WA 6 Final Draft

The four men have been waiting around the abandoned firehouse for over thirty minutes. The faded red bricks are chipped and covered with graffiti and the ground is strewn with old worn out tires and sewer pipes protruding from the ground. Anticipation hovers in the air. Would Slick Slithers even show up?
“Where is that creep? Are you sure he’s coming? I’ve got a bad feeling about this Ray. I’m thinking about heading on back to the station” rasps one the men nervously, an ill choice of words.
A shot pierces through the overcast morning in the East Baltimore projects. Officer Brown drops to the ground with an ominous thud. The ring shudders and fades away.
“Jesus, Ray! What was that for? He was just getting a little antsy” exclaims the detective.
“He was asking too many questions. We can’t have ANY questions, especially not directed at the head of the anti-drug branch of the Baltimore Police Department” replies Ray Lewis, “he was getting way to cheeky for my taste.”
Ray’s dark skin shimmers as he paces back and forth besides the firehouse. He reloads his black magnum. The only officer in uniform lags behind and scans his bleak surroundings. Ray Lewis’ white counterpart, Detective Jamaal Lewis, leans against the brick wall and exhales dark smoke into the air and mutters “I’m too old for this stuff.” He wipes the sweat off of his forehead with a rag. The January air is frigid.
Almost on cue, a black Escalade rolls around the corner and into the vacant lot adjacent to the firehouse. Out step two trench-coated, bulky and red-haired (probably Irish) tough guys. They open the back seat door and out of the smoky automobile appear the plump and dwarfish yet infamous drug lord Slick Slithers. His attire consists of a purple tux, Kanye West sunglasses, a gold tie and a white skull cap that loosely fits over his charcoal black dome. The three men stroll in a militant fashion towards Officer Lewis and Detective Lewis.
“We thought you guys would never show up” scowls Jamaal.
“Chill Homie… I’ll take my own damn time, but they say the Reaper waits for no man” shoots back Slithers as he looks Lewis up and down in an aggressive nod. An AK-47 is outlined inside the two body guards’ trench coat.
“Anyway, did you pigs get the memo ‘bout tonight?”
“It seems so” replies Ray, “cocaine is selling pretty well these days. Now we put our asses on line keeping the coast clear, how much of a profit are we getting?”
“How much do you deserve?”
“We say 40% of the cash and some ice for personal enjoyment” the Lewis’ reply in unison.
Slithers puffs smoke rings from his massive Cuban with confidence.
“I say: not a chance.”
All three men stiffen.
In a flash Jamaal and Lewis whip out their gats and blast slugs at their foes. The Irishman on the right’s head rolls onto the ground with a plop. Blood spurts into everyone’s eyes in a Monty Python-esc fashion. Shots ring out and cause a frenzy of organs flying and hands falling.
With a great din the firehouse combusts into flames as well as the policeman in the back. He runs to the back of the building and shrieks.
“CUT, CUT, CUT!” screams a young man with a beard, tight jeans, black t-shirt and Ray Bans. “This is a bloody mess! Where is the drama? I need more from you Sam!” His British accent seems legitimate.
“Im tired of these roles of villains and gangster’s” Samuel L. Jackson explains, putting on his spectacles. “Could we try a role more edifying?”
“And You,
“I’m getting the hell back to LA” Bruce Willis yells and tramps back to his trailer. The door slams shut.