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| Scene Title | Be Somebody |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Tyler Case has one week before the Chinese Triads kill him. |
| Date | February 17, 2009 |
Though it's less than two miles square, Chinatown is home to some quarter of a million residents. Cramped, ancient tenements are the norm, though the fourty-four story Confucious Plaza standing at the corner of Bowery and Division does boast luxurious accommodations by comparison. Mulberry Street, Canal Street, and East Broadway are home to streetside green grocers and fishmongers, and Canal Street also boasts an impressive array of Chinese jewelry shops.
My name is Tyler Case…
The sound of a fist striking a face as hard as it can sounds out through the narrow alleyway. The wet slap of knuckles against already bloodied flesh tosses a wiry young man back against a cold brick wall, his denim jacket rustling as the back of his head collides with the wall from his momentum. A strangled, painful yelp in the back of his throat is choked back by the urge to vomit.
…I’ve lived a pretty rough life…
With his back pressed up to the wall, the young man’s legs give way; buckling under the haze of disorientation from so many blows to the head, “Stop.” His one, murmured warning as he slides down the wall to settle on an ice-crusted mound of snow goes mostly unheard by the other men in the alley.
…but I like to think that I’ve made as much of it as I can…
“Stop?” There’s an audible snort as a man in a zippered-up leather jacket takes a few steps forward, reaching out to grab the younger man by the hair, dragging him up to his feet. “You’re a right fuckin’ comedian, ain’t ya?” English tainted with the accent of Mandarin is spit across the young man’s brow, and behind this leathered-up thug is a much older, much thinner gentleman, watching in silence behind narrowed eyes.
…sure, I’ve made a few mistakes — everyone does…
“You’re late on your payment.” A full on punch is delivered right to the young man’s midsection, causing his jaws to open wide as he gags, a line of saliva slinging from his upper lip. The Chinese thug lets the young man’s hair go, sending him down onto his knees while he retches from the blow to his stomach. “Mister Ye does not like your lack of punctuality.”
…but I like to think that I can turn things around…
The older Chinese man standing behind the thug breathes in a slow, bothered breath, as if all of this is wasting precious moments of his time. Dark eyes settle on the young man as he spits blood into the snow, a waggling tendril of mucus mixed with blood dangling from his lower lip. “You got a week to come up with payment,” the man in the leather jacket demands, crouching down to tilt his head to one side, letting the dragon tattoo across the right side of his bald head shine in the dingy yellow light.
…that I can make something more of myself…
Nodding his head, it’s the most the young man can do, coughing up a horrible mixture of bile and blood as he slouches forward more, resting his brow against the snow, eyes closing slowly as he does. The thug in the jacket rises up to stand straight, dusting off his hands as he looks back over one shoulder to the old man. “Anything else, Sir?”
…that I can be somebody…
“No. I think my point has been made.” The old man nods curtly, as if giving some semblance of a polite farewell to the beaten and broken young man. “Come along Han,” one wrinkled hand rests on the leather jacket of the thug, “He knows his time is coming up.” A weak, croaking groan comes from the young man as he falls down onto his side in this snow, lower jaw trembling from the pain, only to have his brown eyes slowly open, ringed with vibrant crimson.
…and not fade away, and become nobody.
 February 17th: Welcome To The Hotel Staten Island |
This is the start of a Storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 February 17th: What Makes A Monster |