Gregory adjusted his fedora and rapped loudly on the thick wooden door with the handle of his sludgehammer. He stepped back next to the four other large goons who accompanied him, all armed with axes and hammers. A slit in the door opened at eye level. 

"Card," demanded a gruff voice.

Gregory removed the cigar from between his teeth. "We ain't come here to dance." The other men snickered.

"Then leave," said the voice. 

"I don't think so," said Gregory as he swung the sledgehammer at the door, splintering the boards in the center. He took a second and a third swing at the hinges and the door fell inward with a dainty kick from his large boot. 

The cramped hallway inside was deserted and the five men stepped in, burly shoulders bumping. A dimly lit stairwell painted with murals of well-dressed couples descended into darkness and the men rushed down to encounter another equally thick door. 

Within seconds they were through. They gaped in awe of the cavernous room before them and the wild party in full swing. A jazz band jammed on a stage in front of dozens of couples dancing. Men and women dressed to the nines roared with laughter. Waitresses carried trays with large tin buckets. She handed them out to patrons who guzzled them greedily. 

"Under the powers vested in us through the Volstead Act you are all under arrest for violating the 18th Amendment," screamed Tommy, the ring leader.

No one took notice. 

A drunken flapper fell into Tommy, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Hello officer, care to dance?" 

Tommy threw her off with disdain and raised his voice. "Cut the music," he screamed. The band didn't even look up and continued playing with vigor.

"Ralph, Marty! Secure any other exits you can find," commanded Tommy. "Gregory, Bryce, come with me." Ralph and Marty began skirting the perimeter of the large nightclub. Tommy, Bryce and Gregory began wading towards the stage whacking at tables filled with guests with their axes and sledgehammers. Screams erupted in their wake, but the crowd as a whole seemed to take no notice. On the dance floor, Tommy ripped a tin bucket out of a dancer's hand, downed it in one gulp and punched its dumb-struck owner square in the face. He crumpled unconscious to the floor.

A few men began to try to block the police from getting onto the stage but were no match for the brutish axe-wielding officers.

Finally, they reached the band. Tommy stood over the piano player and leaned into his face. The man smiled back with a white toothy grin but kept playing. 

"We're shutting this speakeasy down for good," hissed Gregory, slapping handcuffs on the piano player, forcing his fingers off the keys. The band stopped playing.

Tommy downed another tin bucket filled with beer he lifted off the piano and held it in the air just as the room fell silent. "You are all under arrest," yelled Tommy. "Your beloved Bucket of Blood will close forever."