Byrd Man

All-Star Marvel: Age of Heroes

Part 1

Sister of Mercy

Harlem
1:31 PM

It took Anton Morrison nearly a half hour to get through the tears and tell me his sob story. The long and short if it plays like this: Anton and his girl hooked up with some so-called dealers who had a coke connection. The plan was to buy two kilos of blow and then turn it around and sell it to local dealers marked up. He and his girl scrounged up whatever money they had between them for the cost of the two keys. On top of that Anton stole ten grand from the funeral home he works at to get to the sixty g's they needed for the blow. It was all going according to plan until a police busted in and started shooting. Anton hit the deck and got smacked in the back of the head. When he came to, the girl, blow, and cash were all gone. He wants me to track down all three for twenty percent of that sixty grand.

I agreed to take the job and sent Anton back to my crib to chill and lay low from the cops or whoever may be looking for him. He was watching TV and eating a pastrami sandwich when I headed out. The whole situation stunk like the dumpster behind a deli. Little miss hot to trot whispers sweet nothings into Anton's ear about dope deals and getting flush with cash, she makes all the connections and the deals, knows all the names and the people so when it goes bad he's left holding nothing but his dick. Anton may be too blinded by the girl to see the truth of the matter, but my clear eyes could see that brother was getting played like a fiddle. The only way to catch a hustler is to use another hustler.

"GIVE TO THA LAWD!"

That's why I'm here at the corner Lennox and 131st street, watching the good ole Sister Mercy do her thing. Sister Mercy has been working the corners for nearly twenty years now, dressed in her black nun habit and ringing that bell while she shouts about fire and brimstone and the only way to heaven is to give to the lawd.

"'For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evils' First Timothy 6:10, people. GIVE TO THA LAWD!"

You wouldn't think it by looking at her, but the sister is without a doubt the best street hustler of all the would be conmen and scammers operating out on the streets. It doesn't hurt that she has a dynamite racket. It takes real balls to impersonate a nun, and boy does she have balls alright. The truth is that sister is a brother, name of Jackson Coleman. Jackson was a former B&E man who hit the right racket to feed his drug addiction. I knew him back before I went to jail. We got back in touch after I came home and he helps me out on stuff for a price. A cross-dressing junkie nun who cons people with a bell and the bible. Where else but Harlem?

"Say, Sister Mercy," I said as I palmed two twenties and shook the good sister's hand. "What do you know good?"

"'Blessed are they who observe justice, who do righteousness at all times', Psalm 106:3," he said loud enough for the pedestrians passing by to hear before whispering. "Luke Cage, my man. What's up? GIVE TO THE LAWD, PEOPLE."

"Wondering if you had your ear to the ground on something, Sister. Looking for a group of hustlers working in Harlem. It'd be at least two guys and a girl. They took a civilian for nearly sixty grand on a Snow Job."

Sister Mercy let out a low and soft whistle before returning back to the work of yelling about damnation and monetary salvation. He thanked a passerby as they tossed a dollar into the bucket at his feet. After a few moments of thought, he finally shook his head.

"Been quiet the last few weeks around Harlem, far as any action is concerned. I did hear word getting around about counterfeiters. Raising notes and stuff like that. You ever heard of that old scam, the Blow?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Before your time, Cage. Hell, before my time. The idea is that you convince a sucker you can raise his money, turn his tens into hundreds. You get him to give you all of his money in tens, and then something happens... say, a Secret Service agent busts through the door, and starts shooting. Your instinct is to haul ass and you do. In the process you lose the money to this fake-ass agent with a plastic badge."

"You just described what happened to my client. Sister, I could kiss you."

"'But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart,' Matthew 5:28, brother. Repent and GIVE TO THA LAWD!"

Ultimate DC: Shadows Among Us

Okay. Constantine was one of the characters on my short list, I played him super briefly in the game before the Guild collapsed. It's still another big maybe with the others, though.

Ultimate DC: Shadows Among Us

Are you still going to allow competing apps?

Ultimate DC: Shadows Among Us

It says Constantine is taken. Who was playing him in the last incarnation of the game?

Ultimate DC: Shadows Among Us

Gowi said
I will take a maybe over a hard no; you're crime fiction was brilliant and I have written nothing about Bradley in Gotham so you're free to do a lot; and if anything conflicts I can most certainly wipe anything you need me to. Have you considered other avenues as well (Martian Manhunter, The Question, etc.)? I really would like to have you return as I feel I still can learn a lot from reading the stories you make and well I definitely could use the manpower.

Thanks for the compliment. I'll consider something else, but if I do return as Slam it'd be the same backstory as before.

Ultimate DC: Shadows Among Us

I don't know, put me down as a maybe? I was having a lot of fucking fun with Slam Bradley before it all got wiped away.

All-Star Marvel: Age of Heroes

Prologue
Harlem Shakedown

Harlem
4:24 AM


Anton Morrison hadn't felt this alive in years. His heart pounded in his chest and the adrenaline coursing through his veins made his teeth chatter. He walked at a herky-jerky pace down the sidewalk towards 120th Street's collection of rowhouses with his woman. It was chilly that night and he wore a leather jacket, but he was sweating through the chill. Anton wiped his forehead and felt Isabelle's soft hand on his.

"It's gonna be alright, daddy," she said reassuringly.

She knew how much he loved it when she called him daddy. Just her touch and few words put his mind at ease. Good God, did he love that woman. Isabelle was the type of woman Anton never thought he could get. Sophisticated, well-read, and beautiful. Was she ever beautiful. They'd been together for a few months now and Anton still couldn't figure out how he managed to get her. He remembered her asking him something one night at the club. He replied and saw her smile... that smile that made him feel warm inside. After that it was nothing but a blur.

Isabelle was cultured, the type of woman Anton couldn't afford on his meager salary working for Mr. Davis. She needed the finer things in life. She had to have them, Anton thought, or she would leave him for someone who could give her what he wanted. There were lots of brothers in the neighborhood who were caught up in the Game and had fat pockets. Anton had always been a square, never even getting close to anything stronger than a joint. His mamma worked hard to keep him off the corner and out from slinging. For twenty-nine years her hard work had been a success. Tonight was the night that all ended.

"Who is it?" a voice asked after Anton banged on the front door of one of the houses.

"Morrison..."

"I don't know no Morrison," the voice said. "You best get outta here before I mess you up."

"It's Anton," he said louder. "We spoke on the phone about that package. C'mon, man."

"Calvin," Isabelle said with a sharp tone. "It's me, Izzy. Open the damn door up, boy."

A few seconds later the heavy door of the rowhouse opened up and squeaked on its rusty hinges. A fat, light-skinned black man in a greasy tanktop and boxers stared at Anton and Isabelle before stepping aside to let them come into the house. Once they were in he locked the door with a heavy deadbolt. Calvin looked at the two lovers with indifference before shuffling through the house towards a sofa.

"Go on back. They waiting on you."

Isabelle led Anton through the cluttered rowhouse towards the very back of the house. In the kitchen a dark-skinned and muscle bound man with sunglasses and a do-rag watched them enter. On a card table in front of him were two bricks of white powder.

"There's my man," he said with a giggle. "Tony Montana himself. What's good, man?"

Anton shrugged sheepishly and shook his head.

"Just looking to get that package, man... like we talked about?"

"For sure," the man at the table said with a wide grin. "Just, gotta pay before you can play. Let's see what you brought."

Anton reached into his leather jacket and pulled out the manila envelope stuffed with cash. It had sixty grand, his entire life savings plus a little something extra he borrowed from his boss. Well, borrow wasn't the right word. Borrow always implied there was consent from both parties to the borrowing. Anton more or less stole the ten thousand dollars. Getting involved in a coke deal was Isabelle's idea. The plan was that Anton buy two keys wholesale and cut them up before reselling them to a few of the dealers around the neighborhood. With markup and his cut from the slingers he could easily net eighty thousand. Isabelle said she did it because she wanted the best for Anton, she wanted him to have the cash that would keep him happy. She knew all the right people, made all the calls and the introductions. She did the easy work, Anton though. He had to scrape the money together.

"Here it is," Anton said as he passed the envelope over.

The man at the table scrutinized the money and counted it, his lips moving as he counted the six hundred one hundred dollar bills. When he was satisfied he pushed the two keys across the table towards Anton.

"And here it is," he said with a giggle. "How's it feel to be in the Game, player?"

Anton was about to respond that it felt pretty damn good. What stopped him was the loud bang from the front room. Calvin's loud cursing could be heard on the other side of the house, followed by more bangs and yells. Anton's blood went cold when he saw the black man in a kevlar vest and pistol round the corner. The vest had NYPD stamped on it, a badge dangled from a chain around his neck.

"NYPD! GET THE FUCK ON THE GROUND!"

Anton was about to comply when the man at the table cursed and flipped the table up unto the air. Shots rang out from the cop's gun and Anton hit the deck. On the way to the ground the metal folding chair the dealer had been sitting on hit him square in the head. His head took further damage when it smacked against the tile floor of the kitchen. Groggy, he heard more shouts and gunshots and footsteps that got louder before they receded and disappeared all together. It was several minutes before he got the cobwebs out of his mind. Anton stood up and felt the small cut on his forehead while he looked around the kitchen.

The table was flipped along with the chair. The cop, the dealer, and Isabelle were all gone. Anton nursed his head and looked for the coke or, more importantly, his money. Neither were around. His heart raced even faster when he went through the house and couldn't find fat Calvin. All four of them were gone... along with the coke and his money....

*****


Ray's Social Club
Harlem
11:32 AM


They call it Ray's Social Club to make it not sound like the low-rent bar it is. Still, they make a mean hamburger. The lack of hamburgers was one of the many things I hated about prison. They had burgers every so often as a treat, but a prison burger was about as tasty as you might imagine it would be. Burgers and women were two things I got denied after ten years in the joint, and I've managed to get ready access to both in the year I've been home.

One of the few good things about prison though were the books. I hated reading before I went in, but with nothing to do in there but lift weights and read I managed to make a habit of both. I figure I had to be the strongest man alive who could quote Proust. At Ray's that day my meal was a crunchy burger with all the fixings and a paperback copy of A Rage in Harlem by Chester Himes. I like Himes' work since it seems the black crime writers are few and far between, and he was one of the best regardless of skin color. Twenty pages and half the burger went by before I even noticed the man sitting next to me at the bar. He was a straightjohn if I ever saw one. Looked to be on the backside of twenty with a sizeable gut and a plaid shirt. He had watery doe eyes that looked to be on the verge of tears.

"You been watching me this whole time, homie?" I asked after a bite of my burger.

"Yes, sir, Mister Cage... I just... I don't know how to do this."

"If you trying to pick me up, homie, I gotta say I'm not interested."

"No... I mean... I wanna hire you. You the Hero for Hire, right?"

"That's me," I said as I dog-eared the page of my book and tucked it into my coat. "What is it you need from me?"

"It's just..."

His battle with keeping the tears back soon became a losing one. I let him sob himself out for a few minutes and went back to my food. He blew into a napkin I had passed him and sighed.

"Sorry about that... It's just, I need your help. They ran off with my girl, my money, and my dope."

The word dope had me keyed. This man who looked liked as square as a right angle was bringing up drugs. Stolen drugs. On top of that there was something about a girl and money. Had this been any other day I might have told him to take it somewhere else, but I hadn't had a job in nearly two weeks. Even though I swore I wouldn't do it, I let curiosity get the better of me.

"Tell me what happened. I'm listening."


Luke Cage
Hero for Hire

IN

The Brother and the Shill

Saloon City -- A Rural Noir RP

"My daddy used to be a butcher,"

Ernest "Coochiebug" Waters didn't look like you'd imagine him to look, given if you knew his reputation. He was only 5'5 and had gray hair cut short. He always wore a cheap, dark colored suit, and a straw boater. Large glasses on his face magnified his eyes to where they looked giant and insect-like. If he were in the city someone would assume he was a bank teller or an insurance salesman. He wasn't either of those things. The fact of the matter was that the man with the unassuming appearance and the silly name was without a doubt the most dangerous man in Pickett County. James Andrews learned that the hard way back in '08, when he tried to come at Coochiebug with a knife. Two shots from Coochiebug's derringer later and James was flat on his back, a few extra holes in his head.

Now he held court in the backroom of his feed store with Luke Norman listening intently. Like Mark and Luke's general store out in the country, Water's Feed & Seed was a poorly run feed store, but a very well run and profitable bootlegging business. Every white man from the city, county, and the nearby counties came to Coochiebug's for a taste of the good stuff. If a 'shiner got in good with him then they were set. If they fell out of favor or tried to cheat him, then they ended up like James Andrews all those years ago.

"Before my daddy was a butcher, he was a farmer who went off to fight in the War--" he held up a finger before continuing. "Not that goddamn war your brother fought in, but the War. He was part of General Hampton's Legion, served at Second Manassas, Gettysburg, the Wilderness, even at the end when that son of a bitch Lee surrendered. The War is why he came back to Pickett and became a butcher. All that carnage, all that mayhem and bloodletting... it did something to him. I guess when you've seen your friends and neighbors butchered like animals, what the fuck difference does it make to do it to a hog?"

A long silence fell between the two men for several seconds before Luke cleared his throat.

"So... about our 'shine?"

"It's good," Choochiebug said as he snapped back to the present. "Real good. You got, what? A dozen jugs out of a batch?"

"Baker's dozen, sir. Thirteen."

The old man grunted and stared off into space for a few seconds before replying.

"I want ten gallon jugs worth every three days. I'll pay three dollars a jug--"

"That's all?"

"That's all. It's pisswater, son. It's good pisswater to be sure, but it's still pisswater. You can take my deal, or try to compete with me. But I warn you, son, that if you do compete with me then what my daddy saw in the War will look like a goddamn picnic compared to what I'll do to you and your brother. Fuckin' Normans. We got a deal?"

"Yeah, we got a deal."

--

Luke walked out of Water's Feed & Seed light the thirteen jugs of hooch, but thirty-six dollars richer. It wasn't much, but it covered the cost of the still and the other expenses. Luke could always lie to Mark, tell him that old bastard only would give 'em two dollars a jug and pocket thirteen dollars, but no way he could get away with it. Mark would know. Somehow, he always knew. Regardless of the money Luke felt good when he walked off the steps of the store and down the compact dirt road of the town of Pickett. The courthouse was just up the road. He thought about dropping in to see his uncle, but he decided against it on the off chance John might be in the office. He had no desire to see him ever again.

Instead, Luke got something worse than his brother and uncle combined. Driving towards him in a car almost as rundown and shabby as his own truck was Jacky Avett.

All-Star Marvel: Age of Heroes

You had a great app as well. Thanks for the approval, EE. Added my CS to the depository thread.

The All-Star Marvel Character Repository:

Player Name: Byrd Man

Character You Wish To Play: Matt Murdock/Daredevil

Moral Alignment: Hero

Affiliation: The Campisi Crime Family as well as various criminals and mobsters in New York.

Character Origin & Backstory:

Matt Murdock was born in the early 80's, son of Maggie Murdock and heavyweight boxer "Battlin'" Jack Murdock. Jack was an up and coming contender in the boxing scene with an outside chance at the title. He became enamored with the trappings of success, doing drugs and partying until late hours of the night. Maggie left Jack when Matt was three and never looked back. Matt's early impression of Maggie as a devoutly catholic woman who couldn't stand Jack's ways caused Matt to idolize his mother and condemn his father.

When Matt was eleven Jack had a shot for the heavyweight title of the world. The day before the fight mob figure Roscoe "The Fixer" Sweeney offered Jack a chance to take a dive. Strapped for cash and filled with the Fixer's promises, Jack took the dive in the sixth round and retired from boxing the next night. He soon opened up "Jack's Place" a tavern in Hell's Kitchen bought with Fixer's money to be used as a mob front. Matt saw his father's ties to organized crime figures tighten and began to hate the man. He ran away from home at the age of twelve and ended up an accident when a chemical truck nearly hit him and instead splashed toxic waste in his face.

The accident took his sight but it also gave him more. It heightened his other four senses to the point of superhuman and gave him a radar sense that negated any disabilities a lack of vision gave him. Jack felt guilt over driving his son away used his money to pay for anything the boy needed or wanted, including a tutor named Stick. The old blind man was hired to teach Matt to adjust to his blindness, but Stick taught him how to thrive. He recognized the hate and yearning in the boy, the passionate need to be better than his father. Stick channeled those feelings into training. He showed Matt how to live and operate in the world as if he were any other person, and he also taught Matt the secret skills of martial arts and Ninjutsu.

Matt went to Columbia University after high school to major in pre-law. The excuse he gave his father and the rest of the world was that he wanted to become a defense attorney. While it was true, it was also part of a much larger plan he had worked out with Stick. During Matt's time at college Jack began to work more and more for the Fixer's bosses with the Campisi Crime Family. Jack's Place began to be used as part of a large mob scheme to flood all of New York City with new and improved heroin from Asia. A DEA snitch fingered Jack as a dealer and he was brought into custody. He agreed to roll on those above him, but before he could an unknown assassin dressed as a police officer slit his throat with a razor-edged playing card while Jack was in police custody.

Matt graduated from law school first in his class just six months after his father's murder. Angelo Campisi, head of the crime family Jack worked for, took pity on the young man and threw some low-level defense cases his way. After Matt got the defendants off, Campisi began to use his legal services more and more. Before long he relied on Matt's legal advice on nearly all matters both large and small. Matt was made an unofficial consigliere of the Campisi Crime Family. Word began to get around New York and Matt Murdock was hired by other gangsters to defend them. All the media outlets in the city say Matt Murdock is the dirtiest lawyer in New York, if not the country. They say he manipulates the law to get his guilty clients acquitted. That's what the media says. By day the most amoral man in New York learns all the dirty little secrets of the mob as their adviser. By night, he becomes the thing they fear the most.

He becomes the Devil.

Powers and Abilities

Matt is blind, but his other four senses have been augmented to superhuman levels. The senses work together to create a radar sense that makes up for his lack of vision. The heightened senses also makes him into a human lie detector, capable of reading anybody's pulse or any small micro changes in their biology when they lie. Stick's training also turned Matt into a master acrobat and martial artist skilled in the art of Ninjutsu. Matt also has one of the best legal minds in the country, an expert on the American justice system that makes him a competent and formidable trial lawyer and legal adviser. His intelligence and experience in criminal law has also led to Matt developing a keen detective mind.

Sample Post

Murdock Law Firm
Midtown
9:45 AM

"'If Justice personified is blind, then Injustice personified most certainly is. That personification is a blind man. This blind man sits by the phone day and night, waiting for the call from some of the city's most dangerous and corrupt individuals. He talks about the lofty ideals and notions of justice in the courtroom, but one look at the last name on his client's list -- Campisi, Manfredi, De La Rosa, Blackwood -- and you know that Matt Murdock's talk is just that.' It goes on and on like that for another two pages. Bunch of talk about the mistrial with De La Rosa, then the stuff about the Crusaders... and then a last saying you should be disbarred."

"So, usual Daily Bugle boilerplate," I said to Karen. "Remind me to sue them for libel when I get the chance."

"Yes, sir."

That paper has attacked me so much over the past year that I could barely notice Karen's pulse rise anymore when she reads their editorials. They're not the only place that likes to attack me. Papers, websites, TV stations, even other lawyers and politicians all have an anti-Murdock stance. At least those not in the pocket of my clients.

"That's all, Karen, you can go."

Karen Paige, a paralegal and my only staff member quickly and quietly left the room while I leaned back in my chair. My office is on the fortieth floor of an impressive Midtown skyscraper. They say it has one hell of a view of Lower Manhattan. Guess I'll take their word for it. Someone once asked why I paid so much for the corner office with the view when I could have gotten another office building on the same floor without a view for a hundred thousand dollars cheaper. I didn't dignify them with a response. In this business, both of what I do on the books and off of them, you show strength by your decisions. A blind man wasting a hundred grand on a view he'll never see is part of my strength. I bought the office because I could.

Syosset, New York
6 PM

"Matt, my boy," Don Campisi said cheerfully.

His old and withered hands felt like sandpaper scrapping against the skin of my hands. He patted the back of my hand and put the other hand on my elbow to guide me across the lawn. He thought of it as a favor, but I could get around the yard better than he could.

"I'm so glad you made it out," he said once we were both sitting in lawn chairs. "I know it's a hell of a drive out of the city, especially for you."

"Well, I didn't hear any moaning under the car when I stopped, so I guess I did alright."

Campisi laughed at my joke before moving on to small talk. He had to tell me all about his kids that I didn't care about. I nodded at the right times and said the right things. After about ten minutes he finally got down to it.

"I want you advice on something. You know Joey Bags? Works with that crew out in Red Hook? He and Paulie came to me a few nights ago with an idea on a score. Those fucking biker pricks you repped last year, what were they?"

"The Crusaders."

"Yeah, them. They got a club over in Bensonhurst. Joey Bags and Paulie are gonna have a sit down with them tonight. They want to use these Cruasder fucks to mule coke and dope across the country. They're always going on these cross country rides to Piss-ant, Florida or somewheres out in California. They don't go on the interstate, and they can make drops and deliveries to our people in Miami, Kansas City, or wherever. Instead of a fucking pick-up truck carrying two hundred pounds, fifty bikers carrying six pounds a piece make drops over the course of a week. "

My mob lawyer hat was on. I needed to play through the motions to get what I wanted at the end.

"Could be risk involved. One of these bikers could try to rip you off, get a wild hair up his ass and decide to rip off you and his club."

"He does that he's dead," Campisi said coolly. "And not just by our people. His own people. Those biker fucks, they don't play around if you betray them."

I knew that all too well. I represented their president on a murder charge last year. One of their members was talking to the ATF. He suddenly had an accident that cut his tongue out forced it down his own throat, or at least that's what I made the jury believe.

"I think it'll work," I said with a nod. "I'm just hurt and offended I wasn't consulted on this. Blackwood is my client, after all."

"It's Paulie's show, you know he is with you. Thinks cause you're a mick you can't be trusted."

I didn't say it, but I thought that maybe Paulie was on to something. Maybe he was the only member of the Campisi Family with a bit of sense.

St. Patrick's Cathedral
Manhattan
11:20 PM

I had twenty grand in my jacket pocket when I went in St. Patrick's. The twenty grand was my cut on the deal with the Crusaders, as well as my retainer for doing the don's legal work. Going into churches always made me think about my mother. Maggie Murdock was like a ghost. I had no idea where she was, and I often wondered what she was doing if she were still alive. I thought many times over the years about hiring a PI to track her down, but always thought better of it.

The twenty grand in my jacket didn't feel that big, just two hundred one hundred dollar bills. The cash felt light enough when I took them out of my jacket and stuck them in the poor box. They say all the good Catholics tithe ten percent. I had to be a great one, I tithed a hundred percent. Before I left I asked a priest to light a candle for my mother.
Maybe it was good to never meet her. That way she could be that devout catholic woman I knew all those years ago. She could never be corrupted like my dad was. She was frozen in time as a good woman. I made a final prayer and prepared myself to go to work.

Red Hook, Brooklyn
2:14 AM

"We don't fuck with drugs," Arthur Blackwood, president of the Crusaders Motorcycle Club, said with a scowl. "No selling at all. Why the hell should we stick out neck out for you? Because you say you'll pay?"

The two mobsters looked at each other. Paulie D'agistino, the underboss of the Campisi Crime Family, rubbed his chin while Joseph Baggato "Joey Bags" stuck his hands in his pants pockets and shrugged.

"That," Joey Bags started. "And, we both know your club is going under. The days of the outlaw biker gang ain't what they used to be. You're hurting for money, the ATF busts your balls day and night about that little weapons trafficking business you got. Fact of the matter is you need this. Say yes."

Blackwood looked behind him, where three of his fellow bikers sat parked on their motorcyles in the back alley lot. Blackwood shuffled his feet and exhaled before finally nodding.

"Fine," he said. "When do you want to get started?"

"I'm surprised in you, Mister Blackwood," a voice echoed around them.

Paulie and Joey pulled pistols from their waistbands at almost the same time the Crusaders did. The two sides looked across the lot for any indication of the voice's owner.

"The hell was that?" Paulie asked, looking at Blackwood. "You trying to pull something on me?"

"Me? What about you?! You're a goddamn informant or something?!"

"Excuse me," the voice continued. "I was talking here. So rude. As I was saying, I'm surprised, Blackwood."

Out of the shadows, a red blur slammed into Joey Bags and knocked him to the ground. Both sides opened fire, Blackwood fell to the ground as bullets fired above him. The figure jumped away before the bullets could reach it. The figure swung back into the shadows and up onto the roof of the warehouse.

"I thought you were on parole," the figure said, coming into the halogen lights of the parking lot. It was the devil... or a man dressed like it. "You certainly don't look reformed to me..."

The devil man jumped from his spot and dove into the middle of the Crusaders taking them on with a pair of sticks at close range.