Byrd Man

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Vancouver

Hank Kelly stared down into his cup of coffee and tried to ignore the sounds from the next room. The thumps and groans penetrated through the concrete wall and filled the small room where Hank kept his makeshift office. The building Operation Cruiser used as operational headquarters was an old slaughterhouse that had been closed since before the war. Fittingly, the interrogation room next door had been the slaughterhouse's killing floor.

"Hank..."

He looked up and saw Patrick Connelly standing in the doorway leading into the interrogation room. Pat had a serious look on his face and the cigarette between his index and middle fingers was dangerously close to burning both fingers as it burned down to the butt.

"I think he's ready to talk. Come on in."

Hank took a deep breath and polished off his lukewarm coffee. He flipped a switch on his desk that turned on the microphones in the next room. CIA, DoD, and who the hell ever was involved in this op wanted to hear whatever came next. Hank took another deep breath and sighed. He had to steel himself for what awaited him inside. He was an analyst, a desk jockey through and through. He read and wrote reports on everything from the production of rice in China to the criminal structure of the organized crime syndicates in France. There was a sense of detachment to his work. It was more academic than applicable. Pat had no such luxury. He did legwork for CIA and saw the brutal truths of the job firsthand. Pat had no problem keeping his composure in the interrogation room, but Hank wasn't sure of himself.

They went inside the long, dim room with a single naked lightbulb serving as the sole source of light. Master Sergeant Silas Crystal and two of his Green Berets stood close to a metal chair bolted to the concrete floor. A bloody and beaten man sat on the chair strapped with down with leather belts. A metal tub of water sat next to the chair. Hank noticed drops of blood on the floor leading towards the tub. He also noticed the beaten man's wet head and the black gloves Crystal wore. They were weighted with lead in the knuckles and palms. Sap gloves, they were called, and they were used to issue beatings.

"Reg," Pat said to the beaten man, slapping him gently to wake him up. "Reg, my man. You need to wake up and talk."

Reg Boland, the bloody mess in front of Hank, broke out into a fit of coughing. A broken molar came out of his mouth and clattered on the floor. Boland looked up at Hank with swollen eyes that seemed to look through him more than they looked at him.

"We need to know about the Friends of Northwest Sovereignty, Reg. They're getting equipment from somewhere. We need to know how they're getting it, who they are, and how to find them."

Boland started to say something but stopped when he saw Crystal approaching with his sap gloves. The beaten man flinched and quickly looked down at the floor. Blood dripped from his open mouth and spilled onto the floor in drips and drops.

"I been smuggling them weapons," Boland finally said. "I come out from Canada, head across the DMZ where protection is the thinnest, and meet them outside Vancouver."

"What kind of weapons?" Pat asked.

"Pistols and shotguns and rifles. Mostly I give them explosives, pounds and pounds of TNT and plastic explosives."

"How long has this been going on?" Hank asked.

"A month or so. I... I'm not sure, but I think they had a guy giving them shit before me. An Army guy working out the base in Vancouver."

Hank and Crystal exchanged looks. Crystal's A-Team heard scuttlebutt at Fort Dixon about an ordnance sergeant that went AWOL and was found dead by the territorial police a few weeks later. The territorial police and the FCB were looking into the murder. They were pretty damn close to finding out the truth, too. Their kidnapping of Boland managed to beat a police arrest raid by just a few minutes. The cops, just like the spooks, were in the dark.

"Can I have a cigarette? Boland asked.

"Soon as you answer my question," Hank said. "Who all is part of the Friends, Reg? Give me some names, please."

"I just know them by their first names," he said with a shrug. "And only two guys I've met so far. Guy name Alex and one named Arthur. Alex runs the show, Arthur seems like some kind of geek. He's always inspecting the explosives before I hand them off."

"What do they look like?" Pat asked as he started to pull a cigarette out for Boland.

Boland shrugged in his chair. He regretted the decision immediately and winced in pain at some injury. "They're young guys. White with dark hair. I couldn't pick 'em out of a crowd. Their just average, boring looking guys."

Pat put a cigarette in Boland's mouth and lit it up for him.

"How young we talking?" Pat asked while Boland inhaled the cigarette smoke.

"College kids," Boland said, expelling smoke from his mouth as he spoke. "The boy Alex wore an army field jacket with a button on it that said 'NWC or Die.' That's some A-1 college radical bullshit."

Hank made a mental note. Alex and Arthur, college kids with potential backgrounds in science and electronics. One of them had to know something to rig the raw explosives up into a bomb. He'd start combing the roles of local universities as soon as they were done here.

"Let's talk about the Canadian connection," Hank said. "Where do you get your stuff from on the other side of the border."

Boland shook his head so vigorously his cigarette threatened to fly out. For the first time since Hank came in the room, Boland's eyes were showing emotion. They showed fear.

"No, I can't..."

Crystal stepped up and hit Boland with an open-hand slap. The gloves added to the slap and whipped Boland's head back. The cigarette, along with blood, went flying across the room. Hank turned his head to keep from watching as the sergeant let into Boland with a few more blows.

"Alright!" Boland finally screamed, on the point of breaking down. "I'll tell... It's some guy named Jones, okay? A big fucking guy with blonde hair. Most times I meet him across the border, he gives me the shit and I smuggle it back. Please, that's all I know I swear."

"Most times?" Hank asked after his stomach settled.

"One time he made the run himself, okay? I went to meet him, but he told me to piss off. What he was delivering was too fucking important for me to fuck up."

Hank saw the rest of the men in the room start to stir with interest. They, like him, wondered what in god's name could be worse than guns and bombs.

"What was it?" asked Pat.

"I dunno, I swear. All I saw was a crate with that weird ass symbol they use when something's poison."

"The biohazard sign," said Hank. "Is that it, Reg?"

"That's it. It was a small crate, but whatever it was was bad."

"Shit," Pat said, taking the words from Hank's mouth. "Shit, shit, shit... I think these fuckers have got their hands on some heavy duty shit."

"Reg," Hank said in a reassuring tone. "We need to know how to find them right now."

-----

Cascadia Territorial Police Force Headquarters
Vancouver

Inspector Mark Echols sat at his desk and played the scene over again. A joint CTPF/FCB raid ended up with jack shit thanks to persons unknown. Reg Boland, their target, had absconded minutes before they arrived and was in the wind. That pissed off everyone taking part in the raid, Echols included, but something else gnawed at him. He'd thought he saw a ghost from the past on the streets of Vancouver. The man walking down the street near the raid looked just like... him. Echols was brought back to that night a few years ago when his world was on fire and coming down around his ears.

"Echols," Special Agent Byran Simpson said as he came into the office. "Echols?"

Echols looked up from his desk at the FCB man who served as his partner. Simpson's eyebrows were raised as he looked at Echols curiously. "You okay?"

"Bryan, I saw something when we tried to find Boland... someone I thought I'd never see again."

"Who?"

"A US Special Forces solider," said Echols.

Simpson started to protest, but Echols cut him off with a look.

"A man I saw on the street just a block away from where Boland was supposed to be was a dead match for a man I once knew. He was a Green Beret back during the war, Sergeant Crystal... I haven't forgotten his face since because he's the reason I have no kneecap, but he's also the reason I still have my head. Crystal saved my life, and now he's here in Vancouver doing god knows what."

"Are you sure, Echols?"

"I know what I saw, Simpson," Echols said. "I'll never forget that man's face, and that man was in the same area as our missing person."

Simpson started to curse while Echols looked at the corkboard beside his desk. The Stiff and Surrey had morphed into something else altogether. A dead soldier, a missing weapons trafficker, terrorist, and now spooks. Echols was a long-term detective and was used to cases having legs and going unexpected places, but this?

"I think Crystal and whoever he's working with kidnapped Boland," said Echols. "They're after the same people we're after."

"I'll be goddamned," Simpson said. They sat there in silence for a moment before the special agent spoke again. "I'm going to call D.C. and try to get to the bottom of this shitstorm, at least from the government side of things."

-------

Boston

Elliot Shaw looked through the darkness of the bowling alley for his captor. The lights popped on suddenly to reveal twelve empty bowling lanes with warped and rotting wooden planks across each one. Elliot saw cobwebs in the rafters and a snack bar missing its counter.

"How'd you get in here?" He asked Jane.

"Friend of mine owns it, I told him I was in trouble and needed a place to hide out."

Leading with the gun, she pointed Elliot towards a living area set up by the snack bar. A small kerosene lamp on the floor beside a cot and two metal folding chairs along with a few suitcases. "Sit, please."

"Well, now how can I refuse when such a pretty lady has such a big gun in my face?"

He took a seat across from Jane and pointed to his jacket pocket. "I got some cigarettes in my jacket. I can get you one if you want it."

"No I'll get it. I insist."

She stood up and reached into his jacket, pulling out a silver cigarette case and a silver lighter. After a moment of setup the two were smoking in silence.

"So," Elliot started. "What are you going to do with me?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"Why don't you just give me whatever Kane wanted me to get for him?"

Jane chuckled. Even with a smoke in her left, the gun in her right hand was still trained on Elliot's chest. "You don't know what it is, do you?"

"I think it's one of two things. Evidence of him having an affair or something worse. Something that can seriously hurt him, something he doesn't want to quietly pay blackmail for."

The girl got up from her seat and kicked open one of the suitcases. She placed the smoldering cigarette to the side and reached inside the suitcase. She produced a small folder and opened it for Elliot to see. Sitting at the top of a stack of papers was a black and white photo of Kane naked and on top of a woman just as naked as he was. "That's me he's with. He had a camera hidden in the bedroom where we had sex. Apparently he gets off on it."

"So, you found the photos and took them. Why? Blackmail?"

"That was the plan. He hired me just to fuck me. I was getting paid alright, but not like I wanted for what I was being asked to do."

"Fucking over the guy who fucks you over, not a bad motive," he nodded before pointing towards the photo with his cigarette. "Are all those photos?"

"Some of them. Most of it is papers and bullshit written in lawyer speak."

Elliot sucked on his smoke and wondered what else she glommed. Dirty pictures were bad, but certain documents could be as equally damning but not quite as sexy.

"Can I see the other stuff? You can hold on to the pictures."

Jane eyed him for a few seconds before finally picking out the photos and passing him the folder from across the lantern. He thumbed through if and skimmed the papers. Files, paperwork, contracts, all of it pointing towards one thing.

"Huh. Apparently, they're doing some development with the marshes. About time, if you ask me. Place is a shithole."

There were memos from developers and investors and other politicians. A bunch of names and corporations listed all over the contracts and files. Plans to turn the swampy area just outside of East Boston into a whole new town. Subdivision, condos, parks. The whole nine yards. Wedged towards the back was some survey from a geological firm. That was all greek to Elliot, but the last page was interesting. Minutes from a meeting between Kane, a guy named Abbot, and Big Jim Dwyer.

He had to laugh at the audacity of them recording the conversation. They talked about planning to tank the investment deal and short the investors to make sure the project didn't even get off the ground. That made Elliot pause. They were embezzling, sure, but taking the money from investors seemed short sighted compared to the price the real estate in the marshes would be after the deal. It was like trading in for five bucks now, instead of five thousand bucks six months down the road.

Jane raised an eyebrow when she saw Elliot's puzzled look. "What?"

A sound from outside kept him from explaining his thoughts. The sound was of a car coming to a stop. "Oh, shit," Jane said as she sprung up, dropping the photos to the floor and running to turn off the lights. "You were followed, you asshole!"

"No I wasn't, dammit!"

Elliot took off after her and stopped suddenly as she turned off the lights. He crept through the darkness towards the door and wedged it open enough to see through a crack. Two men, tough looking and serious, were just climbing out of a black sedan. The car clicked with Elliot. He saw it once or twice on the drive here.

"Son of a bitch, I was followed!"

He suddenly realized Kane didn't want him to get those photos. He wanted Elliot to lead him and his men to Jane. He was the bloodhound for the hunters, but he was damn sure that he was going to be put down after they found what they wanted.

"Son of a bitch," Elliot hissed. "He played me!"

Sean McKenna's warning from earlier hit home hard. These people were not to be trifled with, he had said. They were ruthless and did not let obstacles stand in their way to get what they wanted. Now young Jane Wilson was an obstacle. So, too, was Elliot.

"Give me your gun," Elliot said to Jane through the dark. She started to protest but he raised his voice to speak over her. "If you want to live, give me your goddamn gun and trust me."

He felt the cool metal in his palm and gripped it tightly as the two men approached the bowling alley door.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Just draw a Mario mustache on Kevin Spacey/Ian Richardson. Same thing, really.

The Pickett County War: A Rural Noir RP

Danny Johnson pulled into the parking lot of Ray's and killed the engine. His son, DJ, and that creep everyone called Jim Brown were working on the bar's exterior. The sheriff's department left the place in shambles after the shootout. There were bullet holes in the walls and crime scene tape still hung around the door. Danny knew the inside was still a mess of blood and forensics chemicals. With the help of SLED, they'd documented every grisly detail about the massacre that went on inside that bar. He heard the news about the place just this morning at the diner. He still couldn't believe it.

DJ and Jim Brown looked back as he got out his car and started over. Jim Brown mumbled something to DJ before going inside the bar. As Danny got closer he saw the sign on the bar was different. Instead of Raymond's Social Club there was simply DJ's Bar & Grill. DJ turned to look at his father. He kept his hands in his pockets like he always did when he knew he was going to hear a lecture from his father.

"So it's true, what I heard? You running this place now?"

"Yup," DJ nodded. "Ole Ray didn't leave behind any kind of family to speak of, so the bar's being sold for cheap. I got some cash I been saving up, so I decided to buy it."

"With Billy's approval right?" Danny asked. "Him being Ray's silent partner in the bar and all that, I assume he needs another clean name for the liquor license."

DJ sniffed and cleared his throat, his way of disregarding what Danny had previously said. "You want something, or you just wanted to come out here to fuck with me?"

Danny shrugged. He had something he wanted to say, something he'd prepared on the drive over. But the words weren't coming out.

"I thought... maybe the events of the last week would make you wise up. So many people dead or hurt just because they were working for Billy. Even that cockroach Roland Spencer almost died because he's with Billy's crowd. Someone with some sense may have gotten out, but you end up getting in deeper."

DJ spat on the ground near Danny's feet and looked at him with hard eyes, a look Danny had seen on many young men... but never his own son.

"You might have forgotten what year it is, but I ain't gotta explain shit to you. I'm grown, and I'll do what the fuck I want."

"So you just gonna be Billy's nigger?"

DJ grinned. "Shit. Better than being the fucking sheriff's nigger."

"Boy, I--"

"--You know it's true. You the only black man working for the sheriff's department. Have been for the last twenty years. It's like the racist motherfucker who keeps one nigger around to say he ain't racist."

Danny knew he should leave. Just go and don't give the boy the satisfaction of seeing him sweat. But he was hardly ever thinking clearly whenever he and DJ go to arguing.

"Goddammit, you're breaking the law--"

"The law ain't shit," DJ said coldly. "Your boy, Scott? He was Billy's man inside the sheriff's department. But you knew that already, fuck everybody already knew that. Sheriff included. He didn't do a goddamn thing about it because he didn't care. He was getting elected so who gives a fuck? That's what the fucking law and rules mean to me. It's something the people who really matter don't have to worry about. I wanna be one of those people. I'm a twenty-two-year-old black man from Norman who thought he could get outta this town but never did. I'm here for the rest of my life, and it's probably gonna be a short one. So I'm gonna stick with the side that gets me paid."

Danny was about to shout something, but stopped when he saw Jim Brown's magnified eyes watching him from inside the bar's doorway.

"Everything alright, DJ?"

"Sure is," DJ said as he looked Danny up and down. "Sergeant Johnson was just leaving."

Danny held his fists tightly in a ball, so tight he could feel his fingernails cutting into his palms. Without another word, he turned his back on his son and walked back to his car. He waited until he was a mile down the highway before his eyes fell on the picture over the sun visor. DJ in full football gear, his picture from when he was eight years old and playing recreational ball. The boy had a wide smile on his face. Danny remembered that day clearly. The photographer kept trying to get DJ to give him his best mean face for the camera but he couldn't. His wife said the boy didn't have a mean bone in his body.

He pulled over to the side of the road and put his head against the steering wheel as he broke down into sobbing.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Toledo, Ohio

Billy Carter watched from the dugout as Country Jones came to the plate. Country, called such because he came from Arkansas or some other hick place, was currently leading the Ohio League in home runs, runs batted in, and batting average. County swung the bat in his hands a few times in practice. Billy saw his large biceps flex with each swing. Years of working in fields and throwing bales of cotton had created those muscles. Although a colored man, Country was the best player on the Mud Hens and without a doubt one of the best in the whole Ohio League.

"C'mon, Country," Billy yelled with the rest of the team.

The game today marked Billy's tenth with the club since joining them as a batboy. He found the ball field a few hours after he and Clark Johnson jumped off the train they had hid on all the way from Detroit. Clark found work a day or two after they got to Toledo. It was welding workd in a machine shop for damn good pay for a colored man, especially compared to what he was making back in Detroit. He asked around and found a job for Billy with the steel foundry next door. Maybe in the fall and winter, Billy had said. For now he was all about baseball.

Mud Hens manager Phil Lagrange said he had a full team in the middle of the season and couldn't put him on the roster. But he saw that hunger in Billy's eyes, he must have recognized it as something he had a long time ago. Billy just wanted to be on and around the baseball diamond, regardless of what he was doing. He watched Billy play and was impressed, so he cut a deal with him. Billy got to hang around and take in the sights and be the team's batboy in exchange for an option to try out for the team next year, or if they were in dire need of an emergency player he could play some this year.

Country stepped to the plate and choked up on the bat. It was the bottom of the sixth, Mud Hens up 4-3 to the Sandusky Snappers. The pitcher on the mound had been throwing heat all game long, but he was inaccurate as hell. Plenty of his fastballs were meatballs. Early in the third, Skeeter Collins sent one ball rocketing out over the left field fence for two runs. Country himself had knocked in two runs the next inning with a line drive that moved so fast it had steam on it. Now with the pitcher on the mound getting tired, his velocity going down along with his accuracy, this was where Country thrived.

After two wide pitches set up the count for 2-0, the third pitch came across the plate and hit Country right in the left thigh. He fell backward onto the ground and started hollering. Billy and the rest of the Mud Hens were on their feet shouting, threating to come out of the dugout and tear that son of a bitch to pieces.

"Sit the hell down!" Lagrange shouted over the din. "Sit down, all of you! Ain't nobody fighting here today!"

He went out to the plate while the rest of the team watched warily from in the dugout. Lagrange helped Country to his feet and, with the help of the Snapper's catcher, got him limping back into the dugout. Country took his hat off and tossed it to the ground.

"Fuck!"

"Calm down," Lagrange said as he tore open Country's pants and looked at his leg. "It's a bruise. A deep fucking one that'll take a few days to heal, but I'm sure ain't nothing broke, Country."

Lagrange stood and looked around the dugout while Country kept cursing up a storm. The old manager's blue eyes cut through the ruckus and commotion inside the dugout before they fell on Billy.

"Carter."

"Yes, sir."

Billy suddenly noticed the noise had died down. You could hear a pin drop, but all Billy could hear was his own heartbeat.

"I need a pinch runner for Country. You still wanna play ball?"

"Yes, sir," he said in a voice that sounded more like a croak than his actual voice.

"Then get ready, son."

Lagrange went out to talk to the ump about the change while two of the Mud Hens turned Billy around and drew on his back. As a ballboy, his shabby uniform didn't have a number. Using a piece of charcoal they scratched a double-aught on his back.

"Get 'em kid," one of them said as they ruffled his hat.

"Run like hell, boy!"

Billy trotted out onto the field while Lagrange waved at him on the way back to the dugout. He took his place and first and took a deep breath. A fair sized crowd were here today, not too many people can come to a ball game on a weekday afternoon, but it was more people than Billy had ever played in front of that was for damn sure. Mike Carlton, the first base coach, patted him on the shoulder. The Snapper's first baseman eyed Billy sideways. The man, he may have been in his early 20's but compared to Billy he was fully a man, spat a wad of tobacco juice on the dirt and got set.

The staticky PA system in the stands crackled to life. "Pinch running for Country Jones is... 00, Willy Carter."

Billy looked back at Carlton with wide eyes.

"They got my name wrong, coach!"

"It's not the end of the world, son. Now pay attention."

"Now batting, 21, third baseman Matthew Robinson."

Matt came to the plate and took a few practice swings. A white boy from Indiana, Matt was more of a solid contact hitter than a home run threat. He hit his share of bombers this season, but nothing compared to Country. Shit, nobody except the big leaguers were keeping pace with Country. Billy watched the signals from the third base coach and took his lead. With a one-run lead, they'd be looking for insurance, but Lagrange never got too aggressive with it. Billy didn't get the green light to steal from the third base coach, but he still took his usual long lead.

The pitcher stared at him long and hard before winding up and tossing a hard one to the plate. Matt fouled it off right behind the plate. Had he been just a second earlier with his swing, that ball would be halfway to Canada. Billy took another long lead, sliding back to first after a failed pickoff attempt sent dirt flying in the air. Billy dusted himself off and smiled. He was in the pitcher's head now. It was just like playing ball back home in Detroit. Another long lead, another pickoff attempt that Billy beat back to first.

Finally, he threw to Matt. It was a meatball that Matt got around on and sent screaming out to right field. Billy started running at the sound of contact. The line drive bounced into right field as Billy was rounding second. The right fielder out there got a good hop on it and was scooping it into his glove while Billy was halfway between second and third. He saw the stop sign the third base coach was making as he raced towards the bag. Billy had but one thought:

Fuck that.

He shot around third and was running towards home with a full head of steam. He saw the ball coming from right field in a straight shot. Right fielder had one hell of an arm, Billy thought in those few seconds between third and home. The only concession he would make was that going home might not have been the best idea. The catcher was standing at the plate, eyes glued on the ball as it came from right field. I was a simple foot race at this point, Billy's feet against the ball.

He got low and slid for home. The dust kicked up, but he could hear the snap of the catcher's mitt and feel it slap him on the back. But not before his long fingers touched home plate.

"Safe!" The ump yelled.

Billy stood up, covered in dirt and dust and pumped his fist. The hometown crowd cheered and applauded while Matt Robinson was still on first base clapping. Billy walked to the dugout and to a round of back slaps and handshakes from the rest of the team. Lagrange wrapped a meaty arm around his shoulder and pulled him in close.

"That was a thing of beauty, kid," he said in Billy's ear. "But you ignore my third base coach again, I'll fucking break your neck."

-----

Washington, D.C.

"Traci, get in here right now!"

Traci Lord looked up from her cubicle office at her name being bellowed across the offices of the Washington Post, her home for the last few months. Scowling, she stood up and walked through the bullpen with all eyes on her. Bill Bussey, the Post's managing editor, had a stare that could cut through steel. But Traci had already learned that his bark was far worse than his bite. She saw a copy of her story in his hands as she entered his office.

"What is this shit?"

"It's a story, sir. You know, letters arranged into words, words arranged into sentences, and so on and so on until a narrative takes shape."

Bussey scowled at Traci for a moment before sliding his reading glasses on his pointy Roman nose and reading her story.

"'Congressman Harlan Lewis' House bill to fund the African war effort against Spain is a step in the right direction, a step that can lead to strides if the Norman Administration is willing to end its continuous stalling on foreign affairs.' You don't see a problem with that?"

Traci shrugged. "It's an op/ed article, Bill. My opinion and not the paper's."

"You all but called the president chicken-shit."

"My opinion, Bill."

Bussey's scowl deepened, his face turning a shade of red. "The paper endorsed Norman, we like Norman."

"Oh, I like him too," said Traci. "But he's letting Congress dictate the pace of is foreign policy. It's--"

"Not very presidential?" Bussey asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I was going to say chicken shit," she said with a smirk. "But that works too."

"Whatever you think, I'm rejecting the column."

"What?!" Traci's eyes went wide. It was all she could do to keep from going across the desk and tackle Bussey to the ground.

"We didn't hire you for your op/eds, Traci. We want stories, Traci Lord stories. I want you out in the field, reporting events as they happen. Like that embedded story you did in China. That artist?"

She turned a shade of red. Everyone brought up that story. A year in China ended up with a twelve-part series for the New York Times about the day to day life in the People's Republic. She spent time with everyone from the politicians on down to beggars in the street. The series was a smash hit at home and made her a known name in journalism. She'd spent most of that year with a dashing painter named Mei. Mei had more skill in the bedroom than he ever did on the canvas, a fact that came through when he painted Traci's portrait. The Badly Drawn Lady was the name the wits at the Foreign Correspondents Association in Bejing gave the painting when the saw it. The story had circulated around press corps and news services until it became the stuff of legends.

"Bill, I--"

"You know what I mean, Traci," he said with hand up to stall her protest. "You are a known quantity now, sure. And we did promise you editorial pages, something we've been living up to. But this bill going through the House could have serious consequences. I want you roaming the Capitol day and night, talking to everyone in Congress about it. Take the mood of the place and track the course of the bill. I want drama, Traci. I want the type of drama only you can give to a story. That is ten times more powerful than any opinion you can provide, can you do that?"

Traci nodded after a moment's deliberation.

"I'll make some phone calls and head to the Capitol as soon as I can."

-----

Chicago

Johnny Leggario cracked his knuckles and settled back into the seat of his car. Six hours into the stakeout and he had settled in for a long haul. The house he was sitting on was a dump, a scorched husk of a building that someone torched years ago. It was the perfect place for squatters and people trying to lay low. Johnny had Carl the Wop to thank for leading him here. Carlo Di Pietro ala Carl the Wop, capo to the Greek and one of the many cogs in the Outfit, managed a dozen bookie shops on the Northside of the city for the Greek. Johnny spent three days boning up on Carl the Wop through his contacts, following the man and his family as they went about their day to day tasks.

Carl's bio read like a million others who joined the Life, always written out with an uppercase L. He was old school, joined the Outfit when he was still a teenager during Capone's heyday. Purse snatching led to strongarm robberies which led to hijacking and running numbers. Sixty years old and Carl had climbed as far on the criminal ladder as he could go. To some, that would mark Carl as a suspect for the robberies. He couldn't get past the Greek, so he was letting his own joints get heisted and splitting the money. He got paid and got to rub shit in the old man's eye.

The clues that tipped Johnny off to the real culprit were long sleeves and itchy arms. Carl's youngest son, Carlo Jr., still lived with his folks at the age of thirty. Johnny watched him coming and going the past few days. He always wore long sleeve shirts and always picked at his arms when he walked down the street. It took Johnny all of ten minutes to peg Carlo as a junkie, the sleeves hiding the track marks that itched so bad when the kid needed a fix. He followed Carlo to a shooting gallery near Jefferson Park. From there Johnny followed the guy Carlo copped from which led him to a stash house in Forest Glen. A small pack of four dealers worked out of the house. Four dealers, a four-man crew ripping off bookie spots, a weak junkie whose father ran the bookmaking shops, a junkie that could trade information for a fix.

He waited another four hours before he made his move. It was five in the morning when Johnny slipped on a pair of canvas gloves and carried a six shot revolver with a suppressor attached to the end under his sports jacket. He looped around the back of the building and came through a broken window, slow and quietly to avoid noise and cuts from the shards of glass around the building. Johnny pulled the gun out along with a flashlight covered in tape, emitting only a pin-sized light to use as a guide. He held his nose when he passed by three buckets that had been used as latrine. It took him ten minutes to find their stash tucked away in a baseboard near the fireplace. Nearly a hundred grand in crisp twenty dollar bills inside a satchel, not the type of money junkies handed over for Horse. No, this was the type of money the Greek's places carried before a big payout was coming. In addition to the cash, Johnny found a half pound of uncut H, two shotguns, and six pistols. He tucked the money, dope, and guns into the satchel and swung it over his shoulder.

Johnny slowly glided up the rickety stairs like a ghost. Muscle memory kicked in when he reached the landing where the crew was sleeping. Check the corners, clear the rooms, plan your escape, kill as soon as you have eyes on the target. Just like he'd been taught. The four guys were passed out on piss-stained mattresses. Johnny kept the flashlight beam low and aimed. Recoil shot up his elbow as he fired off four quick shots. The rounds hissed through the room, four bullets exploding the four men's heads. He reloaded and fired off four more to each man's heart to be sure they were dead. His task done, calmly walked out into the early morning air. Johnny tucked the revolver into his jacket and climbed into the car, driving six blocks away before tossing the gun and his gloves in a trash can beside the road.

--

"Who the fuck are you?"

Carl the Wop sized Johnny up like a piece of meat. He stood on the doorstep of the man's impressive townhouse, impassively meeting the mobster's gaze.

"I'm Johnny Legs. You know who I am, who I work for. Let's take a ride."

The look of recognition filled Carl's eyes, quickly followed by fear. He knew what Johnny did, and why he was visiting him like this. Johnny saw a tremble in his lip, his eyes beginning to show moisture.

"Oh, God... Please--"

"If I was going to kill you you'd be dead already," Johnny said with slight annoyance. "Let's take a ride."

Thirty minutes later they were sitting in Johnny's car, parked outside a coffee shop ten blocks away from Carl's home. Johnny retold the story, the guys robbing the Greek's shops, following the trail and killing the four men, and of course Carl's own son.

"Look... I know my son has had problems, and me and my wife we've tried to help him... but... you..."

"You know who I work for," Johnny said again with a cool tone. "I'm offering you the chance to do it on your son's terms. Bobby C. will hold you and your family responsible for this theft. If he has his way, I'm gonna come back to your house with four more guys and we'll chop your entire family to pieces."

Carl the Wop slumped forward in the seat and began to shake as he sobbed. Johnny ignored him and instead pulled a covered syringe from his coat pocket.

"This spike is loaded up with pure heroin. I don't care if your boy is a goddamn dope fiend, this much pure H will kill him. It's either the OD or that other option I mentioned. Either give it to him or inject him tonight when he's asleep, but he does not live to see tomorrow."

Johnny slipped the syringe into Carl's jacket while the man continued to cry. He felt a stab of remorse and something else much more powerful. Johnny realized it was envy. If Jimmy Leggario would have been faced with this same dilemma, he knew Jimmy would not hesitate to sacrifice his son to save his own ass.

Carl the Wop went back home somber and quiet. They rode in silence, the only time Carl acknowledged Johnny at all was a short nod to him as he got out the car and went into his house. For an old soldier like Carl, the nod was final acceptance to do what needed to be done. Johnny hit a nearby payphone and called Stein to tell him that the job was completed. He told the lawyer to notify the Bobby C. to check the papers and he'd find five deaths on the Northside all within the same day of each other, a quadruple homicide, and one OD. The lawyer gave his appreciation and told Johnny where to drop off the cash and drugs he had recovered. The money for the job would be waiting for him when he arrived home that night.

Johnny started up his car and headed back home. It wouldn't be long before he got another phone call with another job and another person who needed to be hurt. Johnny hated himself, not because he was becoming his old man, but because he had become his old man. He glanced up in the car's rearview mirror and wasn't entirely sure who it was he saw staring back at him.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG (Closed)

MacArthur Island
South Pacific
14:07 Local Time

The thick metal door blew off its hinges and landed on the floor with loud crash. Theodore Roosevelt stepped on the door and entered the room. He gripped te automatic rifle in his hands tightly and looked across the room. The opulent throne room was decked out in the same style of Emperor Hirohito's Chrysanthemum Throne with dark red silk carpets and drapes. In place of a Japanese imperial standard on the walls, there was another symbol. Five silver stars arranged in a pentagonal cluster. On the golden throne at the other side of the room, Douglas MacArthur sat and looked at Roosevelt with half-closed eyes. Two armed guards that flanked both sides of the throne were already drawing down on Roosevelt, only to be waved off by MacArthur.

"You and Mr. Lincoln are proving to be quite the bee in MacArthur's bonnet," said the general. "I should have killed the two of your as soon as possible."

"The Executive Branch feel the same about you, general," replied Roosevelt. "Reviving you is one of the worst mistakes they made, and considering their history that is saying quite a lot."

"Desperate times, Mr. President."

MacArthur stood and began to walk towards Roosevelt, his bodyguards walking with him.

"The thing you must ask yourself, Mr. Roosevelt, is why are you really after MacArthur? What has he done to warrant this aggression?"

Roosevelt began to open his mouth but stopped as MacArthur held a hand up.

"This latest endeavour aside, sir. MacArthur will admit this plan is just cause for retribution, but what did he do before that? Why did the Founders try to kill him all those years ago?"

Roosevelt was at a loss for words for once. He had no idea what the original circumstances were that led to the first attempt on the general's life, his banishment from the Executive Branch, and his decades in hiding. He just knew that he had done something wrong and a team of agents had tried to kill him.

"He figured as much," said MacArthur. "The crime MacArthur committed, the thing that marked him as a dead man, was that he discovered the truth."

"What truth, sir?"

The general let a grin slip out from under his steely facade. He shook his head, as if he were trying to explain something simple to a dense child.

"There is a rot at the heart of the Executive Branch. Your masters are not who you think they are, their intentions are not what they profess to be. MacArthur discovered this a long time ago, and he was punished for it."

"So this is your revenge, general?" asked Roosevelt. "Remake the world in your twisted image? You ally with a genocidal warlord to conquer the world?"

"Indeed," was the general's reply. "The Khan, like MacArthur, realize that sacrifices must be made. What, in the long run, is a few million in the name of protecting billions?"

"Genocide in the name of world safety," spat Roosevelt. "You will indeed be a shining idol for the next age."

MacArthur began to reply, but was cut short as an announcement boomed through the compound's PA system. It was in Japanese, a language Roosevelt did not speak, but he could tell by the tightening of MacArthur's face that it was bad news. He scowled and turned to Roosevelt.

"A bomber has been spotted on the advanced radar. Thirty minutes out. Jets are being scrambled to take care of it. It seems as if you have sold MacArthur out, Mr. Roosevelt. Such a shame. He had hoped to convert you to his side."

The general said something to his two guards in Chinese. The two men nodded and quickly rushed Roosevelt. The stripped him of his weapon and held him in place while MacArthur walked to the far side of the room where a collection of samurai swords hung on the wall. He took down two and looked back at Roosevelt.

"MacArthur knows he should kill you outright, but he has always been a man of honor, sir. If you die, it will be by his hands."

The general tossed the blade and scabbard down at Roosevelt's feet.

"This is your chance, Mr. President. Grab the sword and complete your mission. Do what no one else has done yet and kill MacArthur."

--

Abraham Lincoln pressed his large frame against the wall and tried his best to hide in the shadows. A group of armed guards rushed by, oblivious of the lanky man a few feet away from him. He waited a few moments before emerging into the corridor and hurrying on his way. Now that FDR had been notified and the bomb was on its way, the next leg of the journey was to find Roosevelt and help him dispatch MacArthur before fleeing the island's impending destruction. The part of the compound he was in had multi-language markings that identified it was the science wing in Chinese, Japanese, and English. He had no idea if Roosevelt or MacArthur were in this part of the base, but he had to hurry up and look.

With a knife at the ready, Lincoln opened up a door marked "Labs" and went inside. He was surprised to find a chubby, bald Asian man in a lab coat looking at him from across a lab table with wide eyes. To Lincoln, it wasn't a look of fear. It was more surprise mixed with hope.

"You!" He said in perfect English with just a hint of a Chinese accent. "You're one of the Americans? You have to help me! Close the door."

Lincoln complied, keeping the man in his sight all the while. The scientist stepped around the table and put both hands on Lincoln's shoulders, shaking him.

"You have to get me out of here! I've been kept here against my will for years now. I--"

"Slow down," Lincoln said softly. "Find your composure, friend. Speak clearly, but quickly. Time is of the essence."

"Okay," he said after a deep breath. "My name is Dr. Hsien Wu, I am a geneticist. I died many years ago, but the people who run this place brought me back to life and put me to work creating the genetic coding and enslavement system they're trying to take over the world with."

"The Khan and his descendants?" Lincoln asked.

"Yes," Wu said excitedly. "My system is a mix of high-power satellite broadcast that overwrites the genetic coding. In short, it will make everyone on the planet with a drop of the Khan's blood become his slave. Millions and millions turned into mindless killing machines. You have to believe me, sir, I was forced into it. I did not mean to build these horrible machines. I just--"

"The people I work for are sending in a bomber to destroy this facility, doctor. Will that be enough?"

"They have backups offsite, sir. We need to destroy them remotely from MacArthur Island."

"Where can we do that?"

"One place," Wu sighed. "The place where the Khan's spirit is being kept."

Lincoln nodded and, after a second of deliberation, said, "Show me the way, doctor. After we destroy it we'll see about getting you out of here."

--

"Shit!" Amelia Earhart said loudly.

Still three hundred miles out from the island she was to bomb, her advanced HUD notified her that six fighter jets had been dispatched from the island and were racing towards her current location. Her jet had no offensive weapons on it. The only defensive weapons were the chaff she could fire off in the event a missile was locked on her and already en route. The biggest thing she had was her speed. This stealth bomber could rip through the sound barrier several times over and not really break a sweat. It left all conventional aircraft in its wake. She could outrun the jets easy enough, but with six of them already forming a perimeter around the island, it would be tough going to evade them all and deliver her payload.

The HUD let out a brash warning, letting her know the jets were slowly getting closer and closer. Earhart muted the notification and strapped the cross belts tight against her. Even though the days of open cockpit flight were long gone, she still wore the goggles on the top of her head. They were her good luck charm. Now, she slid them down over her eyes let out a deep breath. She flicked on the jet's PA system and delivered a message to the weapon in the back.

"This is your captain speaking. We are about to engage in evasive maneuvers, so please make sure you are buckled in tightly. We will experience turbulence and the occasional missile explosion. In the event of a crash, the plane will turn into a flaming metal death trap. Thank you for flying Executive Branch Airlines. We hope you'll fly EB Airlines again, that is if you survive this flight."

Earhart heard a wry laugh through the lead-lined cabin door and let a laugh slip from her lips as well. She punched the throttle and held tightly to the yoke as she started to sing softly to herself.

"Heading into twilight, spreading out her wings tonight. She got you jumping off the deck and shoving into overdrive. Highway to the Danger Zone! Ride into the Danger Zone!"

The Pickett County War: A Rural Noir RP

"Sherry, have a seat."

Mark Echols and Danny Johnson were waiting for Sherry in their shared office. She took a chair in front of the two desks that were pushed together to form a joint workspace. Echols sat at one desk, Danny at the other. Danny wore a pair of reading glasses low on the bridge of his nose and gave Sherry a friendly smile. Echols, never one for warm and fuzzy feeling, just stared at her while sipping coffee.

"That whole mess with Roland Spencer and Chew Lewis was some damn fine leg work, Sherry," said Danny.

"Thank you," she mumbled. "I just... was doing my job."

"You did it well," said Echols. "Have you given much thought to moving up from patrol?"

"Like where?"

"Like here," said Danny. "Work CID. Mark and I both agree you've got the makings of a good detective."

"I don't know," Sherry said cautiously. She worked her hands together and shrugged. "I don't know if I'm that smart."

"Smart ain't all there is to it," Echols said. "It's part of it, sure, but a bigger part is not giving up and keep digging. You did that on the Spencer case. As far as Danny and I are concerned, you solved a murder on your own accord."

Sherry felt herself flushing with embarrassment. The two observant detectives caught it and traded amused looks.

"With Scott's death, Sheriff Parker is promoting Mark to captain and making him head of CID," said Danny. "I'll be getting a promotion to lieutenant, and I'll need a partner to work cases with. With the black/white balance Sheriff Parker likes to keep, I'll need a white officer. We want it to be you."

"The job won't be easy--," said Echols.

"--especially with Mark as your commander."

"-- lots of paperwork and late nights when the shit hits the fan, like it did over the past week. But it comes with a sergeancy and a pay bump. Instead of being reactive, you'll be proactive. What do you say?"

Sherry looked between the two men's expectant faces before she let a smile slip out.

"When do we start?"

--

"Have a drink with me, captain," Parker said to Echols.

Parker broke out a bottle of scotch he kept in his office and poured two tumblers full. The two men toasted Echols' promotion and sipped in silence for several minutes. Echols saw the silence made Parker uncomfortable. The man was a natural politician, he needed to always be talking and proving some point. Echols always let the silence speak for him. In those quiet moments you could read a man better than if you asked a hundred questions. The uncomfortableness turned into something more, Echols noticed. Parker was deciding something, Echols could now tell.

"Mark," he said slowly.

The sheriff reached into his desk and pulled out a thick file that he slapped on the surface.

"This file right here is the only copy in the world. This won't be found in our records or computer databases."

"What is it?" Echols asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Proof that Scott Andrews was working for Billy Brown."

Echols' eyes went wide at the information. He put his drink down and flipped through it. Thre was bank statements, asset reports, surveillance photos, even a sworn affidavit or two nailing Andrews dead to rights as Billy's point man on the PCSD. It wasn't so much the fact that Scott had been dirty that blew his mind, it was that Parker had concrete evidence.

"How long have you known?" he asked the sheriff.

"I've known for sure for a few years now, but I've always known. Just like you always knew. Just like everyone always knew."

Echols closed the file and looked up at Parker. "When are you giving it to SLED?"

"I'm not."

"Excuse me?"

"This file will destroy the sheriff's department. For someone that high up to be working for Billy for so long with cause the state police to bring down their wrath and scorch the goddamn earth. I'll be thrown out of office, a new sheriff will come in with a mandate to clean up the department. You and Danny will probably be asked to resign, along with half the department. One bad apple will spoil the whole bushel, son. I don't want that to happen."

Echols grabbed his drink and polished it off in two gulps. He wiped the liquor from his lips and put the glass back on the desk a little too roughly.

"Why tell me all this, sheriff?"

"Because Billy Brown is so goddamn arrogant, he's gonna try to keep up business as usual. You taking over as head of CID means either Billy himself or one of his men is gonna approach you with an offer. They're going to reveal they had an arrangement with Scott and they want the same arrangement with you. They'll probably offer cash for muscle work and information from inside the PCSD. If that happens, Mark, I want you to say yes..."

Parker refilled their glasses and sucked his drink down as quickly as Echols did.

"I want Billy to think you're his man inside the PCSD, when--"

"-- I'm your man inside Billy's organization?"

Parker nodded and broke out in a big grin.

"I'm tired of that cocksucker thinking he can walk all over the people in this county. By God, we're taking the fight back to him. What do you say?"

Echols held up his empty glass.

"To seeing Billy Brown die behind bars."

Parker laughed and clinked glasses with Echols.

"Here, here."

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG (Closed)

Executive Branch Headquarters
Mt. Rushmore, SD
03:44 Local Time

"Remember me..."

William Henry Harrison floated through the halls of the Executive Branch's headquarters. Although the middle of the night, plenty of staff were busy at work doing the agency's secret business. Most of them ignored the ghost of Harrison, those that acknowledged him only showed annoyance at being distracted from their task. This was Harrison's lot in life, a burden had to bear for centuries. Harrison's life was filled with triumph. He had ben a war hero, a governor, and a diplomat before assuming the presidency... but all everyone remembered him for was dying in office a scant month after being inaugurated. It was all because of Tippecanoe.

The Battle of Tippecanoe, shortly before the War of 1812, ended in a smashing success for the US. Harrison's men defeated a band of natives led by the shaman Tenskwatawa. The victory made Harrison a household name in the country and led to his eventual rise. But the glory came at a horrible cost. Tenskwatawa, though not as martially gifted as his Tecumseh, fought back in his own way. The shaman cursed Harrison in revenge for the battle and over two hundred years later he was still cursed. His untimely death was made crueler when he was brought back to serve the Executive Branch. A complication in resurrection killed him again. While Harrison's body died, his soul stayed on earth and now he haunted the corridors of the Rushmore headquarters.

"Remember me...," he said softly to a technician as she passed by.

"Okay, President Harris," the young woman said without looking up.

"That's not my name..."

Harrison floated after the woman. She went into a room with Harrison behind her. He phased through the closed door and into the gymnasium area of the HQ. Franklin Roosevelt sat on a pommel horse in workout attire. The white tank top he wore showed off his large upper body muscles while the baggy sweat pants hid his withered legs. Roosevelt swung his limp legs around the pommel horse with ease as his upper body did the work.

"Incoming communication, sir," the technician said as she approached FDR.

"It's from Lumberjack."

"Oh, dear," Roosevelt said as he flopped onto the wheelchair beside the pommel horse. "Let's go, dear. Not a moment to lose."

"Remember me...," said Harrison.

"Will do, Henry," said Roosevelt.

FDR pushed through Harrison's incorporeal form and sped out of the gym towards the communications center with the technician and Harrison trailing in his wake.

---

MacArthur Island
South Pacific
13:53 Local Time

"Suppose you boys can't just fight me man to man, huh?"

Abraham Lincoln countered a blow from a guard, twisting the man's wrist and sending him flying into another attacking guard. All told there five guards trying to take down the Great Emancipator. The fight was taking place in the island compound's communications center. Lincoln broke in and managed to establish connection with Rushmore before the assailants broke in and tried to stop him.

While outnumbered, Lincoln towered over the smaller men and made up for his numerical inferiority with combative superiority. His long, spindly legs, delivered a devastating roundhouse kick to a guard, throwing him against a console and sending a shower of sparks into the air.

"Lumberjack," the voice of Franklin Roosevelt came through the comm center's speakers. "This is Sacred Cow. Come in, Lumberjack."

Lincoln grabbed an attacker's wrist with his large hand, stopping a knife blade inches away from his chest. He tripped the man and slammed his head hard into the comm center's control panel.

"Lumberjack here," said Lincoln. "Rifleman and I think it most prudent to deploy our weapon of last resort."

There was a long pause from Roosevelt as Lincoln fended off more attacks. Finally he spoke. "Are you sure, Lumberjack?"

"No time to explain, Sacred Cow, but rest assured it is of vital importance that the entire island be sterilized."

"Understood. I demand confirmation of target's death before evacuation, Lumberjack. You have twenty minutes until sterilization."

"Lumberjack, out," Lincoln said as he shoved another man into the console and short circuited it with the man's head.

---

Executive Branch Headquarters
Mt. Rushmore, SD
04:02 Local Time

Amelia Earhart did the final check of her equipment before starting the stealth bomber's engines. The four nuclear-powered jet turbines kicked on and hummed softly in the nearly empty hangar bay. A team of crewmen did the final preparations underneath the plane before signaling that it was ready for takeoff. She gave the crew a thumbs up and started down the runway towards the open hangar. Within a few seconds the jet was roaring out the open mouth of Thomas Jefferson and gaining speed and altitude. She broke the sound barrier sixty thousand feet above Idaho. Ten minutes later, she broke the sound barrier eighty thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean. She was so high now that she could see the curvature of the earth stretched out across the horizon in front of her. If not for the grisly circumstances, it would be a breathtaking flight.

The satellite coordinates on her HUD provided an easy path to follow across the Pacific towards the target. She would pass through several time zones and the international date line to deliver her cargo. The back part of the bomber was lead-lined to prevent any accidents should the package become unnerved. This wasn't her first bombing run with the weapon of last resort, but it was the first one in quite some time. She sent out a silent prayer that it wouldn't be as devastating as the last time.

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

Aww, drunk posting is the best.

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

Cancel the app on Clint. I came up with a better idea that both I and, I hope, the rest of you will like more.

@Nightrunner

Flip-flopper!

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

Gotham City
Then

Raw steak on a paper plate. Blood squirting out. Slam picked it up with one large mitt, shoved into his mouth. He chewed the bloody meat, spat it back out. Pre-fight routine. No meat, all blood. Sid said it got the animal instincts going. Sid said the Israeli commandos chewed raw steak before taking it to those fakakta Palestinian pigs. Sid said Slam was a mensch. Even for a crazy goy kid with a weak chin.

"Rockabye Ruiz," Sid said from across the room.

Sid: Six feet two inches, fat from too many Ruebens. Years ago he boxed as the Hebrew Hammer. The Great Yiddish Hope. Fucker still had a hell of a left jab.

"How you feeling about Ruiz, Sammy?"

Slam spat blood. He flashed bloody teeth.

"Fucker doesn't have a chance."

Sid winked. "That's my Slammy."

Wally the cut man wrapped Slam's hands tightly. He helped him put on the boxing gloves. Red gloves, navy blue trunks with "Bradley" on the waist in white. Sid walked up. He had two or three inches on Slam. He placed his big mitts on Slam's shoulder. He pulled him in close.

"Ruiz is only getting 9-1 by the bookies, kid. If you take a dive in the third or fourth, we can make a shitload of money. I got a guy who can get the bet in before the fight. What do you say?"

Where the fuck was this coming from? Sid was his trainer for almost five years now and never asked Slam to take a dive. Sid wasn't dirty like a lot of managers on the scene. Sid ran a clean ship, no dabbling with bookies or the gamblers that hung around the ring. It threw Slam off balance. He shook his head.

"No, Sid. I ain't taking a fucking dive."

Sid grinned. He slapped Slam's shoulders. "That's what I like to hear, boychick. Let's go kick some ass. You win big enough, I'll buy you a hooker to spend the night with tonight."

--

Gotham City
Now

Slam sipped malt liquor. The shit burned going down. Cut-rate verging on pure ethanol. He drunk straight from the bottle in the driver's seat of his car. No-tell motel across the street. Red Arrow Inn on the neon sign. Partially burned out letters made it look like "ed Ar ow Inn." His camera sat in the passenger seat. Two hours into his tail job. He followed Mr. Harold Scoggins leaving his white job and tailed him to the "ed Ar ow Inn." Scoggins snapped up room six right by the road and dashed inside. Slam snapped quick pix of the dash. He also snapped pix of a caddy pulling up to the room. Out popped a dumpy brunette in jeans and a plain blouse. She went inside room six.

He snapped pix and cut odds to who the temptress in mom jeans was. Either Scoggins' coworker or neighbor. Men with wandering dicks didn't wander too far from home. The clothing indicated stay at home mom. Slam called it at even odds she lived down the block from the Scoggins house. He got lit and dozed while they did the horizontal bop. Under normal circumstances he'd go in close and snap pix of them in the act, but the curtains were closed tres tight.

The lovers came out twenty minutes later. Slam snagged his camera and started popping off pix. Scoggins' zipper was down, his pants disheveled. The woman had bed head. He got them stumbling out in post-coital bliss. He got them kissing. He got in tight on Scoggins groping the woman's ass. They departed, heading in different directions while Slam thumbed through the pix on his camera's view screen. The lawyer he was working for would get the shots tomorrow morning and then Scoggins would be getting fucked for the second time in as many days.

His phone rang before he could leave.

"Samuel Bradley Investigations," he answered.

"Slam, it's Peggy, Sid's wife."

A ghost from the past. He hadn't seen Sid or Peggy in twenty years.

"Peg, hey. What's up?"

"It's Sid, Slam... he's dead. Somebody killed him."