[113 / 9 / 40]
It is the 2nd Millenium, and crime is all you're good for.
https://youtu.be/D00M2KZH1J0
Red and blue police lights shining through the shattered window of a motel room illuminating a blood splattered calendar open to the month of December, featuring a young naked woman sprawled over a mock spaceship boldly labeled "1989." Every day on that calendar has been crossed off one by one until a single day was left; tthe 31st, labeled "The Collector's Job." Only a foot or two below is a bullet lodged firmly in the lungs of the late Anthony "Brick" Esposito.
There aren't many in the world who would miss the man he was, but for the three still left in the room, his corpse was the most important thing in the world- and only because it was currently dripping blood all over the valuable record that your client just <span class="mu-i">had to have.</span> With the price he's paying, you've gotta have it too, it didn't matter who's door you had to kick in, who you had to run off the road or who you had to con. You did everything right, and you should've been set- but instead it got you right here; surrounded by cops. The brains of the operation is dead on the ground with that same damn sniper who shot him still watching him like a hawk. Brick made the mistake of trying to take a hostage, and now he's on the ground and she's out there in the arms of some knight in shining FBI suspenders. From what Brick could figure looking through the grimy old window, the crew's van isn't going anyway with all those cop cars- but every single one of you is eying each other because every single one of you knows the reason the cops found you.
Brick owned some shiny Italian motorcycle- legitimately earned every cent towards it. He loved to talk about how he could ride it anywhere on the planet without a cop batting the eye. "Original plates and all!" the idiot would shout- while he left it right outside the scene of a crime. He gripped the keys to the bike as he died like as if Saint Cucciolo might save him. You don't blame him. You were all thinking it. That bike could slip through the blockade like greased lightning and leave the cops looking for their own ass. Only one problem- it's a one man ride.
If only one person's getting out of here with the record, it's gonna be you. Thing is, there's three people left in this room. Who are you?
https://youtu.be/D00M2KZH1J0
Red and blue police lights shining through the shattered window of a motel room illuminating a blood splattered calendar open to the month of December, featuring a young naked woman sprawled over a mock spaceship boldly labeled "1989." Every day on that calendar has been crossed off one by one until a single day was left; tthe 31st, labeled "The Collector's Job." Only a foot or two below is a bullet lodged firmly in the lungs of the late Anthony "Brick" Esposito.
There aren't many in the world who would miss the man he was, but for the three still left in the room, his corpse was the most important thing in the world- and only because it was currently dripping blood all over the valuable record that your client just <span class="mu-i">had to have.</span> With the price he's paying, you've gotta have it too, it didn't matter who's door you had to kick in, who you had to run off the road or who you had to con. You did everything right, and you should've been set- but instead it got you right here; surrounded by cops. The brains of the operation is dead on the ground with that same damn sniper who shot him still watching him like a hawk. Brick made the mistake of trying to take a hostage, and now he's on the ground and she's out there in the arms of some knight in shining FBI suspenders. From what Brick could figure looking through the grimy old window, the crew's van isn't going anyway with all those cop cars- but every single one of you is eying each other because every single one of you knows the reason the cops found you.
Brick owned some shiny Italian motorcycle- legitimately earned every cent towards it. He loved to talk about how he could ride it anywhere on the planet without a cop batting the eye. "Original plates and all!" the idiot would shout- while he left it right outside the scene of a crime. He gripped the keys to the bike as he died like as if Saint Cucciolo might save him. You don't blame him. You were all thinking it. That bike could slip through the blockade like greased lightning and leave the cops looking for their own ass. Only one problem- it's a one man ride.
If only one person's getting out of here with the record, it's gonna be you. Thing is, there's three people left in this room. Who are you?
