What do you think of this scene? Does it do it for you?

It was nearly three o'clock in the morning when James Frazier pulled his black 1985 Cadillac Seville into the Starlite motel parking lot. He put the car in neutral, sat back in his seat, and embraced the voice of Teddy Pendergrass singing "Love TKO". Taking the Holland Tunnel had been hell, especially on a December night like this.

Traveling from his nephew David's welcome home party had taken its toll. I'm getting too old for this shit he thought, putting out his cigarette. Though to be where he wanted to be he had to sacrifice. During the ride from Brooklyn he did a lot of thinking; on his life to be specific. He had lived a good life and helped people out when needed. So what if he killed a few guys in his sixty-three years of living.

I never clipped a guy who didn't deserve it he reassured his thoughts. Who was he kidding? He lived a dangerous life that was beginning to climax. Sincere, his brother's kid, was sitting in the seat he deserved, and he didn't have a son to carry on his legacy. James Frazier was just a corpse with a first-class ticket to the morgue. Before leaving, he wasn't going without a bang! You could bet your life on that.

Turning off the car, he got out with his gold-handled cane, slamming the door behind him. Before taking one more step, he pulled out his .45 beretta, took it off safety and tucked it back in his waistband. He continued shuffling, his cane one step ahead of him. Though 63, he still was weary of his surroundings, and kept his eyes trained for the unexpected. Reaching room 22, he lifted his cane to pound on the door twice.

Within seconds, Raymond Lynwood opened the door.

"How you fellas doing?" James asked, stepping inside the warm abode.

Crammed inside the room were three key men: Roland Grant; also known as Rallo, "Willie H" William Hilman, and Dwayne "Broadway" Mason. James wiped his black hush puppies on the welcome mat.

All the men greeted James with a sign of respect: shaking his hand, then cheek to check.