Byrd Man

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

No, it just seems the world is conspiring against me being able to write all I want to write.

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

I'll see what I can do. After a nice run last fall, I've been struggling.

Heroes For Hire: Crime, Superheroes, Politics, etc.

"I’m not an American. I’m one of the 22 million black people who are the victims of Americanism. One of the 22 million black people who are the victims of democracy, nothing but disguised hypocrisy...I don’t see any American dream; I see an American nightmare."
-- Malcolm X

131st Street
Harlem

Luke stood on the sidewalk and watched the traffic coming and going. The tension from the afternoon had all but evaporated once news got out that the grand jury on the Alderman case were going to need further time. After a week in deliberation, they were still deadlocked. That didn't bode well for the family of Isiah Hamilton. A deadlocked jury would mean a potential mistrial, which could mean a dismissal of the charges. It was one of the many sneaky ways the criminal justice system could get away with not punishing one of their own. It was why they needed Tommy Drayton more than ever. Luke wasn't foolish enough to think one politician could turn things around overnight, but he knew a guy like Tommy could implement a cultural change that might take a decade to see the benefits of. But incremental change was sure as shit better than what they had right now.

"GIVE TO THA LAWD!"

Luke had to suppress a laugh when he heard the shrill cry. On the corner of Lennox and 131st street, was Sister Mercy doing her thing. Sister Mercy had been working the corners of Upper Manhattan for nearly twenty years now, dressed in her black nun habit and ringing that bell while she shouted about fire and brimstone and the only way to heaven was to give to the lawd.

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

You wouldn't think it by looking at her, but the sister was without a doubt the best street hustler of all the would-be conmen and scammers operating out on the streets. It didn't hurt that she has a dynamite racket. It takes real balls to impersonate a nun, and the sister had balls. The truth was that sister is a brother by the name of Jackson Coleman. Jackson was a former B&E man who hit the right racket to feed his drug addiction. Luke knew him back before he went to jail, back when he was gangbanger Carl Lucas. They got back in touch after Luke's homecoming and Luke found an unlikely ally in the hustler. From time to time over the years Sister Mercy helped him out with errands and intel for a price. A cross-dressing junkie nun who cons people with a bell and the bible. Luke had to grin. Where else but Harlem?

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

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

"Wondering if you had your ear to the ground on something, Sister. You know Tommy Drayton? Someone tried to snuff him earlier today."

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

"That's out of my range, brother. Politics and shit. You need a Day of the Jackal-type motherfucker to pull off something like that. I just know about hustlers. It's been quiet the last few weeks around Harlem, far as any action is concerned."

"What about your network? All those homeless fools."

Sister Mercy stopped ringing her bell for a second before she nodded. "Joe the Bum. He's a homeless guy that bottom feeds by hanging around political campaigns. He gets a few sandwiches here and there for running errands and wearing signs at rallies. I think he was hanging out around Drayton and his people. He may have seen something. I'll run him down for you."

"You better, Sister. I don't want to kick a nun's ass."

"I do what I can nigga," she whispered softly. "I'll be here tomorrow morning with Joe the Bum."

"Sister, I could kiss you..."

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

Luke laughed and started home to Jess and Dani. It'd been a long day, and he had a pretty big task in front of him. Sister Mercy was right that this kind of case seemed a bit out of his range. He wasn't a political intrigue guy. But he was a Harlem guy. Harlem was where Drayton was from and that was where they'd tried to kill him. This was a Harlem crime, and when it came to Harlem crimes he was very much in his depth.

Heroes For Hire: Crime, Superheroes, Politics, etc.

"Government by organized money is just as dangerous as Government by organized mob. Never before in all our history have these forces been so united against one candidate as they stand today. They are unanimous in their hate for me. And I welcome their hatred."
-- Franklin D. Roosevelt

Harlem Hosptial Center

Luke sipped lukewarm coffee from a paper cup. David Kincaid, Thomas Drayton's campaign manager, sat beside him with his own cup. The two men were in a small waiting room off to the side of the hospital's ICU section. Kincaid had cleaned the blood from his glasses, but he still wore the torn clothes from the bombing.

"Most people took it as a joke," Kincaid said between sips of coffee. "Thomas running for mayor. A community activist from Harlem running with almost no political base. He got skunked in the democratic primary and decided to go independent."

"I've known Tommy a long time. He's stubborn."

Luke didn't think Tommy's run for mayor as a joke or a pipedream. When it seemed like a lot of people didn't care about Harlem, Tommy Drayton did. The man was always doing something for the people of Harlem through fundraisers, community meetings, and food drives. He talked the talk and walked the walk. It made Cage admire and respect the hell out of him for being able to make a difference.

"Well, the last poll numbers indicate that it's paying off. He's five points behind Don Robinson, the Republican candidate, and twenty behind Democratic candidate Ted Brown. There's still a lot of ground to cover between now and then, but I know for sure we can pass Robinson and at least make it a fight with Brown."

"I was about to ask about enemies," Luke said after he finished off his coffee. "But I have a feeling the list would be too long to name."

"Heh. Anyone in this city with something to lose is against us. Wall Street, NYPD, both parties... but now it looks like Republicans are rooting for us because we steal away from Brown's base. Everyone else though..."

The door to the waiting room pushed open. Tommy Drayton came in. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his shirt was singed and spattered with blood. He looked tired. His whole body seemed to sag when he saw Luke and Kincaid. Luke stood and embraced the smaller man in a large hug.

"I'm glad you're here, Luke."

"Nowhere else I'd be, brother."

"How bad is it, sir?" Kincaid asked.

"Vernon is going to lose his leg," Drayton said as he pulled away from Luke. "Denny was in the driver's seat of the car when the bomb went off. He died as soon as it blew up. He's the only one who died. Vernon is going to stay in ICU for at least a few more days. Everyone else is going to be okay."

"Where do you need me, Tommy?" Cage asked Drayton. "Bodyguard work? I'll be your shadow."

"No," Drayton said with a shake of his head. "Detective work. The FBI and NYPD are looking into who blew up that car, but I don't trust them. They work for people who want to see this campaign fail. I need outside help, someone who can go places cops can't. What I need, is a hero."

"Shit," Cage said under his breath. "Looks like you just hired one."

Heroes For Hire: Crime, Superheroes, Politics, etc.

"When you put your foot on a man's neck and hold him down for three hundred years, and then you let him up, what's he going to do? He's going to knock your block off."
-- Lyndon B. Johnson

St. Nicholas Park
Harlem

"Can't trust the police!"

"No justice! No peace!"

The young man with a megaphone stood at the top of a flight of steps in the park. Below him was a small crowd of around two hundred. Save for a few Hispanics and whites, the crowd was almost entirely black. They carried signs that read "Justice for Isiah!" and "No More Black Murders!" and chanted along with the young man at the top of the stairs. Flanking the gathering were cops in riot gear.

"Can't trust the police!"

"No justice! No peace!"

Cage mingled through the crowd as he headed towards the front. He was given a wide berth as he passed through the mass of people. A 6'6", 350-pound brother tended to always get a wide berth wherever he went. Even though they let him pass, he could feel the animosity in the air. He wasn't sure if it was directed at him, or if it was a general lashing out at this whole situation.

"People who run this country do not care about black people," the young man said into his megaphone. "They have never cared about us. The story of America is one of arriving here to rise above your circumstance. That is not our narrative! Free black people were stolen and sent across the ocean and used as property for hundreds of years. We cannot rise above our circumstances when the white man keeps his head on the tops of our heads and pushes us down. We cannot better ourselves through education when white lawmakers defund our education system, making sure only the poorest public schools are hurt by it. We're forced to live in ghettos because the white people in the suburbs employ unfair housing practices. We cannot vote for better politicians when voter ID laws and felon laws disenfranchise black people. One hundred and fifty years since we were freed, and we're still slaves!"

Cage made his way to the front of the crowd and looked up at the young man. He knew the kid well. Antwan Glover was his neighbor in the old apartment he had, back before Jess and Dani were in his life. He hadn't seen the kid in nearly five years. He'd grown up fast in that time, and now he was out here doing this.

"Worse yet, there are some black people who conspire to keep us down."

Antwan's eyes focused on Cage as he spoke.

"They talk about being black and working for the community, but they hobnob with the enemy. They chill with the Avengers, with white billionaires who profit on the blood in the streets, who make their money by sending black men to die for white causes. Those black people are traitors to their race, traitors to their class, and traitors to their hood!"

Cage felt his blood rising at the accusations. He started to shout back, but the loud din of the crowd drowned him out as he tried to defend himself from the bullshit Antwan was spouting. The people around him began to jostle him, no small feat with his size. They shouted in his face and tried to push him back. They were failing, but he let himself be pushed around the crowd until he was out of it. His face felt hot with rage as he stormed away from the park and towards the street. Antwan and the rest of the crowd was back in chanting mode while the kid kept throwing out the usual lines.

"Mr. Cage."

Luke turned and saw a man in a suit standing by the sidewalk. It took Cage just a second to notice blood spritzed on his eyeglasses and his torn necktie.

"I called your office number. Your wife said you'd probably be here?"

"Who are you?" Luke asked with a raised eyebrow.

"It's Thomas Drayton," he said softly. "He needs your help."

Heroes For Hire: Crime, Superheroes, Politics, etc.

Part I:
Hope and Change

While there is a lower class, I am in it, while there is a criminal element, I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.
-- Eugene Debs

Harlem

Two cop cars sped down the streets with their blue lights flashing and their sirens going. They were quickly followed by another two and a SWAT van. Luke Cage walked the blue convoy from the sidewalk, his yellow hoodie up and covering his bald head. He knew exactly where the convoy was headed and what their purpose was.

Sometime today, NYPD officer Eric Alderman was going to be acquitted by a New York grand jury. Luke wasn't psychic. He couldn't see the future like a mutant. Luke just knew how the world worked. Alderman was a white police officer who killed Isiah Hamilton, a forty-four-year-old black man, because he said he feared for his life. Hamilton was resisting arrest, but he was also not armed when he was shot dead by Officer Alderman. If viewed on the surface and with all the facts, Alderman would be held responsible in some fashion even if it was manslaughter. But facts seemed to have no place in this case. Alderman killed Hamilton six months ago and the story had been national news ever since. Six months of media spin, media counter-spin, and media scrutinity had twisted the story into a muddled narrative that divided and angered.

The police were for Harlem and the expected outrage at the grand jury decision. Luke knew Harlem and he knew the people there would be pissed. And why wouldn't they? The city was a far cry from the rough and tumble days of the 70's and 80's, and that was due to sheer brute force and over saturation of police. A primarily white police force policing a primarily black neighborhood always led to conflict clash. Hamilton was Harlem born and bred while Alderman lived in far off Rockaway Beach and commuted to work every day. He was just one of thousands of cops that policed neighborhoods they had no stake in. The people of Harlem, Cage included, saw the cops as an occupying force. Another white cop getting off for killing a black man would be too much for some people to take. They'd be angry and they'd want to lash out.

Two more cop cars sped by, blue lights pulsing. Luke spat on the sidewalk and started uptown in the direction they were heading. If the shit was going to pop off, he wanted to be there. White faces with guns calling for peace and order wouldn't work the same way Luke Cage calling for peace would. The grand jury he couldn't influence, but he could at least do some good when the news broke.

-----

Marucs Garvey Community Center
Harlem

"We are scared. We are angry, and we are tired."

Thomas Drayton looked out at the crowd gathered at the rally. It wasn't much, but it was more and more ever since his mayoral campaign started two months ago. The faces in the crowd were still majority black, but more and more hispanic and asian and white people were coming to the rallies to see the man running for mayor.

"Right now, we're awaiting word from a grand jury that will tell us an outcome we already know. A sworn officer for the city of New York took an oath to uphold the laws of the city, and he broke that oath when he killed Isiah Hamilton. And what does he get for taking a human life? What does he get for robbing our community of another black man, a family of a son and a daughter of her father? This officer gets nothing but a slap on the wrist. This is the world that we live in, this is the government we have voted in. It's one that tolerates the idea of a misdemanor homicide as long as its in the properly shaded neighborhood. You think if rich white people from the Hamptons were getting killed left and right they'd care? They'd call out the National Guard for them!"

There was a wave of applause and cheers from the crowd. Drayton smiled and held his hand up to quiet them.

"This is why this election is so important. It's the start of something new, something different. It's a chance to change our institutions and show them that we are a threat, not physical but mental. There's nothing that frightens the powers that be like minorities who have brains and are registered to vote. Try as they might to disenfranchise us, we have made the choice that we will have a say in how our country is run and we will take this city back. Thank you!"

The crowd errupted as Drayton waved and started to head off stage. His small staff led him out the back exit of the building to a waiting car. Drayton and his people were at the door when the car went up in flames. An explosion ripped through the alley and knocked them inside. The fiery wreck of the car shot up into the air and crashed back down as a ball of flames.

Polaris | Machinations of a Solar Colony

Freedom is always magical.

Polaris | Machinations of a Solar Colony

The only better than playing PIs? PIs in SPACE!

American Dream: A Shattered Union

the unclaimed remnants of New Jersey and parts of New York governed by a criminal syndicate descended from the Mafia.

@aladdin_sane

Yus pls.

American Dream: A Shattered Union

The Democratic Nation of Jackson

Sherman Potter took a large swig of whiskey and tried to get up. His hangover was still killing his head, but the whiskey helped with the worst of it. Finally, on his fifth try, he was up on his feet and getting ready for the day. His hands shook as he buttoned his shirt and buckled his belt. A few more long sips of whiskey killed the shakes and got him to an operational level.

Once upon a time, Potter had been without a doubt the worst doctor in the Grand Union Commonwealth. He killed more than he saved. That led to an awkward situation where he began to make money off of the killing by selling the dead bodies to interested parties. He was nearly hanged in Independence, quick timing and an even quicker horse got him out of town by the skin of his teeth. He headed out into the wilds and found Jackson three years ago. While he was the worst doctor in the Commonwealth, he happened to be the best doctor in Jackson... if only by default. He kept up his drinking, but only after work and to cure hangovers. He was still an alcoholic by any textbook definition, but now he wasn't a reckless one that killed patients. And to Potter, that made all the differences.

"Doc Potter!"

Potter was just out of his door when little Johnny Greene came running up.

"My ma needs help, doc. My sister's sick... bad sick. We don't know what's going on."

"C'mon," Potter said as he put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Show me."

Johnny led Potter down the dirt road of Jackson towards the outskirts. The Greene family lived in house no bigger than a shack. Next to it was a field made up of half corn and half wheat. The plants were still sprouting, but it looked like a good indication that they'd have a nice crop this summer.

"He's here," Johnny said as they went into the shack.

Miriam Greene looked up and breathed a sigh of relief as she saw Potter. She was sitting beside a mattress laid on the floor. On the mattress was a little girl covered in blankets with a sweaty forehead.

"Doc, thank god," Miriam said as Potter stepped forward. "She's got a fever. She's been sick the last few days, but I just thought it was a cold."

"Let me see."

Potter got on his knees and looked the little girl over. He pulled the covers back and could feel the sweat that drenched the blankets. He saw swelling near the neck and jaws along with something that frightened him. The little girl's face and neck were covered in dots. She was wearing pajamas, but he had no doubt that the dots were all over her body. He knew exactly what she had. Potter had seen it in a medical textbook the Commonwealth had managed to find somewhere.

Smallpox, the book called it. Highly contagious and highly deadly if not treated right. The book said it had been all but wiped out by vaccines. But that was in the last age. That was before the people who made that miracle world tore it apart in a nuclear holocaust. Now, in the world they lived in, something like smallpox could destroy a whole town in no time.

"Shit," was all Potter could say.

-----

Andrew Jackson McCullough looked around at the small gathering of women and men in front of him. Mike Long, John Norman, Kelly Kilpatrick, Harry Flint, and Lisa Lewis were the closest he had to a general staff. Each one served as an officer in the Nation's defense force. Harry was the smartass that named it the Democratic Party. He found a book on the first Andrew Jackson in the ruins of a library one time and knew all there was to know about the man. In honor of McCullough's namesake, Harry said with a grin, they should name the fledgling force after the Democratic Party that Jackson founded over two hundred years ago. It passed in the town voting 298-1, McCullough the lone vote against.

"Kel," McCullough finally said. "How do your folks feel about a ranging mission?"

"They're antsy," the middle-aged woman replied. She pushed wiped her sandy blonde hair from her face and kept speaking. "It's been months since they had to go out and do anything. They're getting along fine with their farms and jobs, but I think they'd like to help out. What's the job, sir?"

"Memphis."

All five faces turned to stone all at once.

"It's suicide." Mike Long placed his chubby hands on McCullough's desk. "Memphis is crawling with raiders. We'd have to take the whole Party to Memphis to even make a dent. This is--"

"A scouting mission," McCullough snapped with a finger pointed at Long. He looked over at Kilpatrick with the same stern gaze. "And nothing more. Take your best squad and head out this afternoon. Get the lay of the land and see what they're doing and what their defenses are like. Take your time, Kel, I want y'all back safely."

"Yes, sir," she replied with a semi-salute.

"What about the rest of us?" John Norman drawled. "You called us all up here for a reason, boss."

McCullough nodded and pulled a sheet of crinkled paper from his desk. He passed it to Lisa Lewis, who read it and passed it around to the others while McCullough spoke.

"We got a courier from Looloo yesterday. They're running out of food and still have to wait for their spring crop to come in. I'm calling a meeting tonight to talk about it. With any luck, we can send a wagon train to them by the week's end. We'll need some of y'all to volunteer your companies for caravan duty."

"This could be an opportunity," said Lewis. "Looloo is a shit hole, general. It's always barely scraping by and getting fucked with by bandits. We could bring them into the fold, offer them protection and food and let them join the Nation."

"Hell no," said Long. "Loooloo folks ain't nothing but trouble. They're dirty and shifty. They can't be trusted."

"Just like you couldn't be trusted?" McCullough asked Long. "I seem to recall you coming here six years ago, Mike, trying to hide from some very pissed off Badyoyo boys. We could have not let you in, Mike, but we knew you needed help. Just like Harry and his wife needed help when they got to Jackson, just like Kel needed help when she found us. The folks in Looloo ain't any different than you or me."

Long shook his head and just shrugged his shoulders. "We'll see."

"I'm for it," Flint smirked. "Folks in Looloo make some damn fine hooch."

"We'll float that possibility at tonight's meeting," McCullough chuckled. "Among others. If the folks want it, then I'll ride with the convoy and open up negotiations with Looloo."

Expansion. The idea was something McCullough and others had thought about for the last few years. The hard days of survival for Jackson had lasted the first six years. Now, four years past the last famine and they were stable and well-defended and well-fed. In these times, that alone was a mighty blessing. Looloo was how Jackson had been during those trying times. If they could help out, then they should. But then a whole new town to protect and upkeep?

"Alright," McCullough said. "Kel, get your folks ready to head out. The rest of y'all are gonna go across Jackson and let folks know about tonight's meeting. I want as many people there as possible to discuss this. That's the end of the meeting."

-----

Georgia Frontier

Holmstead's horse slowly walked down the cracked pavement of the highway. It weaved through the rusted out cars that had died on this road so long ago. An old, battered sign a few miles back told him he was near someplace called Dalton. Holmstead clicked his tongue in an effort to speed his mount up.

Going this far out into the wild hadn't been part of the plan. His official mandate was to round up runaway slaves. The Neo-Cons paid damn good money for it, even more for the white folks that helped them to freedom. Most of the bounty hunters stuck to the northeast and the Carolina border. Holmstead instead headed northwest towards the wilds. A more recent sign let Holmstead know that Chatanooga was thirty miles away. In all his travels across the south he'd never been to Tennessee, but he'd certainly heard stories. Supposedly, the entire expanse of Tennessee was nothing but wilderness with the occasional pockets of civilization.

Chatanooga would be where he could get his answers. He'd heard rumors in North Georgia about a town near the Mississippi River. One of the several dozen city-states that covered Tennessee. There was nothing special about it except its leader. He was named after one of the old leaders of the Republic, and he was a man with a very steep bounty on his head. If the rumors were true, then Andrew Jackson McCullough was hiding in plain sight. If he was indeed the man Holmstead was after, then the bounty hunter could bring the Neo-Cons his severed head and make more with that a than he could with a thousand runaway slaves.