911 is a Joke!
folder
M through R › Reservoir Dogs
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
3,324
Reviews:
13
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
M through R › Reservoir Dogs
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
3,324
Reviews:
13
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Reservoir Dogs, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
911 is a Joke! (Chapter 1)
911 is a Joke
NGM
Characters:
Lawrence Dimick
Freddy Newendyke
Jim Holdaway
Vic Vega
Vincent Vega
Nice Guy Eddie Cabot
Joe Cabot
Mr.Pink (also known as Tommy, for the sake of the fic)
Mr.Brown (also known as Jimmy, for the sake of the fic)
Disclaimer - This story is a fan fiction based on the screenplay and film ‘Reservoir Dogs’, by Quentin Tarantino. Everything belongs to him. This fiction has no ok from ‘A Band Apart’, Quentin Tarantino, or Lawrence Bender. All rights reserved to them. I make no profit off this. Some dialogue is yanked directly from the text of the script, ala the soft cover screenplay.
The characters are placed in each scene as Quentin Tarantino describes in the screenplay, I suggest purchasing it at BarnesandNoble.com for added detail and stuff that was removed from the original script.
Again, all rights reserved. I only gain mental pleasure from this.
~*~*~*~
“Jim?”
“…Who the fuck is this?”
A pause.
“Freddy Newendyke.”
Another pause, at this moment, Freddy stuffed another mouthful of Capt’n Crunch into his mouth, wincing at the roof of his mouth got cut up, yet a-fucking-gain.
“You find him yet, Newendyke?”
Another pause, followed by a swallow.
“I’m lookin’ at him right now.”
He could hear the bridled anticipation in the other man’s tone.
“So what’s Mr.White’s real name?”
Dropping his spoon into the cereal bowl, once home to many a Capt’n Crunch, Freddy Newendyke, aka, Mr.Orange held up the picture of the man and smiled a little.
“Lawrence Dimick. D-I-M-I-C-K”
“Good work, Newendyke. We’ll see what we can find out about Mr.White’s ass…”
~*~*~*~
It took two rings before the young man could hear his cell ring over Sandy Roger’s country screeching, he flipped the large phone open, turning his baowarowards the windows in his room.
“Hello.”
“It’s showtime! Grab your jacket--”
Freddy glanced over his shoulder out of the window, an eyebrow arching—
“We’re parked outside.”
And so they were, in a muted silver Chevrolet, Eddie was apparently in the driver’s seat, which meant that this escapade was going to be a lesson in incessant babble and K-Billy’s Super Sounds of the Seventies, not that he minded too much.
“I’ll be right down.”
With that, he snapped his phone shut; pulled on his jacket, loaded, then boot-holstered his gun, dropping another in his jacket pocket, then grabbed his cigarettes, before shutting off the music and starting for the door. After another moment of hesitation, he turned his attention to the cluttered dining table, tipping over his change jar, fingers fumbling through the collection of dirty pennies, finally seeking out a gold ring, which he slipped onto his left ring finger. No one would notice, if they did, he and Holdaway had already discussed that little lie.
He paused again, before the door, catching his reflection in the mirror. He needed to prep, his stomach was knotted, this was exciting and frightening. This meant life for death, fame or failure. Today, he was on a mission to find out more about the job, his co-conspirators, and mostly, Dimick. Tha’d be fantastic.
Maybe he’d prove himself a little to everyone else that he had this all under control.
“…Don’t pussy out on me now. They don’t know. They don’t know shit.”
He paused, looking at himself, studying his own features for a moment. It’d been perfect, the introductory night, the commode story, Nice Guy, Joe, and White-- Larry, the guy’d been looking at him all night. Asking simple questions here or there but… it’d been odd. The vibes from him had been different, less questioning, more accepting… Very cool. Calm. Collected even. He needed to be more like this guy… Everyone needed to be.
“You’re not gonna get hurt. You’re fucking Baretta, and they believe every word, ‘cuz you’re super cool.”
With that, he grinned at handsome man in the mirror, and then turned on his heel, closing locking the door behind himself.
NGM
Characters:
Lawrence Dimick
Freddy Newendyke
Jim Holdaway
Vic Vega
Vincent Vega
Nice Guy Eddie Cabot
Joe Cabot
Mr.Pink (also known as Tommy, for the sake of the fic)
Mr.Brown (also known as Jimmy, for the sake of the fic)
Disclaimer - This story is a fan fiction based on the screenplay and film ‘Reservoir Dogs’, by Quentin Tarantino. Everything belongs to him. This fiction has no ok from ‘A Band Apart’, Quentin Tarantino, or Lawrence Bender. All rights reserved to them. I make no profit off this. Some dialogue is yanked directly from the text of the script, ala the soft cover screenplay.
The characters are placed in each scene as Quentin Tarantino describes in the screenplay, I suggest purchasing it at BarnesandNoble.com for added detail and stuff that was removed from the original script.
Again, all rights reserved. I only gain mental pleasure from this.
~*~*~*~
“Jim?”
“…Who the fuck is this?”
A pause.
“Freddy Newendyke.”
Another pause, at this moment, Freddy stuffed another mouthful of Capt’n Crunch into his mouth, wincing at the roof of his mouth got cut up, yet a-fucking-gain.
“You find him yet, Newendyke?”
Another pause, followed by a swallow.
“I’m lookin’ at him right now.”
He could hear the bridled anticipation in the other man’s tone.
“So what’s Mr.White’s real name?”
Dropping his spoon into the cereal bowl, once home to many a Capt’n Crunch, Freddy Newendyke, aka, Mr.Orange held up the picture of the man and smiled a little.
“Lawrence Dimick. D-I-M-I-C-K”
“Good work, Newendyke. We’ll see what we can find out about Mr.White’s ass…”
~*~*~*~
It took two rings before the young man could hear his cell ring over Sandy Roger’s country screeching, he flipped the large phone open, turning his baowarowards the windows in his room.
“Hello.”
“It’s showtime! Grab your jacket--”
Freddy glanced over his shoulder out of the window, an eyebrow arching—
“We’re parked outside.”
And so they were, in a muted silver Chevrolet, Eddie was apparently in the driver’s seat, which meant that this escapade was going to be a lesson in incessant babble and K-Billy’s Super Sounds of the Seventies, not that he minded too much.
“I’ll be right down.”
With that, he snapped his phone shut; pulled on his jacket, loaded, then boot-holstered his gun, dropping another in his jacket pocket, then grabbed his cigarettes, before shutting off the music and starting for the door. After another moment of hesitation, he turned his attention to the cluttered dining table, tipping over his change jar, fingers fumbling through the collection of dirty pennies, finally seeking out a gold ring, which he slipped onto his left ring finger. No one would notice, if they did, he and Holdaway had already discussed that little lie.
He paused again, before the door, catching his reflection in the mirror. He needed to prep, his stomach was knotted, this was exciting and frightening. This meant life for death, fame or failure. Today, he was on a mission to find out more about the job, his co-conspirators, and mostly, Dimick. Tha’d be fantastic.
Maybe he’d prove himself a little to everyone else that he had this all under control.
“…Don’t pussy out on me now. They don’t know. They don’t know shit.”
He paused, looking at himself, studying his own features for a moment. It’d been perfect, the introductory night, the commode story, Nice Guy, Joe, and White-- Larry, the guy’d been looking at him all night. Asking simple questions here or there but… it’d been odd. The vibes from him had been different, less questioning, more accepting… Very cool. Calm. Collected even. He needed to be more like this guy… Everyone needed to be.
“You’re not gonna get hurt. You’re fucking Baretta, and they believe every word, ‘cuz you’re super cool.”
With that, he grinned at handsome man in the mirror, and then turned on his heel, closing locking the door behind himself.