Byrd Man

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

I didn't get tagged, but I'm afraid I'm not coming back.

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

It's a ghoul!

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

Washington D.C.

"Mr. Vice President, how would you and the Second Lady like your steaks cooked?"

"Medium rare," Russell replied.

Peter Kelly, Senate Majority Leader, plopped two thick steaks on his charcoal grill. Russell, Kelly, and Senate Majority Whip Rod Marston stood huddled around the grill on the balcony of Kelly's Georgetown apartment. They were dressed in casual wear, khaki pants and simple button-up shirts. Marston wore cowboy boots with his outfit. All three men had beers in their hands.

"And the honorable junior Senator from Arizona?" Kelly asked.

"All questions and responses are to be directed to the President of the Senate," Russell cut in.

They all chuckled at Russell's joke. The archaic Senate rules stated that any and all comments on the Senate floor could not be directed at any colleague in particular, just through the presiding office. Like the formal rule that all senators must refer to themselves and each other in the third person it was one of the many old rules that hamstrung the institution.

"Mr. President," Marston said with his beer raised, "Inform the honorable senior Senator from Montana that the junior Senator from Arizona and his wife like their steaks at a nice medium."

"So, gentlemen," Russell said once their laughter subsided. "How are things in your home states?"

Kelly flashed a grin. Despite being from a sparsely populated western state, Kelly wasn't what you thought of when you thought of Montana or the west. He was a former political scientist and academic that was drafted into running for the Senate by the Republican Party in Montana. He was the only member of the congressional leadership who could quote the Constitution and Proust with equal aplomb.

"Same old same old," Kelly said with a shrug. "The beef industry is what anyone cares about out there. As long as the US keeps up its agricultural exports I'm golden."

"Cows? That's it?" Marston asked.

Kelly laughed. "Rod, you've got to remember that the people of Montana are just simple farmers, people of the land. The common clay of the West. You know... morons."

"I wish I had morons," Martson laughed. "Arizona is nothing but one giant handout. Everyone's looking to get paid."

"Including the state's junior senator," Kelly said with a wink.

While the Majority Leader turned his attention to the steaks, Russell glanced towards the balcony door. Just through the glass door was the kitchen and the wives of the three men. Russell caught Robin's eye and saw her bored expression lighten when she saw her husband. Henrietta Kelly was a pleasant enough lady who was devoted to her husband, but she was a bland woman who only talked about our family. Peggy Marston was the complete opposite. Twenty-five years Rod's junior, she was a former Sun City showgirl that the Senator had only recently married. She had bleached blonde hair and wore too tight dresses and talked about nothing but jewelry and all the things she liked to buy with the money "Roddy" doled out to her.

"I need to head out there someday," Russell said as he turned back to the men. "Never been to Sun City, but I'd like to see it for myself. I've never had much of a taste for gambling. A sure thing is much more reassuring."

"You're a gambler, Russ," Marston said with a short laugh. "If you weren't, you'd still be in the Senate with us."

"You got me there," Russell said with his hands raised. "I made a gamble on that one. Still not sure if it's going to pay off."

"In Sun City, we call that the long con."

"Speaking of that," said Kelly. "What's the reason for crashing our lovely steak dinner, Mr. Vice President? What's your game?"

"I'm here on presidential orders, I'm afraid," Russell said after sipping his beer. "The President is heading out of town next week. Aren't you going with him, Pete?"

"I'm flying back to Montana and touring with him when he goes through the state. But that's not for a few more weeks."

"And in that time, the president would like to see that Ethiopian foreign aid appropriations bill put on the legislative calendar at the very least."

Kelly grunted as he flipped the steaks. "I was planning on doing that, Russ, but the problems you'll have won't be with the Republicans. Your problem is with--"

Marston whistled a few bars of "Dixie."

"We like the bill," Kelly shrugged. "Hell, everyone is tripping over themselves to support this foreign aid stuff. But your pals are going to drag their feet like always. I'm going to recommend the bill be sent to Foreign Relations where Bill Dixon's the chairman. He's borderline Southern Caucus."

"What's Dixon's bloc of Senators look like?" Russell asked.

"He's got about a dozen in his back pocket," said Marston. "And that's just the ones we know for certain. He may have as many as twenty Republican senators. If they work in tandem with the Southern Caucasus, that's nearly half the Senate in alliance."

"Why don't you do something?" Russell asked Kelly. "You're Majority Leader, Pete. For god's sake, get them in line behind you."

"You don't understand," said Kelly. "I don't have the type of power you had. The second you left the Senate, Dixon and Helms and the others made sure to strip away all the powers the Majority Leader had. I can lead floor debates and schedule the legislative calendar, but that's about it. I can't control committee assignments like you could and the reelection steering committees are led by seniority now. Nobody needs to listens to me. I'm just... not you."

No shit, thought Russell. It didn't surprise Russell to find out that the Senate had made the Leader toothless once again. It had been like that eight years earlier when Russell took over the job. He'd found ways to abolish, temporarily at least, the rigid seniority system that decided committee assignments and had the Leader decide who served on which committee. He'd also set up a reelection steering committee that donated money and resources to incumbent senators, with the Majority Leader as chairman of that committee. Every Democrat was beholden to him for committee assignments and reelection help. No matter if a man served twenty years in the Senate, they had to come crawling on their hands and knees, quite literally in the case of poor Bob Osborne from Tennessee, for Russell's approval. For eight years he was the second most powerful man in the country, second only to President Fernandez. And now that power was gone, not just from him but from the Senate altogether.

Russell stayed silent as Kelly put the steaks on a plate and tossed two more on the grill.

"How's Dixon doing it?"

"Dixon Oil," said Marston. "Or at least that's what it looks like. He's going around the steering committees and Senate re-election funds and having his oil company donate straight to candidates. Of the Republicans that came into the Senate in the election, over two-thirds of them are caucusing with him. They ran campaigns above their means and requested very little money from the steering committee."

Power is where power goes.

Bill Dixon had said those very words to Russell the night of the presidential inauguration. They'd been huddled in a corner talking shop while everyone watched Norman and his wife glide across a ballroom floor. Dixon was so sure that he wouldn't need the Majority Leader role to accumulate power and he was right. Power is where power goes, and now the power Russell had once wielded was gone. It had been dismantled by vengeful and power hungry senators. The power vacuum they created was filled by Dixon's oil money.

Kelly finished off his beer and looked at Russell with an arched eyebrow. He'd noticed Russell's faraway look and scowling.

"Just reevaluating my roll of the dice," Russell said when he noticed Kelly's staring. "I may have pushed my luck too far."

"In Sun City parlance, we'd say you crapped out," said Marston.

"Crapped out," Russell grunted. "That sounds about right."

------

"Over fifty years ago, I had my first White House visit," Senator Wilbur Helms said through his oxygen mask. "President Wheeler was here then. He was a son of a bitch."

White House Chief of Staff Jeff Brewer pushed the decrepit old man down the halls of the West Wing in a wheelchair. He utterly detested Helms. The octogenarian represented all that was wrong with Washington and the American political system. The Southern minority that controlled the upper house of Congress did not speak for the majority of America. They were 19th century men, Helms quite literally, who had turned the once great deliberative body into a place of negation. Even with the Socialist paradigm shift across the country, they still held on firmly to their Senate power.

That power did not come from any particular set of skills. They weren't brilliant, Senator Matheson from Texas struggled through the speeches he read on the Senate floor. Nor were they great political operatives. Helms' colleague from South Carolina, Larry Beasley, was reputed to nap frequently at committee meetings. They were old, every single one of them. At forty-seven, Jim Sanderson was the youngest member of the Southern Caucus by nearly twenty years. The age was a major problem due to the seniority system. Senator Byrd from Alabama, the ranking Democratic member of the Armed Service Committee, often forgot where he was. When he was committee chairman, the senator in charge of congressional oversight of American defense would snap his head up suddenly and bang the gavel against the conference table to call to order a meeting that had already started an hour before.

Age and age alone was why they were in power. And their power derived from their constituents. Simply because the people in the states that elected them voted Democrat and nothing more, these hateful, ignorant men had the federal government at their mercy. These men with all the power could walk, or be pushed as in Helms' case, into the Oval Office and make demands.

Helms wheezing filled the quiet West Wing corridor Jeff pushed him down. It was late at night, most of the staff had gone home for the day. Those that were here still were like Jeff and did not leave until the president did. They were the most dedicated and loyal of the White House staff and would not feed the Washington rumor mill with talk about Helms' late night visit.

Jeff opened the door leading into the Oval Office and pushed Helms through the threshold. Leaning against the Resolute desk was President Norman. His suit jacket was off and tossed onto the sofa facing the desk and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow.

"Senator Helms," the president said with a soft smile. "Welcome."

Norman stepped forward and gently shook Helm's wrinkled, arthritis ridden hand. The old man smiled through his gas mask, showing the president a mouth of yellow teeth.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd forgotten about me, Mr. President. I've had many a meetings in this office with a new president, but not this late into the start of their administration."

"Well, I apologize for that, Senator."

"It's not you fault," Helms said graciously enough before adding. "You're still new to how we do politics around here. You're just ignorant."

Jeff felt a flash of anger go through him. He was glad he was standing behind Helms so the old man couldn't see his face. The president could, however. Norman's eyes flashed a hint of amusement as he patted Helms' hand and smiled.

"You're right, Senator. I'm still learning the ropes here."

You're a better man than I, Jeff thought. President Norman stood and motioned for Jeff to park Helms next to the sofa. He sat while Jeff placed the aging senator next to the couch. Jeff took a seat on the sofa opposite the two men, something Helms noticed and scowled at.

"Now I thought it was just gonna be the two of us."

"Jeff is my chief of staff," said the president. "He's been serving in that capacity even when we were in the Army. He's my right-hand man. Whatever you can say to me, you can say to him."

"No, I believe it's you who has something to say," Helms wheezed. "You called this meeting, Mr. President. I'm waiting to hear what you want to talk about."

"The bill on foreign aid to Ethiopia is coming to the Senate, and I want assurances that the Southern Caucus will not try to kill or hijack the bill."

"I'm but one man," he said sheepishly. "There are twenty-one other senators who make up the Southern Caucus, each one their own man with their own principles and ideals."

"We both know that's not true. You tell those senators to jump and they say how high." Norman leaned forward, his finger pointing at the old man. "Senator, I'm already tired of having to scrap and fight for every piece of legislation that's important to the country."

"Checks and balances." Helms laced his pale and twisted fingers together and smiled at the president. "The Senate is the ultimate check against the power of the executive."

"No matter what public opinion has to say on the matter?" Jeff asked.

Helms' white faced showed a flash of red as he snarled at Jeff.

"You better mind your manners, boy! Mr. President, is how you train your staff? If this boy were on my staff I'd have him flogged for speaking out of turn."

"I apologize, Senator," the president said with a slightly annoyed look towards Jeff. "I'll see that he's punished adequately. But he does raise a point. Time and time again your body blocks legislation that the House, the president, and even the voters all want and approve of."

"That's horseshit," said Helms. "People are idiots, they don't know what they want. Our Founders thought the same thing. It's why they created the chamber I serve in. The whole reason the Senate exist is to fight against the tyranny of the majority. You want a bill passed through our chamber? Convince us of its merits, or at least give us something in return."

A silence settled in as both Jeff and the president took in the last bit of information from Helms.

"Vice President Reed said you'd try to pull something like this," said Norman.

"That man is a two-faced snake, but he's right on this matter."

The president looked towards Jeff before turning back to Helms.

"What is it you want?"

"The nigger bill," Helms hissed. His entire mouth seemed to twist as he said that word. "I do not want no goddamn bills passing Congress that support federal nigger rights."

Jeff felt his anger rising at the man's callous use of the racial slur. Like always, the president took it all in stride and ignored it.

"Like you reminded me, Senator, Congress is beyond my control. I can't stop a liberal Congressman or Senator from writing up a bill and bringing it to the floor."

"But you can stay neutral on the matter," Helms snapped. "You've said a lot of goddamn things about niggers that make us in the South worried. And then sending that sum bitch Reed to meet with those agitators only worsened matters. I understand you can't come out against civil rights, I know how politics works even though you think I don't. What I want is your solemn promise that you will not push for any type of civil rights bill for the next four years. Anything comes up on the House or Senate floor you stay silent on the matter. Civil rights is an issue for the states. Let us deal with our own niggers our own way."

Norman looked at Jeff again. Jeff nodded slowly.

"What do I get in return?" The president asked.

"This foreign aid bill will pass and you'll have full Southern support behind your legislative agenda, within reason. You try any of that socialist shit like Fernandez and I promise you we'll be filibustering day and night."

The president stood and walked away from Helms and Jeff. He walked around the Resolute desk and gazed out the Oval Office window at the rose garden outside. Jeff knew the deep deliberation the president was currently engaged in. He'd witnessed it many times over the years when the general stood at a crossroad on some important matter.

"Okay," he said after a long minute of silence.

The president turned around and leaned forward against the desk, staring at Helms while he spoke.

"In exchange for Southern Caucus support in the Senate, I promise you that I will not interfere in any civil rights legislative battles."

Helms smiled widely and wheezed out a laugh. It was a short, harsh little thing that sounded more like a death rattle than a joyful noise.

"Well, hot damn. I knew you'd come to your senses, Mr. President!"

-----

Natchez, Mississippi

The sound of gunshots woke Will Johnson from his sleep. He sprung up from the bed and was on the balls of his feet as he raced across the bedroom to his chest of drawers. His wife Shelby was still rubbing sleep from her eyes while Will pulled the rifle from the bottom drawer. It was his rifle from the war. It had served him well during that bitter fighting in the Midwest. He thought he'd never have to use it again after putting it in the bottom drawer three years ago. He still hoped that was the case.

"What's going on?" Shelby asked, still half asleep.

"Get the kids and get in the cellar. Lock yourself in from the inside."

"Will?"

He heard more gunshots on top of each other. They were shotgun blasts followed by loud whooping. It was a sound many black people in the South had come to fear. It was the Rebel Yell. There was a cold feeling in the pit of Will's stomach as he loaded a magazine of bullets into the semi-automatic rifle.

"Shelby, baby. Go get the children and get in the cell. Now."

It had finally dawned on Shelby what was going on. Without a word, she leapt from the bed and raced down the hallway to the two rooms where their four children slept. Will gripped the rifle tight and stood up. He padded through the halls of the house, ignoring his children's confused questions. Shelby raced by with six-month-old Samuel in her arms while seven-year-old Antwan came behind her holding the hands of five-year-old Lucas and three-year-old Ruth. Will followed them to the back porch where the entrance to their cellar lay. A gunshot made Ruth flinch and cry. Her biggest brother tried to console her as Shelby opened up the cellar door and ushered the children in.

"Come inside with us," Shelby said once the children were down inside.

"No, I'm gonna call for help and see what's going on outside. There's not enough room for me inside there."

"Will, don't be stupid," Shelby chided. "We can make it fit. Get inside now."

"I'll be back," he said as he kissed her on the cheek. "Now get in there, you hear?"

She hesitated before going down inside. He gave her a playful swat on the rump and closed the heavy wooden doors behind her. He waited until he heard her bolt the locks before he turned and headed towards their telephone on the kitchen wall. The line had no dial tone nor the voice of an operator asking for a connection. Will closed his eyes and sighed, replacing the phone back on the cradle with shaky hands. Help would not be coming, the ones outside had seen to that. He held the rifle up and walked front door. He could hear voices as he approached the door. It wasn't until he was almost there that he realized he was only wearing a pair of boxers.

"Come on out now, boy."

Standing in front of Will's front porch were a group of six men. They all wore burlap sack masks on their heads and two carried shotguns. He saw white flesh peeking out from their short shirt sleeves. Even from this far away he could smell the liquor on the six men.

"Help you gentlemen?" Will asked.

"We was hoping to help you, boy," one of them said, spitting a wad of tobacco juice from the mouth hole of his mask. "Help you and all your little nigger pals see the way of things."

"Boy," Will repeated. "My daddy is the only one who gets to call me boy. None of y'all are him."

"I might be your daddy," one of them hooted. "I had me a thing for nigger pussy back in the day. It's all pink on the inside, boy."

"That's a nice rifle you got, boy. What white man you steal that from?"

"I got it from the US Army," Will replied with a smirk. "Yessir, I got to shoot all kinds of white men during the war. I think I developed a taste for it. Now, I'm gonna give you fellas to the count of ten." He loaded a round into the rifle. "If y'all aren't off my property by the time I get to that number, I'm gonna start shooting."

"You can count to ten, boy?"

"Count higher than you peckerwoods."

"We ain't going anywhere," one of them said. "And the second you point that rifle at any of us, we open fire and kill your black ass. Then we go inside and rape your woman and kill your pickaninnies."

"Goddamn cowards," said Will, his anger pushing through his collected facade. "You fucking rednecks come to my home and threaten me and my family and wear masks and carry shotguns. You're a bunch of goddamn cowards, the whole lot of you. You can't handle a fucking black man one on one, and you all fucking know it."

"Watch your mouth, boy," one of the masked men said, racking a round into his shotgun.

"Y'all afraid to fight me," Will said with a bitter laugh. "That's what it is. I'll make you fine and upstanding white men a deal. One of you fight me one on one. I win, you all go back to fucking your sisters and cows. I lose, lynch me or whatever you want to do with me but it stops with me. Not my wife and not my children."

"Fuck you--"

"Do it," one of the men said with a giggle. "I wanna see this uppity nigger get his ass beat before we kill him."

It got quiet between the six masked men. They lowered their voices so Will couldn't hear them discuss whatever it was they were discussing.

"No guns," one of them said to Will after deliberation. "We'll put ours on the truck if you leave yours on the porch."

"I won't need a fucking gun to take care of you. Now, y'all pick which one of you that wants to get their ass whipped."

True to their word, the white men put their shotguns on the hood of one of the two pick-up trucks they rode in, parked in the driveway to block Will's own truck. Will left his rifle on the porch and stood facing the biggest of the six white men while his five comrades stood in a semi-circle watching. The white man was bigger than Will by at least three inches, putting him at six foot two, but he was also forty to fifty pounds heavier. The weight was all fat. He was some white man who had a soft job. He wasn't like Will. Twenty years of twelve and fourteen hour days out in the cotton fields had made him wiry and lean. He was the only man in basic training that had to actually put on weight in order to meet the Army's requirements.

(Mood Music)

The white man made the first swing. It was a slow and telegraphed thing that Will saw coming all the way. He dipped and dodged it with ease. Will wanted so bad to make the fist blow, but he knew he couldn't. He could mop the floor with this slow and fat redneck, but he had to act in defense. Being too aggressive would draw their ire, and these drunken white men held his life and the life of his family in their hands. In the back of his mind he knew they were just toying with him, but he held out hope that they would be true to their word and let them live if he won.

Will felt a growing sense of unease from the men after another slow punch he avoided. One of them muttered something about him being too fast, about how he and his whole kind were bred to be fast and vicious like animals. That flipped something inside of him. Will had always been rash when it came to matters of race. He was far bolder than other black men his age. Compared to James Calhoun down the road, he was a downright radical. The crack from the white man set off his old trigger.

A hard right hook knocked the white man backward into his friends. They shoved him forward and he stumbled right into Will's waiting right uppercut. He felt like Jack Johnson reincarnated as he hit the drunken white man with a three punch combo that sent him reeling. The fight was his and he knew it. And he hoped like hell these peckerwoods knew it too. His rage over years and years of forced subservience to white trash came boiling out as he fought this white man. One more slow punch got countered and a vicos right jab made something pop inside the burlap mask. It was his nose, Will knew right away that he had broken it with his fist. The white man yelled and started to grab it. Will was preparing to go in for the kill when he felt something hard crash against the back of his head. The blow sent him spinning to the ground. He looked up and saw one of the men standing above him with a revolver in his hands, the barrel dripping his blood. Five of the white men stomped on him while he was on the ground, the sixth nursing his broken nose. Their hard soled boots crashed against his body. Will screamed as he felt a bone in his leg snap. He bit his tongue and stopped screaming as blood filled his mouth. He felt his jaw snap at the same time the back of his skull fractured.

"Fucking cheating nigger," one of them said.

Will tried to talk, but his body was in too much pain to muster up a response. The left him there and went towards their trucks. He tried to move, but the pain that went through his body was too much to bear. Two of the men came back into view. They carried a pair of glass bottles with cloth stuck down the neck. Will tried to scream, but it came out as a muffled and bloody rasp. He forced his body to move, fighting through the pain to crawl towards the men with the bottles. The men lit the rags on fire with lighters and tossed them at the house. The gas-filled bottles exploded against the house and consumed the home in flames. Within seconds, it was a raging inferno.

Trying to muster every bit of his willpower, Will tried to force himself to get back up and get his rifle off the porch. One of the men stood over him with a shotgun. From somewhere far away, Will heard the sounds of his family screaming and he smelled the scent of burning flesh.

"This is what happens to niggers who don't know their place."

He brought the butt of the shotgun down on Will's face.

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

I've got about half a post done, but I figured people posting would get me up and at 'em to finish it

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

Somebody post, please. Pls, somebody post.

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

That moment when I go to make a page for Michael Norman and I realize there's already a page for him so now I feel awkward.

I did upload the portrait to the Wiki though, so whatever you want to do, Byrd.

@Dinh AaronMk

I like what you wrote. I'll probably fold that into the other wiki page.

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

Chicago

"Look alive, assholes."

Johnny Leggario glanced up from the plans on the table at the overweight figure strutting into the hideout. Chicago PD Lieutenant Stephen Bukowski wore a shit-eating grin that Johnny had come to hate over the past few days. Bukowski was one of Bobby C's pet cops and their inside man for the current bank job. He was here simply because Bobby demanded it before giving his consent to the job.

Johnny, Prussian Joe, Mick Mahoney, and Roger, the bank crew's wheelman were already waiting for Bukowski when he showed up. They had been waiting for nearly an hour before the cop finally arrived. The base of their operation was a gutted out building on the Southside. One of Johnny's guys torched it two months earlier for some white collar schmuck looking to collect insurance on the place.

"About time," Prussian Joe said coldly. Like Johnny, the little German did not want Bukowski on the job and his feelings on the matter grew as he learned more and more about him.

"I know types like you can't understand, but I have an actual job that I have to do."

Johnny could smell the booze on Bukowski's breath the second he opened his mouth. There was a prohibition on alcohol and drugs that Prussian Joe enforced in the days leading up to the job. He said booze and dope made guys sloppy and sloppiness on a job could get someone killed or put in stir. Johnny understood his outlook. He never fucked with drugs and only drank occasionally so agreeing to Joe's demand was easy enough. Bukowski it seemed hadn't got the memo.

"Whatever the excuse," Prussian Joe as impassively as he could. "We need to finish the final walkthrough before tonight. Gather around the table, please."

The five men stood around the cheap card table the German had set up in the middle of the room. On the table were two maps, one of the street that the First National Bank sat on, the other the floor plan for the bank. Joe had the maps marked with notes and pins to mark his observations.

"In twelve hours, we are going to rob the First National Bank of Chicago," Joe said to start the presentation off. "At exactly ten minutes past midnight, we will begin. With Lieutenant Bukowski back at the local precinct as night watch commander, the four of us will be on the ground here. Team 1 will be comprised of myself and Johnny. Team 2 will be Mick and Roger."

Joe pointed to a spot just down the street from the bank.

"Team 2 will trip the power breaker for the block. This will temporarily disable the local power grid, the bank's alarm system with it as well. Once the power is out, Johnny and I will break into the bank and overload the faulty alarm system. As soon as Chicago Power and Water reroute power back to the area, the alarm will fry itself out before it can activate. Once that is done, Roger will drop Mick off at the bank and drive to a lookout point further down the block and park. Once inside the bank, Mick will use his tools to break into the vault. By disabling the alarm and doing this at night, we will have a seven-hour window to break that vault open and walk out with all the cash inside. While Mick works, Johnny and I will serve as lookouts. A freak power outage will draw CPD's interest. Is that correct, Lieutenant?"

"Yeah," Bukowski belched. "The bank will definitely be on our list to check up on. It'll be just a pass by, maybe a wiggle of the front door. As long as you don't damage the door breaking in and stay out of sight after you're inside you'll be alright."

"What's the response time if we fuck it up?" Johnny asked Bukowski.

"If the alarm goes off, the nearest patrol car can be there in five minutes," the man said with a shrug. "The precinct won't roll out in force until a patrolman has identified that it's an actual robbery and not a false alarm."

Joe bent down with a pencil and scribbled the information on his plans. He stood back up and stared long and hard at the plans. Johnny knew he was debating the odds, about what would happen if he just walked away right now. But Johnny knew that the little German was just like him, trapped. They'd given Bobby C. their word that they could take the bank, and Bobby threw them a curveball with this fucking hump who seemed too drunk or too stupid to trust. Backing out now would piss Bobby C. off, and he was one of the worst people to piss off. Joe glanced towards him and Johnny knew exactly what he was thinking because Johnny had the same thought. If Joe backed out now, Bobby C. would have him killed and it would be Johnny that did the killing.

"Scheiss drauf," he said in his native tongue before nodding. "The four of us will meet back here at eight tonight and prepare for the job. Afterward, we meet up here to split the take. If things go bad, then we have the fallback spot. That's it."

The crew started to break up and go their separate ways. Johnny stayed back and offered Joe a cigarette. They smoked in silence until they were alone.

"Penny for your thoughts," Johnny said.

"I don't like it," Joe said, blowing smoke above his head. "But what choice do I have now? Bukowski is sloppy, Mahoney is jittery from abstaining from heroin over the last three days, and my wheelman is too quiet for my liking. That aside, it is the lieutenant that bothers me the most. At best he is a lush fuck-up that will not keep his mouth shut. We'll pull this off, but we may be forced to leave town for good."

"And at worse," Johnny asked, "What is Bukowski?"

"Greedy," Joe said as he tossed his cigarette butt on the ground. "And greedy people start to realize a heist splits better one way than it does five."

----

Nate Parker couldn't stop his hands from shaking.

He sat in the anteroom of SAC Shriver's office with a small collection of agents, all of them as nervous and on edge as he. The whole eighteenth floor had been on edge over the past three days. That was to be expected since Mr. Ford was in town on an inspection tour.

Carl Ford, director of the Federal Crime Bureau, had a very specific idea on how an FCB field office should be run. If anything wasn't to his liking, the offending party was given a stern rebuke if not outright dismissal. Nate checked and double checked that his suit was lint free and had no threads showing. Mr. Ford also had a very specific idea on how all FCB agents and support staff should dress. There were rumors around the Bureau that his obsession with order and neatness was because he was a homosexual. One particular nickname was Cocksucker Carl, but nobody in their right mind ever discussed those matters anywhere near the Murray Building. Despite drawing the ire of over 2/3rds of the Bureau, Mr. Ford had all the Bureau afraid of his cold wrath and cutting remarks.

"Special Agent Parker," Shriver's secretary called out. "Mr. Ford will see you now."

Nate stood and tried to hide his wobbling legs as best he could. The rest of the agents watched him impassively. While their faces were neutral, their eyes contained relief that their names hadn't been called. Nate adjusted his tie, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and followed the secretary inside to Shriver's office.

Ted Shriver, head of the Chicago regional office, sat behind his desk while Mr. Ford sat in a chair to Shriver's left. Shriver was fat and bald, the stereotypical idea of what a cop looked like right down to his triple chin. It surprised Nate to see how young Mr. Ford was. He was short, a few inches shorter than Nate, but rail thin. He'd gone gray prematurely, but that gray hair was combed into a boyish part on his left side. He looked to be around Nate's age somewhere in his early to mid 40's, but he may be even younger for all Nate knew. The director wore a baggy gray double-breasted suit and stared at Nate with cold blue eyes.

"Nate," Shriver said, neither he or Ford bothering to stand. "Welcome, take a seat."

Nate nodded to both Shriver and Ford as he sat in the chair facing Shriver's desk. The SAC shuffled papers around his desk until he came to what he was looking for. The paper was translucent enough so that he could see through it and tell what it was. It was a personnel file. His personnel file, he wagered.

"You've been with the Bureau a good many years," Shriver said as he passed the paper to Mr. Ford. Nate couldn't help but look at Ford's face as he looked it over. "How do you like the work?"

"It's the best in the world."

"Then how come you've requested assignment changes eight different times, Special Agent Parker?" Ford asked in a quick, clipped voice. Nate caught a hint of a Massachusetts accent. "Do you not have the stomach for it?"

Nate had to choose his next words very carefully. He knew what he wanted to say, that wiretapping Communist was a waste of the FCB's time, money, and energy. He wanted to say that there was nothing to be found with those people other than sob sisters. But he also knew the price for candidness could be the end of his career.

"I prefer more stimulating work, sir," Nate said. "Political surveillance is fine work, but people who don't want to be caught are much more harder to catch than people who advertise their 'subversive' meetings in the local newspaper."

"Make no mistake, Special Agent," said Ford. "There is no greater threat to our nation than radical, domestic terrorism. The work of those bomb-throwers in Vancouver will serve as an inspiration to both communists and negro supremacist moving forward. You may be enamored with the mafia, Special Agent Parker, but you should focus on the real dangerous ones. We must be vigilant at all times."

Ford paused, glancing down at Nate's file, before he looked up with a wicked grin.

"I wonder, Special Agent Parker, if your disdain for your current assignment comes from your leftist tendencies. Do you feel a kinship with the stalwart communist or the suffering negro?"

"No, sir," Nate said, realizing too late that he had responded too quickly.

"I find you fascinating, Special Agent Parker," Ford said with another grin. He passed the file back to Shriver and smirked. "You are a mess of contradictions. A devout Catholic, yet you support liberal causes that the church condemns. Top marks from law school, yet you shun practicing it to come to the Bureau. You yearn for field work despite being a coward who received poor field marks the last time you were in the field. I will not ask for a digression on your philosophical outlook, not just yet anyway. But I do have a question. Do you still seek a reassignment?"

"Yes, sir," Nate said softly. His hands were white from squeezing them together so hard.

"Then you will have the opportunity. There is a job the Bureau needs completed, a job that I think you call a 'black bag job' in the parlance of the trade."

Nate raised his eyebrows. He pushed his glasses up and looked surprised.

"Why me?"

"I told the director you are an ace bug man," Shriver spoke up. "Nobody better in the entire midwest."

"You are indeed a fine practitioner of the voyeuristic arts," said Ford. "Do you like to be privy to others private conversations, Special Agent Parker?"

"Only when they say something worth hearing, sir."

"Excellent. For what I have in mind, I need someone who can do the job and do it quietly. Nobody outside this room will know of it. Success will see you reassigned to the Mafia squad here in Chicago. Failure will see your outright termination. Furthermore, I will use the powers I have here at the FCB to see that you are unable to pass the bar exam in Illinois or anywhere else in the United States. I will let your brilliant legal mind atrophy purely out of spite. What do you say, Special Agent Parker?"

"I'm in," Nate said without hesitation.

"Nate," said Shriver. "Have you ever been to Arizona?"

-----

Sun City, Arizona

"You a Jew?"

"I am."

"I figured as much. With that nose, you're either a Jaw or a hawk."

Shecky Lemon, insult comic extraordinaire, walked through the smoke-filled lounge room while the audience laughed and applauded. His short and dumpy little frame was illuminated by the spotlight above the stage. He squinted through the dark and picked out his next target.

"This your wife?" Shecky asked a seated couple.

"Yes, sir," the man replied proudly.

"Yeesh," Lemon said into the mic. "Don't know if you know this, sir, but bestiality is against the law. I ain't saying she's a dog, but throw a stick on the floor and see if she brings it back."

From backstage, Barry Chambers watched Shecky warm up the crowd. He counted maybe two dozen watching Shecky's performance and felt a stab of disappointment at the small number. This was supposed to be his comeback. Two months into his year-long run at the Desert Rose and already the crowds were half of what they had started out as. The sight made him want a drink and a cigarette despite his swearing off of them. The cigarettes were bad for his voice and the booze nearly killed him ten years ago. Still, old habits were hard to kick.

"Folks," Shecky said as he climbed back onto the stage. "We've had a lot of fun here tonight... well, I've had a lot of fun I don't know about you all. I've kidded and had a lot of fun. Why? Because I can, because I have the microphone and you don't. You've all been great sports."

The piano kicked on, playing Shecky's close out number. Per his act, Shecky looked back at the piano player and scowled.

"That's the best you can do? Jesus. Four million piano players in this country and I got the one with palsy. Anyway, folks, I want to end my set on an uplifting note. I'll end tonight with a quote our great president Michael Norman said just the other night... 'What's going on?' I kid, but let me go ahead and bring out your headliner. You know him from thirty years of music making magic. Let me say this, because I know he's listening, Barry... I never liked you! Ladies and gentlemen, Boppin' Barry Chambers!"

Barry walked out on the stage amid the applause, smiling and waving at the crowd. He quickly shook hands with Shecky before the comedian darted off backstage. With a wink, Barry took the microphone into his hands and motioned for the orchestra behind him to kick up.

"Harbor lights," he crooned into the microphone.

The room broke out in light applause at the mention of Boppin' Barry's most famous tune. The band broke out into the slow, melodic jazz that he had sung along with for over thirty years.

"I saw the harbor lights. They only told me we were parting. The same old harbor lights that once brought you to me. I watched the harbor lights, how could I help if tears were starting? Goodbye to tender nights beside the silvery sea."

Some middle-aged housewife in the crowd swooned as Barry broke out his wolfish grin. She was probably in grade school when Barry recorded Harbor Lights. It reminded him of his age and what he once was. He'd packed clubs and gigs so full that they were fire hazards, most of the mob was beautiful girls that were young and supple. Now, those kinds of girls had no interest in his music. Even if he did attract that type, he couldn't keep up. The new music was shit, and Barry had no problem telling everyone that. No singing, just moaning and howling, and the actual music? Like nails on a chalkboard. His kids said he was being an old fogey, but even Barry's love of all things music couldn't help him love this "rocking music" everyone was going crazy over.

"I long to hold you, dear, and kiss you just once more," he sang, directing his charms towards the swooning woman. "But you were on the ship and I was on the shore. Now I know lonely nights for all the while my heart keeps praying that someday harbor lights will bring you back to me."

The song faded as the band finished. The crowd applauded loudly, or as loudly as a crowd this size could applaud. The small size and the lack of enthusiasm turned him off something fierce. He felt like telling this group of rubes and hicks to fuck off and go back to whatever shithole town they lived in. But Barry was a performer, and the show had to go on.

"Thank you so much, folks," he said with a smile. "You know how to make me feel welcomed. Thank you all for coming out tonight. It's an honor to be here at the Desert Rose and to have you all here with me. This next song we're about to play is a favorite of mine. It's called Huston. Here we go."

More light applause as the band started on an uptempo number. Clarence in the band stood up and launched into the mini sax solo that started the song. After he finished, Barry started to sing.

"I just met Huston, he was looking for your door. He said he'd like to buy a horse..."

-----

Little Walter led his pack of bikers down the brightly illuminated Sun City Strip. The seven choppers roared through traffic, past the flashing casino lights and gawking pedestrians. A fat man in a Hawaiian shirt stared at Walter. He smiled and flipped him off as he sped by. Walter wore his black Horde cut along with a flannel shirt, a pair of tattered blue jeans, and cowboy boots. His thick black beard blew in the wind. The rest of the Horde was just as scraggly as he was, some of them even more so. Out here in the Southwest, they were the lower class white. They weren't Mexicans or Indians, but they sure as shit got treated like they were by the people who mattered. Or at least the people who society said mattered.

Not giving a fuck was what the Horde was all about. They rejected society before society had a chance to do the same. They were outcasts on their own accord, a pack of misfits and rejects nobody gave a shit about before they put on the cut. Most of them were war vets, Walter included. The war fucked them up and they just couldn't fit in anymore. Walter knew that was true of himself. He'd served in the Northwest and saw what the NWC did to Seattle. How the fuck could someone see all that carnage and expect to go back to a normal life?

The Horde gave the guys a place in the world. They had someone who cared about him, for Little Walter cared about his guys. You didn't become president of the MC without caring about the guys and doing what it took to protect them. That's what tonight's meeting was about, protecting the club for the future. The pack raced down the Strip and out of town, heading east towards the airport on the city outskirts.

The motel a block away from the airport was their destination. The Board of Directors didn't want to meet in any of their casinos, and they sure as hell didn't want to come into California to talk to the Horde and the Tribe. They wanted to be on their own turf where the cops were on their payroll. Both the Horde and Tribe had cops they bought, but not like the Board. The Board had the entire Sun County Sheriff's Department in their back pocket, the entire local and state government too for that matter. The Horde and the Tribe both were small time compared to the mob and Walter knew it. He hoped one day that would change.

They pulled around to the back of a three-story motel where a couple of cops were waiting for them. A big guy with a blonde crewcut and a Marine Corp tattoo on his forearm was waiting with a shorter, lean guy wearing a fedora and smoking a cigarette. They flashed their deputy sheriff badges and motioned for Little Walter and his men to spread their arms and legs.

"Fuck you, Jarhead," Jerry spat, literally spitting at the big guy's feet and barely missing.

"Bet you fucks were a bunch of Army assholes," the big guy said. "Retards with guns is what we called you."

"My Ass Rides In Navy Equipment," said Walter. "MARINE."

The big guy was about to reply, but his partner put a hand on his shoulder and looked at Walter and the MC.

"Just do what he says," the cop said with a withered look. "And that's coming from former Army Airborne, motherfuckers. Now spread 'em and prepared to be frisked."

"What happened to the Second fucking Amendment?" Walter asked as the big guy roughly patted him down.

"It's been suspended," the guy in the hat replied. "This isn't America, asshole, it's Sun City."

The two cops didn't find any weapons on the Horde and led them inside. The motel's conference room had a professional feel about it despite its very unprofessional clientele. A large, circular conference table was set up in the middle with chairs all around it. Sitting at a third of the table was Frenchie Gallo, operator of the Lucky Gent Casino, and members of the Board of Directors. The three guys represented the American Mafia's ruling council in Sun City. They all were representatives for one of the large crime syndicates across the country. Frenchie spoke for the Fortunato Family out of New York, Benny D'Amico was Bobby C's guy in Sun City, and Sal Valestra was the youngest brother of the L.A. boss Carmine Valestra.

Filling the other third of the table was the Tribe. Standing Bear Tallchief and a gaggle of a half dozen Indians were talking amongst themselves, eating the finger food the Board provided for the meeting. The Tribe members that made eye contact when the Horde came in made sure it was a cold look. Standing Bear and Walter came to a peace agreement last year, but that didn't change the contempt both sides felt for the other. Jake Tallchief in particular looked at Walter like he wanted to crush his skull. Walter knew he probably could, the big motherfucker, if he tried hard enough. Walter would never give that bastard the satisfaction. He'd gouge his fucking eyes out if he ever got close enough to lay a hand on Walter.

"Now that the gangs all here," Frenchie said as he stood. His accent was French Canadian, not enough to be thick but it was enough to remind people where he came from. "Let's get this shit over with, huh? Everyone take your seat and we'll begin."

Walter and the rest of the Horde took their seats at the table, facing Standing Bear and the Tribe. While everyone else took a seat, Frenchie remained standing. The two cops took a spot near the far wall and watched it all go down with their arms crossed, looking bored at the scene.

"I'd like to start this meeting by giving my thanks to Standing Bear and Little Walter both for consenting to this meeting. We know when it comes to Sun City, the Board is very protective about its interest here and any outside influence."

No shit, thought Walter. After butting heads with the Board, the MC had been ruled persona non grata in Sun City for the past three years. Any biker caught on this side of the state line would get the shit beaten out of them or worse. The Horde respected the ruling because unlike the Tribe, the Board could actually back its threat with muscle. That was why they had two cops guarding the meeting. The weren't actually scared that either gang would pull something at the meeting. They just wanted to remind both the bikers and the Indians just how much of the town they owned.

"After several meetings with the members of the national syndicates, it has been decided to open up a new revenue scheme here in the Southwest. Where's that goddamn map?"

One of the young men that made up the Board's entourage passed Frenchie a map of America. The mobster eyed it and snapped at the boy to hold it up high enough for everyone to see. He pointed a fat forefinger at the west coast.

"We want to set up a pipeline here in the west. Law enforcement have been cracking down on our ports in the east, so we're in need of a new way to get shit into the country."

"My brother Carmine in L.A.," said Sal Valestra, "has given assurances that anything we wish to pass through the Los Angeles port will go through without any hassle. My brother is a man of his word."

"Where do we come in?" Standing Bear asked.

"Delivery service," replied Frenchie. "The Horde has chapters up and down the coast, yes? It wouldn't be uncommon for you guys to ride up to Washington or, fuck, even Vancouver one weekend with a little something-something in your saddle bags. A dozen of you on a long-haul ride could carry some serious weight."

"That makes sense," said Little Walter. "But what the fuck do the Tribe here have to do with it?"

"They're what gets the shit east," said Benny D'Amico. "The northern route of delivery is out of reach thanks to some disputes in the Dakotas. But if what we're smuggling can reach Sun City unharmed, we can send it on to Kansas City or New Orleans and have it in NYC in two days time. Now here in Arizona, we got everyone who matters sucking on the tit. But your part of California? That fucking desert, we don't know anyone and we don't know where to throw our money so it'll stick. But the Tribe does. The way we hear it, fucking Standing Bear has half the state legislature owing him favors and all the bigwigs in Riverside County have big tabs at the Tomahawk."

"More or less," said Standing Bear. "I've been in local politics a long time. I know where the bodies are buried, figuratively and literally."

"Shit, buying people off," spat Walter. "We could fucking do that."

"You can't do shit," snapped Standing Bear. "You don't have the money to buy anything other than that coke you're always snorting."

"Fuck you, redman!"

"Fuck you," Jake Tallchief said, standing. "Talking to my uncle like that, you motherfucker!"

Walter stood as well and yelled over Jake's threats. "We need another goddamn Wounded Knee for you savage assholes!"

"Shut the fuck up," Frenchie yelled, pounding his fist on the table. "If this shit is gonna work, we need full cooperation from both of you, you hear me? Full cooperation. We can all make a lot of money by getting along. If not, you pieces of shit can go back to jerking each other off in the California desert. Am I being clear?"

"What's the cut?" Standing Bear asked, still staring at Walter out the corner of his eye.

"The Board gets sixty percent profit, with the two of you equally splitting the remaining forty."

"Fuck that," said Walter. "We're taking all the risks in transport and we get the same shit as the fucking Indians who get to sit on their asses? Fuck no."

"That's the opening split," said Frenchie. "But if this gets humming and we make the type of profit we want, then you'll both get bumped to thirty-three percent. Three-way split between every party, we're talking tens of millions of dollars. Drugs, guns, and whatever else we want coming in from overseas and filling a demand that the consumers of America sorely need. I like to think of myself as a businessman, and this is an investment opportunity you have a chance to get into on the ground floor. But if you walk away, that's it. We will go ahead with our plans, regardless of what it does to your business. We gave you a chance, remember that."

"I'm in," Standing Bear said without hesitation. "That twenty percent is profit on top of profit."

All eyes fell on the Horde and Walter. He looked at his guys. He was president, but he still had rules to follow. He could not decide for the club, but he and the other members here represented a quorum of the club's voting members.

"All those in favor?"

Six hands shot up in the air. Walter followed suit, raising his hand to show his consent.

"The ayes have it. Frenchie, we're in business."

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

"Get off my plane!"

A Town Called Justice (The Epic Crime Saga Returns)

Maybe.

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

I almost called it Operation Hoser.