Byrd Man

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

Jock Sturgeon
Part V:
The Sting

Lost Haven Financial District
10:28 AM

"Something wrong, Mr. Dunmoore?"

Sean didn't realize his hands were shaking until he saw Blomkamp looking down at them. In his right hand was the small key to a safety deposit box. He stood with Blomkamp in the basement of his bank among the hundreds of other safety deposit box. The bank president escorted them down and handed Sean the key before quietly excusing himself to go back upstairs. Blomkamp carried an empty briefcase to carry the cash.

"I'm fine," said Sean. "I just... never had anyone else with me to do this before."

Blomkamp nodded. Sean hopped he bought it. The wire on his chest was aided by a button camera on the lapel of his suit. The FBI agents wanted to see the con man take the cash. After they had in on film, they would be waiting outside the bank to with a pair of cuffs to escort him to jail.

"I'll help," Blomkamp said with a sly grin.

The two men pulled the long lock box from its place on the shelf and carried it over to a table. Sean opened the box with his key and pulled it open. Stacks of cash were nestled in it along with legal documents, loose jewelry, and a pistol. Sean pushed the pistol to the side and grabbed for the cash. Hundreds bundled in ten thousand dollar stacks began to quickly fill the briefcase until a cool half million sat in Blomkamp's briefcase. By Sean's quick count, at least another fifty thousand dollars was left after this raid.

"Mr. Dunmoore," said Blomkamp with a sheepish grin. "If I may be so bold. In the event of overages or underestimates, would it be possible to get the rest of the cash from this box? Whatever we don't need shall be safely returned to you in either cash or investment."

Sean almost laughed out loud. The nerve of this man! He was already robbing him of a half million, and he was asking for more? The greedy son of a--

"Sure," Sean said with a grin. "I trust you, Jackob."

What the hell, thought Sean. He was about to be arrested and all this money would go back in his lock box where it belonged. He'd think he got one over on Sean, at least until the FBI agents showed up with their guns and badges. Then Sean would have the last laugh.

"So kind," Blomkamp said as he grabbed the rest of the cash and stuffed it into his now full case. "If it is alright will you, I will go upstairs and get the manager to come down here and be on my way. I will be on a plane tonight back to Africa and call you once I am safely on the ground. Know that your investment is in safe hands."

The two men shook and Dunmoore smiled. If he had a mirror he would see that it was a smile with no humor in it.

"Of course. I look forward to our long and fruitful partnership, Jackob."

Blomkamp bowed graciously and started upstairs with the case. Sean took his time locking his safe deposit box and placing it back on the shelf. When he was sure enough time had elapsed he started back upstairs. The confident smile on his face disappeared when he entered the lobby and saw... nothing.

"All done, Mr. Dunmoore?" asked the bank manager.

"Where's..." Sean started before trailing off.

"The gentleman you went down with left a few minutes ago. He said you would be up shortly. Is th--"

Sean cut him off as he ran through the lobby and out the door. Blomkamp was nowhere to be found, neither were the two FBI agents. Cursing, Sean pulled out his phone and dialed the number Special Agent Marks had given him. It rang a few times before it picked up.

"FBI Lost Haven office, how may I direct your call."

"I need Special Agent Marks' cell phone."

"I'm sorry, sir, who?"

"Special Agent Marks. I'm Sean Dunmoore. I need to talk to him right now."

"I'm sorry, sir, but there's no agent by that name in this office."

"Are you serious?!," he growled. "He's an FBI agent, partner is Agent Robb. He--"

Sean stopped talking. He almost dropped his cell phone when it hit him like a ton of bricks. Special Agent Robb. Special Agent Marks. Robb. Marks. Rob marks. The receptionist tried to talk, but she couldn't hear anything except Sean's loud and crazed laughter.

----

Lost Haven Financial District
11:08 AM

"Stick 'em up!" Joey Baggs groweled, his right finger in the shape of a gun.

I let out polite applause as he and Harry the Hat slid into the coffeeshop booth across from me. Both men were still in their fake FBI windbreakers and suits while I had shucked my Blomkamp disguise off as soon as I got away from Dunmoore.

"Bravo," I said with a slight bow. "My two star players. I've got something for you."

Two stacks of twenty-five thousand dollars seemed to appear on the table in front of me.

"That looks like more than twenty grand," said Harry the Hat.

"It is," I shrugged. "But not much more. I was able to squeeze a few extra bucks out of the mark. Take it while I'm generous, fellas."

The two con men grabbed the money and stuffed it into their clothes.

"What did I tell you," Joey said to his partner. "Easiest money you'll ever make, working with Sturgeon."

Harry the Hat nodded and looked at me expectantly. "You'll let us when you got another con going on, Jock?"

"If I'm in need of your services, I shall call."

I slid the check from my coffee and breakfast sandwich towards the two men and started to stand.

"Now pay my bill. It's the least you can do."

"Where you going?" Joey asked. "We pulled off a hell of a score, Jock. You don't wanna celebrate."

"No can do, fellas," I sighed. "I gotta go solve a murder."

---

Little Ulster
2:39 PM

I caught Jerry Lonnegan in between three-card hustles. He had the card table tucked under his arm and was waiting for a bus by himself. Jerry walked the same route on alternative days. If you knew Jerry as long as I had, you knew about where he'd be at any given day.

"Jock," Jerry said with a wink. "How's tricks?"

"Tricky," I said. "How's running the short grift?"

"Tricker still."

"Why'd you do it, Jerry?"

His big grin disappeared. He started to shake his head in denial, but I held a hand up to stop him.

"I found the list Fat Ricky Fat hid in his apartment. You two were part of the same chain in the Ambulance Chaser's last hit. Not only that, you two two links together. Whose idea was it to break into Fitzwaller's office and steal the paperwork?"

Jerry looked from left to right, stopped when he saw a cheesy ad for Fitzwaller on the side of the bus stop. Someone had drawn a cartoon dick right next to his mouth. Under normal circumstances, I would have laughed my ass off.

"Me," he sighed. "I've been thinking about it since I heard from one of the Stafford twins that the lawyer writes it all down. So, when a burglar turned out to be my contact in the chain... how could I resist, Jock?"

"So Ricky breaks into the office, makes it obvious he broke in, and steals the paperwork that Fitzwaller would give anything to keep. But Ricky doesn't share, does he? He hides it and tries to blackmail Fitzwaller by himself so, you did what you did to him."

"Had he told me where they were, he wouldn't be dead," Jerry said coldly. "It's his own fault, the fat fuck."

"You've got two options, Jerry. Option 1: You leave town, I tell the Ambulance Chaser I found the paperwork in Fat Ricky Fat's apartment but don't mention you, as far as Fitzwaller is concerned he'll be none the wiser. Option 2: You stay in town, I tell the Ambulance Chaser I found the paperwork in Fat Ricky Fat's apartment but don't mention you, as far as Fitzwaller is concerned he'll be none the wiser... but I tell Irish Tom what you did. And he's not gonna take too kindly with you being so careless with papers that have his name on it."

It was a hell of a thing, seeing someone as dark as Jerry going pale from fright.

"You're a motherfucker, Jock, I--"

"I'm a friend, Jerry," I spoke over him to drown him out. "That's the only reason I'm giving you a choice. Any other crook, I tell Fitzwaller the whole tale and sleep soundly while you sleep with the fishes. This is me at my most generous, Jerry. What's it gonna be?"

Jerry stared at his feet for a long moment before shrugging.

"Fuck it. There's marks all over the country."

"I hear LA is lovely this time of year."

"One more question: How did it go with Dunmoore?"

"I cleared a half a million."

His grin was back and he clapped his hands together.

"My man!"

I nodded and turned away from my friend and disappeared into the night.

End

The Work and the Shoot: A Pro Wrestling Meta-RPG

Andy,



The list of cool guys, that is. I'm interested.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

Jock Sturgeon
Part IV:
Clip Joint

The Pepper Mill
9:04 PM

I walked through the loud music and flashing lights of the strip club with something approaching envy. Not envy towards the men and the beautiful women in their laps, but to the women sitting on the men's laps. Flashing a little bit of their flesh got these men to empty their wallets on dances were they could not touch them, a rule that was violently enforced in the club, and pay for watered down drinks that cost twenty dollars a pop. There's a con that you can run out of these places called the clip joint, but it just involves jacking up prices on dances and drinks and making up fees to charge marks. It was a needlessly greedy con in my opinion. These places were licences to print money if you could work them right.

I found the Ambulance Chaser in the back of the club, mid-motorboat in a private booth. The Stafford Twins sat off to the side of the booth, both of them on their phones so they wouldn't have spotted me even if I had come in leading a marching band. The stripper spotted me, though. She paused in the middle of grinding on Fitzwaller's lap to star at me. I liked to say that I kept eye contact with her... but that would be a lie.

"If you're gonna watch, it's gonna you twenty bucks," said the stripper. "No free previews, hun."

"What are you doing here, Sturgeon?" Fitzwaller asked.

"Looking for the future ex-Mrs. Sturgeon," I said before smiling at the stripper. "Hi, I'm Jock. I have a lot of money, very weak impulse control, and I don't like pre-nups."

The twins were back on the job before she could respond. Two sets of arms, one strong and the other not so much, found themselves wrapped around my arms and were pushing me away from the booth.

"I just got a few questions," I tried to yell over the music.

"Stop," said Fitzwaller.

He nudged the stripper off his lap and started to stand, until he realized he was in no physical position to stand and not show off his -- what's a good legal pun? -- gavel, there we go. Yeah, standing would show me and the rest of the club his gavel.

"Be brief, Sturgeon."

The twins let me go and I looked at them with the smuggest look I was capable of before turning back to their boss.

"When you set up a... asset liquidation."

"What?" asked Johnny Stafford. "What's that mean?"

"He's talking in code, dumbass," said Jimmy Stafford. "When the boss sets up a hit."

"Way to crack the code," I said with a sigh. "Fitzwaller, how many go-betweens deep is the chain when you... set up a hit."

"Five or six deep," said Fitzwaller. "Well insulated."

"Okay," I said with a nod. "And one more thing, did you take pictures of the burglary?"

"Yes, with my phone. Why couldn't this wait until the morning, Sturgeon?"

"Because I have an idea. Just... text me those photos and I think I'll have an answer by the morning."

I started to leave, but pulled up short.

"On more thing," I said as I produced a card and handed it to the stripper. "If you ever want to make real money, give me a call."

---

Chinatown
11:40 AM

Back to the scene of the crime. I mean that in the most technical sense since there is in fact crime scene tape on Fat Ricky Fat's apartment door. The door was unlocked, but a large red piece of tape ran down the door as a seal. I cut it with a box knife I always carried and slipped inside. The smell of blood and death were still heavy in the apartment and the clutter from the ransack was a little more tidy. I assumed the cops had cleaned up after processing the scene.

It was in the middle of the apartment that I tried to put the puzzle pieces together. Fat Ricky Fat breaks into the Ambulance Chaser's office. A sloppy job from the pictures Fitzwaller sent me. Door was left open, the safe was wide open. He takes off with all of Fitzwaller's incriminating documents and... ends up dead. He was tortured so it seems that he wasn't prepared to give the papers up to whoever was the torturing him. Soon after Ricky Fat's death, our handsome hero Jock Sturgeon breaks in and finds Ricky Fat dead just as the possible killer returns to look through the apartment. The lack of time they spent here in the second time meant that they either found what they were looking for quickly, or they knew someone had been here and high-tailed it.

I decided to bet on the latter assumption and go through the apartment to see what I could find. It's highly unlikely Ricky kept his burglar stash in the apartment, but I look in all the conventional places like bookcases and under mattresses. I found a couple grand in hidden money and some very weird porn that I'm sure Ricky would have destroyed before he died.

Nothing in the living room worth mentioning. The kitchen had a sink full of dirty dishes and a fridge filled with old takeout containers. The cabinets were stocked with snacks and sodas and, I guess for the hell of it, a box of granola bars. I started to close the cabinet door before I stopped suddenly.

Wait.

Granola bars?

Fat Ricky Fat's nickname wasn't one of the ironic ones. He was a four hundred pounder, the textbook definition of morbidly obese. Why in the hell would a guy who inhaled Little Debbie cakes have a box or health food? I reached up and plucked the box from the cabinet. It was crudely opened and heavy, heavier than a box should be. I flipped it open and found pay dirt inside. Paper rolled up tightly with a rubber band and stuffed inside the box.

I took the papers out of the box and unrolled them. On top was the network Fitzwaller used in his most recent job. He was right, there were six cut-outs between himself and Irish Tom at the very bottom. The client nor the victim were listed on the paper. But that didn't matter. Because there were two names in the middle of the chain that told me all I needed to know.

It all clicked into place and just like that, I knew who Fat Ricky Fat had stolen the documents for, and who had killed him. I sighed and rolled them back up and stuffed them into my pocket. It would all have to wait until tomorrow afternoon. I had an appointment bright and early tomorrow morning to steal half a million dollars from out under Sean Dunmoore's nose.

Soviet Amerika - Red Dawn-Inspired Alternate History

"Talk about a step up," Joe said under his breath.

Running down back alley deals and whacking guys was no sweat to Joe. He was going to be doing it anyway, for Christ's sake, he might as well be doing and helping his country out at the same time. But this? This was something else. Assaults and tactics and shit. He'd had a taste of that in his old life. As Billy Boyle's chief hitter, Joe could sweep a room and outflank targets well enough. His training with the rest of the group had vastly improved it, but still. Fuck.

"Okay," he said after the meeting had broken down into smaller groups. He looked at Morse. "If it goes sideways on us, what's the back up plan? We fall back or is this gonna be a come-home-with-your shield-or-on-it type of operation?"

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

Jock Sturgeon
Part III:
The Touch

Lost Haven Financial District
9:34 AM

Sean Dunmoore knew right away that the two men coming into his office were cops. It was in how they carried themselves. Like they owned the world and they were doing him a favor by being here. He'd been around enough of them to know exactly how they acted and how they looked down their nose at guys like him.

"Mister Dunmoore," the cop in the lead said. He was tall with silver hair and a Roman nose. His suit was nice, but definitely off the rack. Too much for a city cop. His partner, shorter and bald, wore a similar cut suit.

"FBI," said Sean. "Am I right?"

"Special Agent Marks," said the one in front. Both men pulled out ID cards and flashed them at Sean. "My partner is Special Agent Robb."

Sean stood up from behind his desk and pointed a finger towards the two men. "Unless you've got a warrant I want you the fuck out of here!"

"We're here to help you," Robb growled at him.

Before Sean could utter another word, Marks plopped a manila folder on his desk.

"Read it and weep," said Marks. "Literally."

Sean picked it up and looked inside. There were photos, black and white surveillance glossies of Jackob Blomkamp on the street. Other photos showed the same man, but dressed differently. Time stamps in the corner dated the photographs as haven been taken over the last two years.

"The man you know as Blomkamp is a con artist," said Robb. "And damn good one, too. He's been in Lost Haven for at least two years now, pulling scams on stockbrokers and hedge fund managers all over the city."

"Bullshit," said Sean. "I'm as plugged into the financial scene as anyone, better than most. How come I haven't heard about it?"

A soft chuckle came from Marks' throat. He said, "If you were taken by this guy for a cool hundred grand, would you advertise it all over town?"

"That's how he gets away with it," said Robb. "The people he rips off are too embarrassed, or maybe too scared, to come to us. He ties people up in vaguely shady business enterprises and runs away with their money."

"What did he sell you on," Marks asked with raised eyebrows. "Dutch land grants?"

"African diamond," Sean mumbled.

"You're a smart guy," Marks continued. "I'm sure you had already seen through his bullshit. A guy comes out of the blue with a can't miss, pseudo-legal business enterprise. He butters you up with compliments, strokes your ego while he appeals to your greed. I bet you've already did some homework into his company, yeah?"

"Yeah," Sean nodded. "It's not on any Department of Commerce lists for diamond or jewel importers."

"See," said Robb. "And I bet he'll have a perfectly good excuse as to why that is when you meet him this afternoon."

Sean raised his eyebrow. "You know about that?"

Marks clucked his tongue. "We know about it all, Sean. Like I said before, we've been on this guy for a while. And we're closer. Closer than we've ever been. I know you've had trouble with the Bureau before, but that was with a different division. We're different. We want to put him away. And we need your help."

Sean nodded slowly before gesturing to the two chairs in front of him.

"Take a seat. Let's talk about this."

----

Little Ulster
10:24 AM

"Sturgeon, give me one good reason I don't kill you."

"There's no money in it."

Irish Tom Cafferty looked at me from over the rim of his pint glass and nodded.

"Fair enough, yea."

Irish Tom is, you guessed it, Irish. Ex-pat, ex-IRA, ex-con, ex... something else snappy. He's also one of the rare hitters for hire in Haven that is both affordable and good at his job. You know, for the blue collar man who wants to arrange a murder.

"You ever do any work for the Ambulance Chaser?" I asked as I grabbed a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar.

It was early morning still, but the bar was open and had enough people inside to justify staying open. I'd been here a few times before and knew the crowd that came and went were among the criminal fraternity of Lost Haven. It stayed open twenty-four hours to accommodate the crooks who worked nights and got plastered in the early morning.

"Here and there," Irish Tom said with a belch. "His money spends like the rest of 'em so I take it."

"How did you know it was him if he works with cut-outs?"

"Bloody envelopes," he said after a deep swig of his beer. "Only one who does it. He always puts the money in them envelopes like the Russian dolls, bigger envelopes with smaller ones inside and cash inside each one. I always get the last envelope with my cash and the target inside of it."

"Yep. You're the lethal pot 'o gold at the end of the lawyer's criminal rainbow. Jerry Lonnegan was your usual contact on these jobs, right?"

Irish Tom gave me a long, hard look that could have set me on fire if he had a magnifying glass.

"He told me, Jerry, I mean. He said he handed off an envelope to you last week. The Ambulance Chaser was stupid enough to write all his contacts down and someone stole it. He hired me to find it."

If Irish Tom's scowl was hard before, this new look was fossilized. The pint glass he was holding cracked from the grip he was giving it. I imagine he was picturing that glass as the Ambulance Chaser's head.

"The guy who stole it got whacked last night. He was tortured to death first, I'm thinking that whoever you killed found out about The Ambulance Chaser and his contacts, hired the thief for those contacts, and is now getting revenge. Jerry took the hint and got out of town. You might want to do the same."

Irish Tom grunted. "Anyone comes for me, I'll be waiting with my gun and a bottle of Jameson."

I admired Irish Tom. A lot of people complain about how they were born in the wrong decade or time or whatever, but in Tom's case it was true. He was an Irish killer who belonged in the wild west as a gunslinger. I sometimes thought the same about myself. I would have been right at home in the court of some European king in the 1600's, pretending to be a long lost relative and grifting him for every piece of gold. I could have made millions.

"Before you get too many sheets in the wind, Tom. How about you tell me all you can about this hit you did last week. And let's hurry it up, I gotta become a South African diamond executive in a half hour."

----

Le Cigare Volant
12:10 PM

Sean saw Blomkamp's mouth moving, bits of crumb were attached to his lips from the fine French meal the two men had just partaken of. But while Blomkamp spoke, Sean wasn't paying attention to anything he said. His thoughts were still on the meeting with the FBI agents. They laid out their plan clearly, including the trap that would be set here at the lunch meeting. Yes. It was perfect.

"Mr. Dunmoore," Blomkamp said with a puzzled look on his face. "Are you listening?"

"Yes," said Sean. "Your board of directors agreed to my counter proposal and will go into business with me to sell off their diamonds."

"Correct," Blomkamp said with a smile. "It's a matter of logistics. You see--"

Blomkamp, or whatever his name was, continued to talk but Sean was starting to tune him out. Instead of his words, he focused on the man. It was so obvious that he was a phony from the start. The mustache looked like the fake that it was, his clothes seemed a bit disheveled. He was far from the put together executive Sean had met yesterday. Was there a difference, or had Sean just been blinded by the money to pay attention to what he saw?

"I had one question," Sean interrupted Blomkamp mid-sentence about customs regulations in maritime Africa. "I am curious. I did some research into you, Mr. Blomkamp, but it seems as if your company is not listed among known diamond importers and exporters of Africa. Care to explain?"

"Ah, yes." Blomkamp laced his fingers together and sighed. "You see, sir... I have to come clean. My company has only existed... for two weeks."

Blomkamp took off his glasses and wiped at the sweat on his forehead. Jesus, thought Sean, this guy is really good.

"The truth is, Afrikaans Tool and Mining is... what you would call a shell company. Yes. The diamonds are real, but who I work for is not that fictional company, but instead the president of South Africa himself. This plan to smuggle diamonds out of the country and sell them is part of his plan to secure monies for him and his family in the event of an uprising that needs him to flee the country. There. I've said it."

Yes, thought Sean, you sure had. The FBI agents were right. A story that would conveniently explain away the paper-thin nature of his company, and a story that Sean could not verify. It's not like he could call the president of South Africa, could he?

"Here," Blomkamp handed Sean a cell phone. "President Zuma is on the line. Speak to him."

Sean had to suppress a laugh when he heard the man on the other side of the phone. Somebody doing a piss poor imitation of Blomkamp's more believable South African accent introduced himself as the president and explained that he was happy to work with Sean and looked forward to a long and prosperous business arrangement before they quickly ended the call.

"How much do you need to start with?" Sean asked after handing the phone back to Blomkamp.

"Estimates are from two to five hundred thousand US dollars. Can that be arraigned?"

"Yes," Sean said with a grin. "Easiest thing in the world to write you a check."

"Cash," Blomkamp said with a frown. "It needs to be cash, sir. Cashing a check here or in South Africa will leave a paper trail."

"You getting busted at the airport will lead to a bigger paper trail," said Sean. This was part of it, the FBI agents said. Don't be too eager to say yes. Raise questions and make him work for it. If Sean went along too easy he might become suspicious.

Blomkamp smiled. "I have diplomatic immunity, so they will never search my luggage when I fly home. No need to worry about that."

"Fine," said Sean. "Let me call my broker and accountant, see how much cash I can get my hands on and we'll do the deal."

"Very good," Blomkamp said with a bow of his head. "The more the better, sir. Guards and custom officials do not come cheap."

"I doubt they do."

The two men shared a laugh, Blomkamp at the mild joke and Sean at the fact that their entire conversation had just been recorded thanks to the wire taped to his chest. Blomkamp ordered two glasses of champagne and the two men toasted.

"To the success of our task," said Blomkamp.

Sean clinked glasses with him and laughed before adding his own toast.

"To both of us getting just what we deserve."

The Vodlund Presses [Alpha] [Journalism] [Sex] [Drugs] [Rock n' Roll] [Specter of Apocalypse] [All the Cool Kids Are Here]

I'm interested.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

Jock Sturgeon
Part II:
Three-Card Stud

Lost Haven
6:34 PM

The tall, skinny black man stood in front of a small crowd of people in the alleyway. He had in front of him a makeshift table made from a cardboard box and his long, thin fingers shuffled three cards overturned cards with lightning speed. For his part, the man looked straight ahead at the crowd while his hands did the work, moving so fast it seemed that they were blurring.

"One, two, three, keep your eyes on the cards and not me."

He stopped just as quickly as he started and looked at the half dozen people in front of him, grinning wildly.

"It's two bucks to play, winner triples their money. Find the ace and you can put me in my place. Even shove it in my face!"

Titters went out from the crowd. A few threw down their money, a total of eight dollars.

"Teamwork, y'all," the man said with a wink. "You gotta pick the winner as a team."

The bettors argued and debated on which card was the one hiding the ace. After a few minutes of back and forth disagreement, one man put a hand down on the middle card of the three.

"This one," the man said, flipping it over and revealing a three of clubs.

"No such luck," the dealer said with another grin.

He flipped over the card on the far right, revealing a red ace. He laughed and scooped up their money amidst the grumbles. He stopped and looked deadly serious.

"Look... I like you all, I do. What about double or nothing?"

The men threw down their money and he went back to work, shuffling and spinning the cards. I made my way into the small crowd and watched, getting close enough to catch the sleight of hand as he palmed the ace and replaced it with another card. The dealer made eye contact with me and allowed his head to bend in just the slightest nods. In our world that passed as a hail-fellow-well-met. Like myself, Jerry Lonnegan was a grifter who prayed upon the stupidity and greed of people. Whereas I tried to con them out of thousands of dollars at a time, Jerry was strictly short cons with his three-card stud and change raising hustles. He probably made about as much money as I did a year, but Jerry was out in the streets every day running his scams. That type of work ethic exhausted me. Jerry was way too talented for the quick scams he pulled. In the past he'd sign on with me to pull a few grifts, but whenever I had offered to bring him in as a partner full-time he always politely declined.

Five minutes later Jerry was folding up his card table and making up excuses to leave while the ones he'd grifted were walking away with annoyance. Another downside to the short con is that the mark is always right there when you pull the scam. In my games, usually the mark is angry enough to kill but I'm very rarely within killing distance when they figure out they've been had.

"What do you say, Jerry?"

"Jock, my man," he said with a smile. The hood accent from the card game had vanished. "What's going on?"

"Buy you a cup of coffee?"

"I'll buy my own. I can afford it."

We made our way to a diner down the street. I ordered a black coffee while Jerry ordered a caffè macchiato. It made the waitress pause and arch an eyebrow. Jerry winked at her and shrugged.

"So, Jock, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

I sipped coffee that tasted like it had been brewed sometime during the Reagan administration and tried not to make a face.

"What do you know about east side burglars?"

"A little." Jerry sipped his macchiato with a pinkie out. To his credit, he didn't get foam on his upper lip. That was eighty percent of why I never drank the damn things. "You working a job?"

"Something like that. A job was pulled over on east side recently. If a pro was contracted out, chances are good that it was someone who works the area. It would have been an office break-in. Know of any specialist who do offices?"

"Maybe," Jerry said with a scowl. "And maybe I can let you know what I know, but only if you tell me why you want to know."

"You ever work as link in one of the Ambulance Chaser's chain?"

"Once or twice. Why?"

"What if I told you he was dumb enough to write it all down, everyone he used as a go-between in his jobs... and what if I told you someone broke into his office and stole it all those papers."

The color disappeared from Jerry's face. He stayed silent and sipped his macchiato. "I'd say that a lot of people are fucked."

I nodded and finished off my cup of caffeinated swamp water. "Right. And the only thing that stops them from being truly fucked is if I get those papers back... or at least destroy them. So, where do I start?"

----

Chinatown
11:09 PM

The apartment door's lock gave it up like a drunk cheerleader on homecoming. In thirty seconds I had popped it open, which was surprising since I hadn't used my picks in almost six months. It spoke less of my abilities and more to the cheap nature of the lock. It was funny since Fat Ricky Fat had a reputation as a smart thief.

I quickly opened the door and went inside. It was apparent that shit was sideways from the second I walked in. The living room was ransacked and furniture was overturned. The smell of something burning filled my nostrils. It was times like this that I regretted never carrying a gun. With a penlight as my only guide, I walked into the bedroom and found Fat Ricky Fat.

His corpulent body was sprawled across the bed. The source of the burning smell became apparent as soon as I saw his shirtless torso. Burn marks covered his chest and stomach, compliments of a hotplate that was resting on the bed and still burning away red hot. I crept towards him to try to find some clue as to how he died. No other wounds on his body besides the burns, nothing on his face like a bullet hole or stab wound. The only thing I could think of was heart attack. Fat Ricky Fat topped the scales at a good four hundred pounds. Working him over with the hot plate probably caused his heart to kick over. That meant that whatever they had been torturing him for, he hadn't given in.

The sound of the door opening caused my head to snap away from Ricky's body and towards the door. Someone was walking through the apartment. Their steady footsteps meant that whoever it was, the chaos in the apartment didn't deter them. Their footsteps were coming closer to the bedroom. Cursing, I rushed over to the window and opened it. I ducked out into the fire escape and closed the window just as a silhouette came into view in the room. I pressed tightly against the wall to hide from the unknown person while they walked through the bedroom. Even from outside, I could hear their footsteps in the apartment and hear them recede.

I took my chance and started down the fire escape. The apartment had an elevator and Ricky's apartment was on the sixth floor. If I could hurry I could see whoever it was just as they were coming out the building. I arrived at the bottom just as a black sedan raced from the building and into the dark.

"Son of a bitch," I said aloud and wiped sweat from my face.

Breathing heavily, I jumped the five feet from the fire escape to the ground and tried to catch my breath. The downside to cons over robberies is that cons don't provide nearly enough cardio. The brick wall of the alley was firm enough for me to prop against it and take an inventory of the night's actions. I was tired as hell, my one lead to this job dead and tortured, and some mysterious person pulling strings. I was back at square one. And worse, I had to be up early tomorrow morning for the next part of the Dunmoore game.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

Jock Sturgeon
Part I:
The Mark

Lost Haven Financial District
11:19 AM

I want you to picture the most sleaziest stockbroker you can imagine. Have you got an image? Is he a guy with slicked back hair, one of those orange tans, and a suit that costs more than what you make in a year? If that's what's in your head, then you know exactly what Sean Dunmoore looks like. And like that proverbial sleazeball stockbroker, Dunmoore has no conscience and no morals. His company, SD Securities, is one of the top dogs when it comes to trading and investing in Lost Haven. SD Securities has been investigated by the FBI and SEC for everything from wire fraud to ponzi schemes. Every time he's walked away unscathed, the Teflon Trader among one of his many nicknames. He is without a doubt one of the smartest and most corrupt white collar crooks in the country.

Which is why he's the perfect mark.

"This all sounds very risky, Mr... Blomkamp, was it?"

"Yes," I said in my best South African accent. "It is risky, Mr. Dunmoore, but the payout would be exponential."

I didn't raise my voice or even let excitement creep into it. Jackob Blomkamp, Vice President of International Trade and Development for Afrikaans Tool and Mining, was not a man who got excited very often. He was too professional for that. With my crisp suit, bulky glasses, and fake mustache I looked every bit the part of upper corporate management with the personality to match.

Dunmoore rubbed his chin and leaned back in his chair. Behind him was the cityscape of Lost Haven, spread out beneath him like feudal kingdom. "So these diamonds your company has in backstock, why can't they just sell them through legitimate means?"

"Ahh, Mr. Dunmoore," I said with a clucking tongue. Like a parent gently scolding an ignorant child. "You are not very familiar with the international diamond market. A small cabal of companies control import and export laws, only so many diamonds can be shipped out of producing countries every year. They do this to keep the supply down and the costs up. What we would be doing in effect is--"

"Diamond smuggling," Dunmoore said with a smirk.

"That's crass, sir," I said with a hint of annoyance in my voice. "We are simply liquidating our assets and transferring them to another company."

"Illegally moving a product out of a country and into another, that sounds like the textbook definition of smuggling to me."

I threw my hands up. "Call it what you will. As it currently stands, our company is cash poor but asset rich. The diamond market here in the United States is ripe for making profits. It is much more stable here that is in Africa. We are waiting for a coup to overthrow the president. If that were to happen, then trading would come a standstill and all our surplus would be stuck in South Africa. We need to get them out the country as soon as possible. From the comforts of Lost Haven, we could quietly sell our diamonds in peace. But to do that, we need money to arrange the export of our reserves to the United States."

"Why me?" asked Dunmoore. "Why not someone with experience in the precious jewels market?"

"Because, people who know diamonds also know the diamonds laws. And like I said earlier, the market is a very small one. Word would get around fast. You are an outsider, one who has no qualms about... regulations."

"Those are just accusations," he said with a finger pointed at me. "Nothing has ever been proven."

"Regardless, you know opportunity when you see it. For an initial investment of two hundred thousand American dollars, I am prepared to offer you twenty-five percent of proceeds from all diamond sales we conduct after they are safely here in America. Furthermore, you would own five percent Afrikaans Tool and Mining."

Dunmoore looked at me for a long moment. He pressed his fingers together and closed his eyes before answering.

"Thirty percent of proceeds, and I own ten percent of the company."

"I...," I hesitated. It was something Blomkamp would do. "I am not authorized for that deal. Shall I... speak with my board of directors tonight and call on you tomorrow? I feel like they will accept, but I need their final approval."

Dunmoore nodded slowly.

"Very well. Let's have lunch. I'll have my secretary call you tomorrow morning and let you know where and when."

"That is...," I wiped sweat from my brow. The suit was wool, too thick for the weather outside and indoors. But that was part of it. Jacob Blomkamp had a penchant for flop sweat. "I will have an answer by then."

Dunmoore stood and we shook hands.

"Hopefully the one I want to hear."

"Me too, sir," I said as we walked towards the door. "Me too."

----

Little Ulster
4:30 PM

My lip still itched like hell from the fake mustache. I learned the hard way once that you have to shave completely before applying those things. When the need for a quick change is called for, it rips your stubble and half your damn lip off. I scratched it as I walked around the general clutter that was my apartment.

To an outsider, I would look like a transvestite hoarder. Clothing of all bodies sizes, makes, and even genders were strewn across the room on hangers along with makeup, wigs, and false mustaches. Books on every topic from US naval history to home and gardening were crammed on the wall mounted shelves. The books, clothes, and makeup were all part of my job. Tools of the trade if you will. To be a good grifter you have to be able to become the person you're pretending to be.

I walked through the clutter towards my discarded Blomkamp disguise and a book on the history of African diamond mining. To some grifters all these props and research are considered a crutch, but I need it. Today I couldn't have just be Jock Sturgeon pretending to be a South African mining executive. I had to be a South African mining executive Jackob Blomkamp and think and react like him. Grifting is the most intense form of acting you will find. Every time you preform the stakes are so high. Entire fortunes and even your own life is dependent upon your performance, so you have to be the best. I'm like Daniel-Day Lewis.... If, you know, Daniel Day-Lewis stole shit.

A loud pounding on the door snapped me out of my reverie.

"Who is it?" I yelled.

"A guy who is really fucking good and kicking down doors, Sturgeon. Open up."

I walked to the door and looked through the peephole. Shit. The Stafford twins were standing at my door. Short and thin Johnny Stafford, with his shock of gray hair and pale skin, looked nothing like dark skinned and tall Jimmy Stafford. Their boss hired them only because their names matched and he got a kick out of seeing them together. one of my shoes had more intelligence than the Stafford twins put together.

"Mister Sturgeon, he no here," I said in my best Hispanic maid voice.

"Fuck you, Sturgeon," said Jimmy.

Johnny laughed and added. "We know you're in there. So get your cleaning lady to open up."

See what I mean?

"Okay, fellas," I said as I opened the door. "Ya caught me. Now what is this ab--"

Jimmy grabbed me by scruff of my neck and yanked me from the threshold of the apartment.

"The Ambulance Chaser requests your presents," said Johnny.

"I think you mean presence," I said as the two took turns pushing me down the hall towards the stairs.

They led me down the stairs towards the front door. Through the walls I could rock and roll music from Gingy's pub. Gingy was nice enough to let me live above her place. She could have lived in the apartment any time but didn't like to. She said she spent enough time at work that she needed to get the hell out sometimes.

The twins hustled me out into the street and into an idling town car. Sitting in the backseat was the Ambulance Chaser himself in a slick suit with pinstripes and gelled hair that was combed to try to hide the fact that it was rapidly thinning. He winked at me and patted the seat beside him.

"Jock, my boy."

If you live in the Lost Haven area and have a TV then you know exactly who Percy Fitzwaller is. His ads always ran late at night and in the middle of the afternoon. They were goofy as hell, with real life testimonials from people who Fitzwaller had represented in personal injury various lawsuits. The commercials always ended with Fitzwaller holding an umbrella as computer generated dollar bills rained down from above while a logo beneath him had his phone number and the logo of "Fitzwaller $how$ You Dollar$!"

When he wasn't busy suing over hot cups of coffee and cars with bad brakes, Fitzwaller took up his second occupation of criminal fixer. With a vast network of runners and go-betweens, Fitzwaller could arrange things from simple theft to arson to even murder for hire. His nickname of the Ambulance Chaser was a bit on the nose, but Fitzwaller seemed to really enjoy it. And he made enough profit at fixing to afford the Stafford twins. Although, admittedly, they weren't exactly top shelf muscle.

"What's the occasion, Fitzwaller? Trying to find out if me or a love one as been affected by mesothelioma?"

"Funny," Fitzwaller said with a sniffle. "I'm here representing my... other business."

"Well, I'm flattered, but I've got a game running right now and I can't steal--"

"It's not that," he hissed. "And if it were, I wouldn't be approaching you directly. I had my network for that."

My eyebrow raised at the change from present to past tense.

"Had?" I asked.

"Shit," he said with a sigh. "That's what this is about. My network of cut outs and go-betweens. I had a list of them and they were stolen."

"Wait a minute... you're telling me you actually wrote down who you employed to carry out your work for you? I thought you were a lawyer. Since when is it smart to keep notes on a criminal conspiracy."

"You don't understand," he snapped. "I... the last few months I've had trouble remembering everyone. It's... I'm getting old. There, I said it. I got so many people I use to approach people it gets hard to remember. So I had a guide of sorts. I kept it in my office safe. Well last night someone broke into that safe and took all my notes. My list of the networks for every job I contracted out for the last six months."

No witty comment from me. Not at that time. The way Fitzwaller's system worked made it foolproof. If he got contracted to, let's say, burn a business down, then he would approach someone beneath him and hand them a stuffed manila envelope. Inside that envelope was a name of the next person in the chain and a smaller envelope that that person would hand off to said person. It went that way until it got to the arsonist at the bottom. Serious crimes were always six or seven people deep, insulating Fitzwaller and his client as much as humanely possible. If someone had a list of the chains, then it would be the easiest thing in the world to roll it up from the bottom down and haul them all in for felony conspiracy.

"Yeah," said Fitzwaller as he saw the look in my eyes. "That's how serious it is. I need those papers back. I need you to get them back for me. Ten grand up front to do the job, a bonus to follow upon the speedy return of the papers."

"Perce," I said softly. "I wouldn't even know where to begin..."

"You still a burglar?"

"Only if I'm desperate or nostalgic... or desperately nostalgic."

"So you got friends in that world still. Start there."

Fitzwaller reached into his jacket and pulled out a stuffed white envelope he handed to me.

"Ten grand. Find those documents."

"What if I can't find them."

Something close to a smile crept on his face.

"Or I send the twins after you. And what's left after their through I'll feed to my dogs."

"Wait... are you saying their gonna eat me?"

"Get out the car, smartass," growled Fitzwaller. "And get to goddamn work."

----

Lost Haven Financial District
7:14 PM

Sean Dunmoore sat in the darkness of his office lost in thought. He was the only one left in the office. The people who worked for him knew the drill by now. He was always first one in and last one to leave every day. The rest of the financial world had plenty to say about his business practices, but none of them could talk about his work ethic or his devotion to the job.

All day long he had been consumed by his meeting from this morning. He kept thinking about that strange white skinned African man with his proposal. He'd heard of some crazy schemes over the years, but nothing like this It was like something out of a movie. South African diamond smuggling. Any minute now he expected James Bond to burst through the door.

Still, something about the whole thing seemed sketchy. Well, sketchy apart from the acknowledgement that the scheme involved breaking several national and international laws. He know so little about Blomkamp and his company... whatever it was called, he had the man's card somewhere. He looked it up online and found a bare bones web page announcing that Afrikaans Tool and Mining was indeed a company in South Africa, but nothing else existed on them. Sean leaned forward and picked his phone up off the hook. He looked through his rolodex until he found the number he wanted and dialed it.

"Al? Hey it's Sean Dunmoore up in Lost Haven. Yeah, it's been awhile. Are you still in DC working for the Department of Commerce? Right, good to hear it. Look, I need a favor when you get in the office tomorrow morning. I want to know what you guys have on record for this company called Afrikaans Tool and Mining. Yeah. I can spell it for you, you got something to write with? Yeah."

If these guys were as international as Blomkamp claimed to be, the US government would certainly have a file on them. And if they didn't? Well, then he would know for sure that this plan that sounded too good to be true really was.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

Create a Hero RPG Application

Character you have created: Jock Sturgeon

Alias: James Stitcher, Jack Scott, Martin Sullivan, etc.

Character Alignment: -Walking the Line-

Identity: Known to some.

Character Personality: Simply put Jock is a hustler. He'll do anything he can to make money. He has the likable and easygoing personality a conman needs in order to survive. Depending on the situation Jock can be very cocky and overbearing. As much as conning is a means of earning money for Jock, it's also a psychological aspect. The years of neglect from his mother left a chip on his shoulder. He just doesn't want to take money from you, he wants to prove that he is the smarter than you. The need to prove his intelligence has led to many cons blowing up prematurely, the mark becoming suspicious due to Jock's attitude. He avoids violence as much as possible, preferring to solve problems with his mind and not his fists.

Uniform/costume: No costume.

Origin Info/Details:

Jock Sturgeon's early life was one of hardship. His mother, Vera, gave birth to him when she was just thirteen years old. Jock's father was a low-level grifter who died a year later when he was hit by a car. Vera soon abandoned Jock and gave him to her parents, running off to Lost Haven. In Lost Haven she fell in with seedy types, men who did bad things for lots of money. She grudgingly came back when Jock was three and her father threatened to abandon the boy as well. Vera then took him to the city and half-raised him, seeing the boy as nothing more than a burden. Men came and went and Jock, as he got older, began to notice the things his mother and her friends did. He watched and quietly learned.

By the age of thirteen Jock and a group of boys from the neighborhood formed their own pickpocket gang. At fifteen he and another man ran a rigged street betting game. A year later Jock was steadily committing burglaries through Lost Haven. He made the mistake of operating too frequently in too small of an area. Soon the cops were on to him and he had to flee town and hide with old friend's of Vera. In exile, Jock's education began properly. He learned from seasoned thieves and grifters about the skill of the con, both short and long. Jock soon began to put the lessons to use.

For ten years now Jock has operated around Lost Haven as a confidence man and burglar. He has run long cons, short cons, heists, scams, and grifts. He's pulled every sort of job from the One-Armed Priest to the Serbian Stewarwd to the Brothers Corletonsia. More often than not the jobs were successful, but Jock had to occasionally pull out of the cons, just one step ahead of the authorities. A decade of running and scamming made him weary of traveling and grifting. Jock settled in as a short-term con man and has developed an interesting side job asthe underworld's version of a private eye. If a crook is in a jam, needs something recovered, or just needs a solution that doesn't involve killing then Jock is your man.

Hero Type:
Normal


Power Level:
Street Level

Powers:
No powers

Attributes:
Height: 5'11
Weight: 195 pounds.
Strength Level: Normal Human
Speed/Reaction Timing Level: Normal Human
Endurance at MAXIMUM Effort: Normal Human
Agility: Normal Human
Intelligence: Genius
Fighting Skill: Untrained
Resources: Average

Weaknesses:
Normal things that kill humans.

Supporting Characters:

Vesta Sturgeon - Jock's mother. Vesta works as a runner and mule for many underworld figures in Lost Haven and abroad. She only occasionally shows up into Jock's life at the most inconvenient of times.

Stan Pertovick - Local crime lord Jock pays tribute to in order to operate in his part of the city. Stan also acts as Jock's fence, paying for any stolen goods he may have to sell.

Commander Tom Norman - An LHPD who demands tribute from any crooks operating in his sector. His authoritarian nature rubs many members of the underworld, Jock among them, the wrong way.

Wallis - An old conman and thief that mentored Jock when he was younger. Wallis still travels across the world, pulling jobs when and where he can get them.

Gingy - Owner and operator of Gingy's, a pub that Jock lives above. Gingy is Jock's landlord and friend.

Monjoni - A fellow thief, Monjoni is leader of a four-man crew that performs burglaries and robberies all over the city. Jock has a tendency to run afoul with Monjoni and his boys anytime their paths cross.

Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?:
Yea

Sample Post:


The Diamond District
12:01 AM

A lock is like a woman.

It's expensive?

No, that's not it.

A lock is like a woman.

It's what stands between you and money?

No, still not it.

A lock is like a woman.

It requires just the right touch.

--CLICK!--

There it is. And there it goes. The deadbolt lock was free, leaving just the single lock on the doorknob, a lock that I could have opened with just a strong look. I popped it free quicker than a high school boy pops off his girlfriends's bra. And just like the proverbial teen necking in the backseat of a car, I was in the promise land.

Through the door and down a dark corridor was Zinkman & Sons Diamond Exchange, one of the top diamond emporiums in Lost Haven and by extension the entire east coast. I am Ahab and this is my white whale, I am Javert and this is my Jean Valjean, I am the Trix Rabbit and these are my Trix. I'm at the finish line after sixteen months of prep, recon, and manipulation. I bribed bureaucrats at City Hall for copies of the building's blueprints. A hacker I know who owes me more than a few favors broke into the security company's mainframe to pull out their security schematics on the place. Hell, I dated Issac Zinkman's youngest daughter for six months just to get a feel for the family and learn any trade secrets. We just broke up two weeks ago. Oh, Cinnamon. You had the face of a horse, but the body... of a horse. And now that I think about it, was Cinnamon your real name? I thought it was your nickname... and there was that strange way you laughed at my jokes, like a neigh or something...

....

Did... did I date a horse for six months?

Before any more thoughts of my potential bestiality could fill my head, something hard and firm found itself resting on the back of my neck.

"Don't move," a voice said from beside my ear. "You're coming with me."

"Or what?" I whispered back.

"Or--"

Something sharp and painful coursed through my body. My feet fell out from under me and I slammed to the floor writhing in pain. The electricity was still working its way through me when a black sack was pulled over my head. Just for good measure, a sharp kick to the face bloomed more pain through my body and knocked me unconscious.

----

When the bag came off my face, I was relieved to see that I was not in a police station. That relief quickly vanished when I saw where I was. It was a large, open-ended room with high ceilings and ivory furniture that matched the ivory carpet that matched the ivory walls. Pretty much, me in my black burglar outfit now stained with my own blood stuck out in the room like a sore thumb. Even the two muscular thugs flanking both my sides were dressed in ivory shirts, slacks, and shoes.

"Did I die and wake up in the 70's?" I mumbled to myself.

"If only kid."

In the middle of the room, in a big chintz chair the color of -- What other color but Ivory -- was Rupert Roth. I didn't know Roth personally, I wasn't big time enough to, but I knew him based on the stories I'd heard about his infamous fashion sense. He looked like an extra from a bad disco movie. He wore an ivory shirt with half of it unbuttoned, a large gold necklace and medallion caught in the steely gray fur on his chest. He had on a pair of ivory pants that would have looked embarrassing on a man half his age, but made Roth look clownish.

Rupert Roth was the last great Jewish gangster in America. Now days most people associate the mob with the Italians, and it is a fair association to make given the sheer numbers involved. But back in the day Jews were the top dogs in the underworld. Guys like Arnold Rothstein, Bugsy Siegel, and Meyer Lanksy handled their business like CEOs and quietly made millions. Murder and violence were involved, sure, but not like it was with the Italians. More importantly, they got out of crime and went legit. Roth had followed that model very well. A gambling empire amassed in the 50's and 60's went major league in the 70's and he removed himself from crime altogether by the time the FBI started hitting the mobs hard. Now, the only organizations Roth belong to were the Chamber of Commerce and the Rotary Club. But there was still that edge. He still had the juice that made him very dangerous, and had me scared shitless to be dragged into his living room in the middle of the night.

"Jock Sturgeon," he said after a moment of silence. "I've heard of you."

"Good things, I hope."

Roth waved his hand in a so-so manner.

"I hear that you're smart, I hear that you're a good thief, I hear that outside of some trouble as a kid, you ain't never been pinched. I also hear that you're the guy crooks go to when they need work done."

"Have you heard that I like long walks in the moonlight and a good '62 Bordeaux?"

"I'm questioning your smarts, kid," Roth said, ignoring my joke. "First off, I've had a tail on you for a solid week and you didn't see him, and then you're here with me making stupid jokes."

"Sorry," I said with a shrug. "It's a defense mechanism, I guess. Why have you been following me?"

"Issac Zinkman is a close and personal friend of mine. We go to the same temple, we sit on the same charity boards. He knows who I am and about my past. So, he comes to me asking about this guy dating his little girl Cindy--"

"Cindy," I said with a sigh of relief. "That's right, Cinnamon was her nickname... thank god."

Roth looked at me with contempt and a half second later, the muscled gorillas on my right slapped me across the face. My face, which was already operating at a dull painful throb, exploded in pain. My ears rang and I had to bite my tongue to keep from crying out. Roth stared at me long enough to make sure he'd gotten his point across before starting back.

"So Issac has this funny feeling about the guy his little girl is dating, especially after they broke up two weeks ago. So he comes to me and says 'Rothy, this putz made my little girl cry. Find out what he's got to hide and then fucking burn him.' And what do I find out, but the fact that this son of a bitch is an ace burglar, a burglar with a rep across town as reliable and smart, two things that are almost impossible to find when it comes to crooks. Not only is this guy a burglar, but he's planning on robbing my dear friend blind. You, my friend, are in for a world of hurt."

"Unless," I said cautiously, mindful of the two looming thugs on either side of me. "If you were going to hurt me, you would have done it right away with no spiel, or you would have turned me in to the cops. You did neither, so I'm waiting for the part where you give me options."

Something passed across Roth's face. It could have been a smile. It may have been a snarl, or it may have been gas. It was something of a mix between the three.

"Smart," he said. "Just like they said. Option 1. I inform Issac that you not only broke his little girl's heart, but also that you were in the middle of stealing his entire life's work when I caught you. Knowing my friend like I do, he will kindly ask me to feed your own balls."

"A cannibalistic eunuch. Not the way I wanna go out."

"Option 2. You're a thief. Steal something for me and we will call it quits."

"Steal what, and from where?"

That look again. I was now certain that pained grimace had to be Roth's version of a smile.

"The where is easy. Lost Haven PD headquarters. The what? Now, that's gonna take some explaining..."

[Recruiting more] Soviet Amerika - Red Dawn-Inspired Alternate History