Rami Ungar The Writer

I mentioned earlier that I was in the middle of an editing process of a novel called Reborn City. Well, today I got back from something going on at my university, and I started editing. Just a few minutes ago, I finished editing the last chapter, concluding draft two of Reborn City!

I am really proud of my work on this novel. It took me two years to write, but barely two months to edit. Well, I guess only having to change parts I’m not satisfied with and there wasn’t a five-week break to go out of the country can help. Anyway, I’m very excited. I’m not sure yet if I want to put it through another round of edits–possibly with the help of a friend or family member–or send it write off to an agent. I’ll think about it and do some writing and editing of short stories in the meantime.

BUT…as a special treat to you all, I’m going to give you a little preview of Reborn City. To summarize, it’s the story of gangsters with supernatural powers.

And I’m not talking about Mafia gangsters, I’m talking about the types in rap music. I know I have no right as a white guy to write about this sort of topic (get the pun in there?), but I’ve done a lot of research, and I think I’ve captured gang life well enough to satisfy at least a few naysayers.

So without further ado, Reborn City:

Walkin’ down the street Rip whistled tunelessly to himself. The night was warm and the lamps were lit. Night had come early today. He could’ve sworn that it wasn’t supposed to get dark for another few hours. Then again, what the fuck did he care? For Rip, nighttime was his favorite time of day. The night was full of mystery and joys that you only had to go lookin’ for. During the day all a gangsta had to look forward to was death, the daily grind, and in Rip’s case, the constant, longing ache. The higher the sun, the greater the ache. Now that it was night, the ache was less. And for Rip that was just fuckin’ nice. If some white newsboy had told him that the world would get night forever and day would no longer come, Rip would’ve been the first to holla with joy.

            Well, maybe not holla; that wasn’t exactly Rip’s style.

            Suddenly, from around the corner, Rip heard someone scream, “Somebody help me!” Rip frowned and looked around the corner. They were far away, but Rip could make out three figures. Two of them he recognized from their green clothes as Diablos. The third was a girl, her fly open. From the way the knife was against her throat and one of the Diablos was holding her arms Rip guessed that they were gonna fuck her for some reason.

            Rip debated whether or not to get involved, then started walking towards them. What the hell, hadn’t he just been thinking about looking for some fun? Maybe this was just what the doctor had ordered. As he stepped into the lamplight he said softly, “What you mothas doing?”

            Both of the Diablos looked up from what they were doing and stared at Rip. The one with the knife, a fat ass with a pig face, stood up and pointed the knife at him. The girl they’d been planning to fuck fainted as soon as the knife was gone from her neck. The one holding her saw she’d fainted and threw her to the ground without a second thought.

            Though Rip didn’t know for sure if either of these fools were capable of having second thoughts. He knew these two, if not by name; idiots that acted tough when they knew they could get away with their dicks still on but fled when they knew they were gonna get their asses handed to ‘em on a plate.

            “What you want, Hydra?” said the fat one, looking scared for all his tough talk.

            “Bored.” Rip replied simply. Pussy-face, what does it look like? “Looking for somethin’ to do.”

            “Yeah?” said the skinny one, his voice cracking. Clearing his throat he said, “Well, you got somethin’. You packin’?”

            Rip gave a short little nod. The whole time his expression never changed from unfazed boredom.

            And maybe that made these two fuckers mad, because the next moment they were rushing at him, the fat one’s knife pointed straight ahead at Rip, the skinny one pulling a piece from his jacket. “You bastard!” yelled the fat one. “You ain’t got no heat!”

            Rip let them come, waiting for the perfect moment to move. When the fat one with the knife was close enough, Rip raised his arms and swung his fists. Out of his knuckles sprung eight long, neon blades, one to each knuckle. The blades on his right hand slashed the fat Diablos’ face and jugular. Rip watched lazily as the man fell over with a sickly death rattle and landed with a loud thud. Blood poured lazily out of his neck and into the gutter.

            The skinny Diablos with the gun pulled up and stared at his friend, then at Rip. The gun trembled in his hands, pointed somewhere to Rip’s left. “S-So the rumors were true…” whispered the skinny one. He shook his head suddenly and looked at Rip with pure loathing. “Die, motherfucker!” he yelled, pulling the trigger; the bullet zoomed passed Rip without so much as ruffling his hair.

            Rip strolled casually up to the skinny one. The guy was frozen stiff, the gun pointed at where Rip had been before. Rip brought up all eight of his claws and slashed through the barrel of the gun; the fragments fell to the floor with a loud clatter. The skinny man dropped what was left of his gun and stared at Rip, his whole body trembling. Rip noticed with some amusement that there was a dark stain spreading from the man’s crotch.

            Wolverine ain’t got shit on me. Rip thought with a devilish grin.

            Leaning in close to the bastard’s face, Rip whispered, “Run now ya pussy. ‘Fore I send ya to my master.”

            As if a switch had been thrown, the skinny one turned and ran, gibbering loudly as he did. Rip gave a small laugh. I did say I was packin’. he thought as his claws disappeared from the bases to the tips in a burst of sparks. ‘Just not the type they were expectin’.

Feel free to leave a comment and tell me what you think. I’d love to hear some feedback!