Byrd Man

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

Free markets = free people.

Fuckin' fight me, m8

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

This is why I side with the bourgeoisie.

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

I'll work on a post tonight if it'll stop the memes.

The Octopus: A 19th Century Political/Crime RP

Well I know a lot about American History so I got you, fam.

The Octopus: A 19th Century Political/Crime RP

One down. What kind of character were you thinking of?

The Octopus: A 19th Century Political/Crime RP

The Octopus: A 19th Century Political/Crime RP

"I've been called a boss. All there is to it is having friends, doing things for people, and then later on they'll do things for you."
-- James Pendergast

"Vote early and vote often!"
-- Richard J. Daly

"Anybody who doesn't know that politics is crime has got a few screws loose."
-- James Ellroy

In Character Info:

Welcome to Central City, gateway to the American West. This rough and tumble city was once the largest hub west of the Mississippi, the last bastion of civilization before the wilderness. While the frontier has pushed on west, Central City's frontier mentality and pioneer spirit still remain even as the city becomes an industrial hub. It's a city filled with graft and vice. Saloons and gambling dens are on every corner and anything you desire can be bought for a price. It's a city where everyday municipal life is controlled by the Patterson Combination, a powerful political machine that has control of City Hall, a good chunk of the statehouse, and even a US Senator. Patronage is the order of the day and the Combination rewards loyalty with jobs. Policemen, alderman, and even dog catchers owe their jobs and allegiance to the Combination. Anythings happens in Central City, it does so with the Combinations approval. At the center of this Alan John "A.J." Patterson, a man who holds no public office but is still more powerful than the mayor or governor.

It's the summer of 1876 and it's an election year. Reform seems to be in the air and it's up to the Combination to show Central City that it is a force for good, a force that provides for the downtrodden and needy for the simple price of a vote or two or three. From the corridors of power all the way down to the muddy back alleys, it's up to you to see that the Combination stays in power and that you get your just reward for your hard won loyalty.

Out of Character Info

This game is a mixture of crime and politics. You'll play a member of the political machine, from lowly street hooligan and saloon owner to ward boss to beat cop and on up. There will be a few members of the machine that will be off limits, the upper ranks especially, but I have an overarching story in mind for the game and want to allow everyone a chance to work inside that framework and do their own things. There's a lot of flexibility in this. I want it to be about politics and crime, but also about just life in an urban city that was rapidly changing around its citizens and how they dealt with it. The backdrop of this is the American centennial and the controversial presidential election of 1876, along with a party convention that will be coming to town soon.

Primer:

What is a Political Machine?

From Wikipedia:

A political machine is a political organization in which an authoritative boss or small group commands the support of a corps of supporters and businesses, who receive rewards for their efforts. The machine's power is based on the ability of the workers to get out the vote for their candidates on election day.

Although these elements are common to most political parties and organizations, they are essential to political machines, which rely on hierarchy and rewards for political power, often enforced by a strong party whip structure. Machines sometimes have a political boss, often rely on patronage, the spoils system, "behind-the-scenes" control, and longstanding political ties within the structure of a representative democracy. Machines typically are organized on a permanent basis instead of for a single election or event. The term may have a pejorative sense referring to corrupt political machine

The Hierarchy

Precinct Captain

This is the man out in the street, getting the vote for the Combination any way possible. A Precinct Captain can be someone who does not hold office but reaps the benefits -- money, power, a chance for political office -- from his loyalty to the machine. The Precinct Captain's territory is, you guessed it, the precinct where he lives. He is a neighborhood leader who uses a team of ward heelers, low-level operatives under his supervision, and his connections with the machine to help constituents with everyday problems that come with living in an industrial metropolis.

To get an idea of the day to day life of a the lower levels of party machine work, read this fascinating excerpt from the diary of a Tammany Hall member: Plunkitt's Diary

Ward Boss

The middleman in the organization, a Ward Boss usually controls a significant chunk of the city's political territory, with as many as seven or eight precinct captains under his watch. While the precinct captain deals in political tactics, the ward boss deals in political strategy. He is usually in some mid-level political position, a city councilman or a high-ranking police captain or a state legislator or some other bureaucrat, and is indebted to the machine staying in power for his job. The Ward Boss handles constituent problems, but is also the man to see about business licenses, court problems, and other problems that may pop up for the well to do members of the city.

Underboss

Very rare, maybe only two or three men in the machine can be considered underbosses. The Underboss has a significant chunk of political power. He is either a high-ranking elected official (city mayor, district attorney, US Congressman, US Senator) or a prominent businessman. The underbosses can move the levers of government in a way that nobody else in the machine can. With the snap of their fingers they can get legislation passed, they can get charges dismissed, and they can get state and federal contracts for anyone willing to pay the price.

City Boss

The pinnacle. The boss is the man you see when you are either powerful enough to warrant it, or have something he wants. The boss holds no political office and is rarely mentioned by the politicians who owe him so much. It is he who makes the big decisions that affect the machine, the city, and maybe even the country as a whole.

Central City Neighborhoods

Eastside

The eastern side of the city is the remnants of the old frontier town Center, Central City's first incarnation. The city's oldest and most prominent families live on the eastside. Almost all of the residents of the eastside are "Americans" in the sense that their lineage can be traced back to ancestors living in America before the American Revolution. The occasional prominent immigrant may live Eastside if he or she has amassed enough money and political clout to buy one of the big homes on the hill.

Downtown

Built in the 1830's, downtown is where City Hall and Central City's other government buildings are. Downtown is also home to a large Irish neighborhood known as Little Galway, settled in the first wave of migrations to the West. A ghetto in the 30's and 40's, the neighborhood has developed into a stable working-class neighborhood home to many of Central City's middle-class families. Bordering Little Galway is Bohemia, a newer ethnic neighborhood, a slightly less well to do neighborhood that is none the less on the rise. Bohemia came about in the early 1850's as German, Czechs, and other members of the failed '48 Revolutions fled Europe for America.

Westside

The western edge of Central City is home to the new class of immigrants freshly arrived to the country after the American Civil War ended. Italians, Eastern Europeans, and Jewish immigrants still new to America all live in cramped houses and tenement buildings. Adding to their misery is the industrial factories that are also placed on the west side, factories that run all day and all night with a mostly immigrant workforce that has no other option but to spend sixteen hour days working. The Central Stockyards, a massive facility that supplies the Western US with meat, is where many work long hours for little pay.

Black Jack

Black Jack is the crude name of the city's African-American neighborhood. The overall black population in Central City isn't a lot compared to Southern cities, but it is more than the average black population in Northern cities. More African-Americans have come to the city in the years following the Civil War, though not enough to overcrowd Black Jack. The southern rail line that separates Black Jack between the rest of the city is known as the "Color Line." Outside of CCPD, very few whites are seen in and around Black Jack.

Saloon City

Running along one of the city's western boulevards, Saloon City is the vice hub for Central City. At least one hundred saloons, gambling dens, whorehouses, and opium parlors all reside in this one square mile of city. Tourists, travelers heading further west, and local residents all come to Saloon City to blow off steam and gladly hand their money over. Anything can be bought in Saloon City for a price. The graft and protection that comes with the district is a huge part of the Combination's revenue stream. Politicians, cops, and criminals alike all have a major interest in keeping Saloon City safe and trouble free.

Character Sheet

Name:

Age:

Ethnicity:

Occupation/Place in the Combination:

Personal History:

The Jericho Road [post apocalypse, over the top NRP goodness]

I'm in.

Gotham City: Shadow of the Bat

Gotham Westside
4:52 AM

Slam sat in a corner booth and nursed a cup of coffee. A hangover was coming on strong. The coffee killed the worst of the hangover but not all of it. Slam wanted the pain. It helped him stay focused on his case. The Nite-Owl Coffee Shop stayed open around the clock. A lush PI in dirty clothes was squaresville compared to its usual late night clientele. Three hookers and a pimp scarfed eggs two booths over. A junkie at the counter was doing the dope fiend lean on his stool. The bell above the door chimed and his contact walked in.

He had black hair and clear blue eyes. Heavyset, somewhere between normal and fat. The extra weight threw off the resemblance a bit, but not by much. Fat aside, he was a dead ringer for Bruce Wayne. To hear him tell it the extra weight came from having to carry around that thing between his legs. He called it Wayne Tower, and according to him it was always open for business. He ran a gigolo service out of the Westside. Old ladies, fat ladies, lonely ladies, the occasional man, and all kinds of freaks flocked to him. Who wouldn't pay a grand an hour to be reamed, steamed, and dry cleaned by the one and only Bruce Vain?

Bruce nodded at the table of hookers before sliding into Slam's booth.

"Sammy, how's tricks?"

"I should ask you."

"Not my department," Bruce grinned. "I don't work the streets like our friends a few booths over. Strictly out call these days, my friend. Thanks to the internet, you're only a few clicks away from a rendezvous with me."

"But you're still keeping your ear to the ground and knowing what's what, right?"

"Of course. For a price."

Bruce was a good informant. He was one of the last ones Slam had left from his cop days. The only problem was the fucker charged Slam for information like he was a john. Slam supposed he was, just in a very different way than the usual clients.

"Heard about a cop named Perkins? He'd be a sergeant. First name is Arthur."

"What's he got to do with you?"

"He's the latest name in red on the Homicide big board. He's on the night train to the big adios. Two shots to the back of his head early this morning. You heard anything about a cop or cops doing some shady shit recently? Extortion, shakedowns, you know the drill."

"Yeah... I've heard... things."

Slam forked over two twenties. Bruce slipped them into his jacket.

Slam asked, "What things?"

"Word is someone is trying to muscle into the westside skin trade. I haven't been braced, but they're shaking down pimps and street walkers and making them pay protection. It'll only be a matter of time before they head my way. They supposedly have a couple of cops doing their muscle work, uniforms and not detectives. One of them is a guy they called Artie."

Slam connected Artie to Arthur. He lit up a cigarette and blew smoke. "That it?"

"There's something else..."

Slam sighed and slid Bruce a twenty. Bruce scoffed.

"Twenty bucks? That's the best you can do?"

Slam scowled. "You know I'm in debt, right? The goddamn Bertinelli Mob has a marker on my head for four grand, and I'm getting grief I don't need from a fucking knockoff Bruce Wayne."

"Extortion," Bruce said. "The girls and guys they're working are told to go to special motels and hotels. The rooms are supposed to be set up with cameras. They blackmail businessmen and anyone else they can afford to squeeze. They also like getting right-wing congressmen and councilmen who are in the closet. Let's see how much those bible thumping fucks they represent will support them when they see the good congressman getting a blowjob from a seventeen year old prostie boy."

Hookers and extortion. Slam flashed back to his last days on the force. A dead call-girl consumed him and the burnout that was slowly building became a raging inferno. He got fired, he punched the Homicide CO, and curled up into a bottle he still called home.

"These people got a point man?"

"Maybe..."

"I'm outta cash, asshole. Take an IOU, will ya?"

"Sure." Bruce winked. "But only because you look so cute, Sammy. A westside pimp name of Duke is the one talking up most of this. Don't know any last name, just that he goes by Duke and he is tres small-time. Everyone thought he was full of shit until this one pimp named Rollo beat Duke up and then turned up dead."

Slam thanked Bruce and watched him amscray out the diner. Slam took a long drag on his smoke and thought. Hookers, blackmail, pimp intrigue, racketeering, and murder as the icing on this shit cake he was being forced to eat. He exhaled slowly and watched the smoke cloud drift across the diner. Geppe Bertinelli was sure as fuck getting his money's worth from Slam on this case.

Gotham City: Shadow of the Bat

Westside Gotham
1:28 AM

Blue lights and arc lights illuminated the crime scene. Three prowl cars parked in a semi-circle provided light. Slam stood behind crime scene tape with all the others. Patrolmen directed traffic and kept civilians and reporters at bay. Geeks on the sidewalks peddled merch. They sold cheap Batman t-shirts, cheap Batman capes, chunks of rusty metal claimed to be genuine bullets used in the murder. Slam smoked with steady hands. A half-pint of Ripple on the drive over steadied him.

FEATURE: A dead body on the pavement. A blue tarp covered him. Crime scene techs and plainclothes officers converged on the scene. He saw Homicide dicks and IAD men in sharp suits. He saw Charlie Fields in a sharp suit. Charlie was Slam's last partner in Homicide. Charlie loved the Life; capital L, always with a capital L. Charlie loved being a cop and solving murders. Slam used to. Slam told boxing stories and shadowboxed for effect. Slam used to be all about the Life. The Life turned on him. The Life chewed him up. It was still chewing him. Spitting him back out: TBA.

A crime scene tech was coming out of the scene. Red hair with flecks of gray in them. He carried a camera around his neck. Slam locked eyes. Geppe said he was the one to see at the scene. He was one of their men inside the GCPD. Jim Corrigan was as dirty as the day was long. Slam remembered him going through three different IAD investigations and not a single one touched him. Corrigan was slicker than goose shit.

"Corrigan," he said as the man passed by. "GB sent me."

Corrigan got stiff. Corrigan looked around to make sure the coast was clear.

"Slam fucking Bradley," Corrigan said softly. "Of all the people to send. Fuck... follow me."

Corrigan led Slam to his car. He bummed a cigarette off Slam and passed him back his camera. Slam thumbed through the pix on the digital camera. Crime scene pix showed a GCPD uniform face down on the pavement. Shots got in close on the back of the head. Two shots, two entry wounds. No pix of the front because it would be fucking pulp. Slam saw stippling around the wounds. The killer got in close before pulling the trigger.

"Who was he?"

"Perkins," said Corrigan. "Boss of a patrol squad out here in the Western. Name ring a bell?"

"Not particularly. But then again there's a lot of names I don't know anymore."

Slam scrolled through the pix faster. Shell casings near the body ruled out a revolver as the primary weapon. Entry wounds looked like either a 9 MM or .40 were used as the murder weapon. It probably didn't matter. If it was a pro job, the gun was already down a storm drain on the other side of town somewhere.

"What'd you know about him, Corrigan?"

Corrigan shrugged. "A hump by anybody's standards. I remember IAD looking into him hard after some shit he pulled. He got caught shaking down hookers for blowjobs and trying to run a half-ass protection racket here in the Western."

"And he was still here?" Slam asked.

"Must had one hell of a union rep."

Slam flicked his cigarette butt across the street and fumed. Slam got run out of the department for some petty bullshit, but this asshole got to stay GCPD until a shooter turned his brains into Swiss cheese? Only in this fucking city.

"Can you get your hands on Perkins' personnel jacket?" He asked, passing Corrigan's camera back to him.

Corrigan laughed.

"You are barking up the wrong tree there. No matter how much money I owe Geppe, I can't get into those files. Given my reputation, IAD would be all over me like flies on shit if I got anywhere close to this thing. They probably don't like me even here taking pictures, man. I me--"

"You're right, Officer Corrigan."

Slam and Corrigan turned. A tall, think black man in a three-piece stood close by. His head was shaved and he wore big, black frame glasses. Slam's face flushed and he balled his fists up.

"Mr. Bradley," he said with a grin. "It's been awhile."

"Go fuck yourself, Bock."

Bock had been IAD's point man in the investigation that ended Slam's career. Once upon a time, it had taken six full-grown men to pull Slam off Bock and to pry his big mitts off the thin man's windpipe.

Bock picked lint from his suit. "You're a civilian now, Bradley. I could have you arrested for making threats to a sworn police officer, but I'll settle for your swift departure from the scene. This is a GCPD matter." Bock flashed a smirk and raised an eyebrow. "Where were you tonight, say around midnight?"

"Ask your mother." Slam grabbed his crotch. "She's my fucking alibi. Literally."

Bock's grin disappeared. He played with a phi beta kappa chain attached to his waistcoat.

"Get the fuck out of here, Bradley, before I get the patrolmen to toss you out. And Officer, Corrigan, get back to fucking work."

Bock turned around and headed back to the crime scene. Slam flipped him off. Corrigan stubbed out his cigarette and shrugged at Slam. He followed Bock back to the scene. Slam shook his head. He'd call Corrigan tomorrow and try to glom a copy of the initial crime scene report from the police lab and Homicide. That was all he could do on that front. All the knew was what he told Geppe an hour ago. A murderer had killed Sergeant Perkins.

Slam lit up a fresh cigarette and beat tracks back to his car. He thought about Corrigan's words earlier. Perkins shook down hookers for BJs. If he was involved in the flesh market, then the hookers would know all about him. On the westside, when it came to pimps and johns and marks, there was one man Slam knew he could talk to: Bruce Vain.

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

Meanwhile I miss the days of MSN and AOL messenger...