Cops n' Robbers: A Hololive Story

Roarin' 20's

Ahhh. The twenties. So far the best decade in history! Why? Cuz' nothin' is more fun than booze, women, money and a shit ton of .45 ACP cartridges being spewed out at 900 rounds per minutes down a 10 n' a half inch barrel.

Ma and Pa always made sure they gave me and my siblings a good enough life up until we hit the ripe age of 16. From there, we had to do stuff around the block or go work with Pa in the factory. Of course, we'd always try and weasel ourselves some money by doin' the former. Odd jobs for the neighbors or tellin' cops where a guy ran off to. When in reality, the dude was somewhere near us, hidden away like a camo'd lizard or some shit.

But, Ma and Pa always told us to stay away from those men. "They are bad men!" "You will be taken to jail for helping them!" So on and so forth. I mean, they had a point. Those guys were runnin' from the cops for a reason but, money is money. Especially since we always did it so we could have grub on the tabld. Thing was, Pa never liked that mindset. Always thought there was another way. If only that were the case for him.

Some fuckers beat Pa on his way home from work. Stole his money and if that wasn't enough, shot him in the head like some nay with a broken hoof. Ma and the others were cryin' Pa was gone. But me? Nah. I didn't shed a single fuckin' tear. With all that money left behind by Pa, I got myself a piece. Regular little 45 pistol. At first, I was shook to the bone like some kid who forgot their mittens during the winter. But then I remembered what happened. How people and the press described it.

"MAN ROBBED AND EXECUTED LIKE DOG"

"You hear about the man they killed? Took his money then shot the guy. Poor bastard..."

"They shot him like some sick nay! Un-fucking-believable."

Now, I knew what I wanted to do. And I knew WHO to do it to. See, thing about workin' on the streets against my ma and pa's will is that I listened to a lot. Knew that Misses Graham down the block was having an affair with the barber near the subway station. I knew that Old man Lorenzo had a bad case of the shakes and probably wouldn't make it. So color me surprised when my dad gets put down like some mutt after hear he owed Mister Hechoboh money for a loan.

Walking down the streets, in my leather jacket, wearing some denims, my shoes and a hat, I knew where to find him. That speakeasy hidden away in a laundry mat called "Soapbox Blues." Fucks had some twisted humor. Making my way after a small bribe, I found the bastard feelin' up a broad as she sat in his lap. Greasy haircut, low grade shave, cheap whiskey and suit? Bingo.

Walking up to him, he had his hand half way up the chick's shirt when he noticed me.

"Aye, kid! Get the fuck up on outta here."

"First off, I'm eighteen. Second, Mister (L/N) sends his regards."

The guy's eyes widened as he tried to get up but, the broad on his lap didn't help as I was first to pull out my piece. And much like dad, all it took was one tap. One tap was all that was heard as everyone began freaking out. Especially the chick as she nearly jumped out the basement level window. But I wasn't done. Not yet. Shooting off into his already gone body, I made sure that a closed funeral was in state.

As I went to pull the trigger more and more, bangs were replaced by low clicks as tears went down my face. But, little did I know life would change as a hand was placed on the the barrel of the gun. Lowering it down as I breathed like I ran a few blocks at full speed.

"Hey, kid. He's gone."

"Fucker gets what he deserved!"