the quickest means available, and get yourself away.” She poured herself another cup of tea, sipping it slowly before setting the cup down and folding her hands. “It is wicked to war with one’s own blood, wouldn’t you agree? And as it seems war cannot be avoided, this whole disgraceful situation must be sorted, one way or another. I will not have her on my conscience.”

Herida closed the box, and carefully placed it in the pouch at her side. She would have to think on where to hide it on the way to the Karan-ta estate. “When do I leave?”

“Immediately.”

Herida nodded, and with nothing more to be said gave a short bow and turned and walked out to the balcony, trilling a note on her whistle. After a moment’s wait, she stepped out over the edge. The wind rushed by and then she landed with practiced ease on the back of the giant eagle swooping neatly beneath her and began strapping herself into the harness clipped to the saddle.

She took time to make a slow loop around the city, trying to settle her thoughts. The Karan-ta estate was just past the outskirts of the surrounding farms, a lordly mansion surrounded by what was nearly a village in its own right, high on a hill looking down on the city. It was a tall order she’d been given, on a number of levels. She might not survive the next couple of days. She certainly wouldn’t enjoy them.

Below, the hustle and bustle along the lanes, shops and houses went about as it always did, the populous mostly oblivious and irrelevant to the struggles between the city’s elven families, as they had been as peasants working the fields so many centuries ago. The kingsmen made their little rounds, watching for pickpockets or brawls and so rarely looking up. A human King was on the throne now and wanted to keep things orderly, keep the people happy and hey, as a human herself she couldn’t help but respect that.

But the ancient families of elven nobility were older than the kingdom, older than the city itself. Even with their activities forced underground and considered ‘criminal’ for the time being, they had always ruled here, always warred among each other here, and always would.

@Endmaster I'll take one shiny gold star pls

oh cool it worked, thanks End