Byrd Man

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

1939

Denver

The deuce and a half rolled down the highway towards the city. A dozen men sat in the back of the truck’s cargo hold with rifles and helmets. Closest to the exit was First Sergeant Charlie Braddock. Braddock and his platoon were just a small part of the massive convoy heading into the city.

The 1st Montana, the Republic’s first and so far only army, had been called in to Denver to assist with the offensive to push federal forces out of the city. Back in the early days of the war, the western armies had swept through Colorado and into the Midwest before being slowly pushed back to the Rockies. All the republics and independent city-states from across the west were mustering manpower, a seven nation army, to help with that offensive. Word among the armies was that this offensive, if successful, could end their war. With the federals already bogged down with the south, a strong showing by the west might make the government call for peace so they could focus on one war at a time.

For Braddock and his men, it would be their first real taste of combat. They’d had some skirmishes up near the Canadian border, raiders from Saskatchewan trying to take advantage of the confusion and anarchy in the US. The pirates were driven back where they came from, more than a few bloodied and dead. But Charlie knew that hadn’t been real combat. Not like what they were getting ready for.

The truck suddenly came to a screeching halt. Braddock nearly fell off the bench seat, would have had he not caught himself at the last moment. The men talked among themselves while Braddock lifted the canvas tarp of the truck and looked out.

“Jesus Christ,” he said to himself.

Without talking to his men, he jumped out of the back of the truck. He found he wasn’t the only one. Other men were coming out of the trucks and on to the stalled traffic on the highway, the convoy stretched back miles and miles until you couldn’t see it. But none of them were looking at the roads.

They were looking at the sky.

Planes, so many that they caused the afternoon sky to turn into dusk as they flew overhead. Their engines were so loud that the men had to yell over the noise to be heard. They were thousands of feet in the air, but Braddock could easily tell that they were the big bodied bombers on a run. Some of the soldiers on the ground opened fire with their rifles, but most were too stunned by what they were seeing to respond.

Braddock turned around at the sound of the booms. The armada in the air began to drop their bombs on the city of Denver. The men of the 1st Montana could just look on in horror at the destruction before them, the explosions that came one after another so quickly that it sounded like the roll of a snare drum, the flames leaping up hundreds of feet into the air.

The sound of a closer plane drew Braddock away from the carnage. A fighter plane buzzed low over the convoy and strafed the area with its machine gun. Braddock hit the deck. Dirt and grass exploded around him as bullets whizzed by. He heard a few men nearby scream and fall to the ground. After the plane had passed by, he stood on shaking legs and turned back to Denver.

He saw that the entire city was engulfed in flames. Braddock could feel tears stinging his eyes from both the intense heat and the emotion of it all. Even from this far away, he could hear the screams and smell the burning of flesh.

Montana
Now

Chinook
9:18 PM

Vic Klein was used to contemptible looks. He’d grown up in a rough neighborhood in Minneapolis, too short and too skinny for his own good. A tough upbringing had turned him into a kid who could take a few licks, and give more than a few out himself. That childhood, plus a career in the Minneapolis PD, made Vic impervious to hard stares and cold looks.

The look he was getting from Bob Dixon was certainly one of the coldest and hardest he’d ever received. The two men sat at Vic’s desk at the courthouse. Sheriff Braddock and Jason Crowder were in the basement, the sheriff booking the man for assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder.

“What kind of name is Klein?” Dixon asked with contempt. “Certainly not a Montana name.”

“I’m from Minnesota,” Vic said nonchalantly.

He knew what Dixon was getting at, but wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. The question was one he'd heard all his life, even in Minnesota. It was how people called him a Jew without calling him a Jew.

“My wife is from Chinook. We moved here a few years ago.”

Vic shifted and rubbed the back of his neck. He purposefully pulled at the Star of David necklace he always wore so Dixon could get a good look at it. Antisemitism was nothing new to Vic. He’d been called jewboy by people as long as he could remember.

“Now, Mr. Dixon,” he started back at his typewriter. “Let’s get this statement out.”

“I don’t want to give a statement,” hissed Dixon. “I want to get my employee back to Jordan’s Crossing. Our production at that site hinges upon him. Mr. Crowder is a very important petroleum engineer for Dixon Oil."

“He’s also drunker than a skunk,” Charlie Braddock said as he stepped into the office. He breezed through the office in that cool, confident way Vic was always envious of. Nobody made an entrance like the sheriff. “And he’s under arrest, charged with multiple felonies.”
Sheriff Braddock sat at his desk and propped his boots up on it.

“What if the man he stabbed declines to press charges?” Dixon asked.

“We’ll ask him,” replied Braddock. “Just as soon as he wakes up from that coma. I don’t know about you, Mr. Dixon, but if I was put in a coma I would be awfully keen on pressing charges against the guy that done the comatosing.”

“Dixon Oil is an international company, sheriff, it spans over four continents. Jason Crowder is a big part of that international machinery. If he’s in jail, then my company is losing millions of dollars.”

Braddock leveled his gaze at Dixon and regarded him coolly.

“I guess Mr. Crowder should have thought about that before he stabbed a man near to death. Judge Howard will arraign him tomorrow, set his bail. But for now, Mr. Dixon, he is staying downstairs.”

Dixon stood in frustration. Vic stood, one hand on his gun, as Dixon walked to Braddock’s desk and slammed his first against the surface, just inches away from the sheriff’s boots.

“You’re making a big mistake, Braddock.”

The sheriff stood. Up close, he was a few inches taller than Dixon and he made sure Dixon was aware of the difference in height.

“I’ll have to ask you to leave, Mr. Dixon, before you end up in the holding cell with Crowder.”

Dixon took a step back. He looked the sheriff up and down. Vic saw the man’s face shift, his anger evaporating into something else. Whatever it was on his face, Vic was certain he didn’t like it at all.

“You’re about the right age, sheriff,” he said too calmly. “Did you serve in the war?”

“12th Infantry Division, 1st Montana,” Braddock said without hesitation.

“I was in the air corps,” Dixon said with a smirk. “I served my country with honor. How about you?”

“I was proud to serve Montana. We didn’t have a tinpot dictator like Dugout Doug in Montana.”

Dixon nodded and started towards the door. He stopped short and turned back to look at the sheriff.

“You know, I flew bombers for the air corps. 1st Montana, they were in Denver, right?” He continued on, not letting the sheriff answer.

“Well so was I. I was above Denver, sheriff. Fought in that battle.”

“That wasn’t a battle,” Braddock whispered. “It was a goddamn slaughter.”

"Just remember who won the war, and who lost it, sheriff. The people of Blaine County like a man who betrayed his country?"

"They like a man who stayed true to his country, even when his government was being true to them. It's why they elected me, and they keep on electing me."

"We'll see about that."

Dixon winked and left the office without another word.

--

Los Angeles

Downtown
7:55 PM

An usher led Jessica Hyatt to her seat. She was among the last people to be seated in the theater. Almost every seat in the small venue had been filled by men and women in their finest formal wear. Jessica’s bright red dress made her stand out, more than a few heads turned as she walked down the aisle. The color of the dress was done on purpose, to stand out and to show her true red colors to the group assembled. She recognized more than a few faces in the crowd. The performance promised to be a who’s who in LA’s elite leftist society, and Jess was at least a nominal member of that coterie.

Her seat ended up being just three rows away from the stage, halfway down the twenty seat row. It was perfect seating, a prime spot to conduct her performance. She knew Parker was somewhere in the auditorium, watching her while his agents watched and recorded the people who came and went. If the Pinkertons were here, then the LAPD Red Squad had to be here as well.

Jessica saw a small entourage being led to a seat at the front row. Two men flanked a woman on either side. The two men were tall and handsome, one of them she recognized from films but did not know his name. The woman wore a plum gown and her light brown hair was cut short above the ears. The woman turned and looked out at the crowd.

She was beautiful, but not conventionally so. Her nose was too short and there seemed to be old acne scars on her cheeks. But it was how she broadcast herself to the world that made her beautiful. A clam elegance and grace, a playful smile on her lips at all times. It was a look of confidence. After a look at the audience, she settled in to a seat between the two men just as the lights flickered in warning of the coming show.

At exactly fifteen minutes past eight, the lights dimmed and the curtain opened. Harvey Edwards hobbled out to thunderous applause. He wore a simple brown suit and red tie, a matching pork pie hat on his head. His iconic sunglasses hid the eyes that had been rendered useless by bomb shrapnel. Everyone in the room, and all over the world for that matter, knew the story of the old bluesman who had been collateral damage during the war and used that to write songs decrying the unjust policies of the southern states. But after the war, he'd turned his focus to the US and how they continued to uphold Jim Crow and silenced critics. For his troubles, he had been given the choice of jail or exile. He was only here after years of negotiating between the US and Chinese governments.

The old man gave a slight bow to the crowd before walking to the stool where a guitar case rested on it. A lifetime of performance gave him the muscle memory to nimbly place the case at his feet and open it. Out came a simple acoustic guitar. The crowd cheered again when they saw the words ‘This Machine Kills Dictators’ scribbled on the body of the guitar. He flexed his hands, the long fingers with their calluses working the frets up and down.

The room went still and quiet as Edwards began to strum. When he sung, a raspy voice that came from a lifetime of smoking, oozed from his mouth and circulated through the auditorium without the help of amplification.

“I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night, alive as you and me. Says I ‘but Joe, you’re ten years dead.’ ‘I never died,’ says he. ‘I never died,’ says he.”

Respectful applause followed the break of the first verse as Edwards went into the song. From her seat, Jessica had an odd thought that almost made her laugh. She held it up until the second half of the song.

“’Joe Hill ain’t dead,’ he says to me. ‘Joe Hill ain’t never died. Where working men go out on strike, Joe Hill is as their side. Joe Hill is at their side.’”

Jessica couldn’t contain herself and had to let loose a burst of giggles. The entire situation was so… bizarre. She was among a group of privileged people who had paid hundreds of dollars for tickets to a show where an exiled negro sang songs that extolled the virtues of the working class. Never mind that all of men and women surrounding her had never had to work and to strike and to suffer for their beliefs, like Joe Hill or even Harvey Edwards. They were armchair warriors trying to buy their bona fides. The absurdity of it all made her cackle with glee.

After a couple of dirty looks, the people around her began to shush her. She had to move now before she lost her composure all together and couldn’t get her speech out. With laughter still in her voice, she stood and shouted loud enough to make Harvey Edwards stop playing.

“The United States is a nation of oppressors, and the oppressed. While we sit here and pat ourselves on the back for our beliefs, negroes in the south are being lynched , the LAPD continues its anti-negro containment policies that is just thinly veiled racial genocide, our civil liberties are raped by the Pinkertons, we must take action. It is not enough to have progressive beliefs, we must also--“

That’s as far as she got before a chorus of boos began to drown her out. Part of it was because she was challenging them, throwing the injustice in the world back in their faces and that no matter how many concerts they went to, it wouldn’t change. But she figured most of them were booing because she was interrupting the show they had paid good money for.

Two ushers came into the aisle and passed by the people sitting beside her to take her out. She resisted until one of the ushers picked her up and drug her away, to the sound of applause and cheers. As she thrashed, she saw the woman in the plum grown watching her with a playful look on her face. They briefly made eye contact briefly, but long enough for the woman to smile at her and nod.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Cloud Nine

10:34 PM

"I should have known from the very start, this girl would leave me with a broken heart.”

The little Italian man crooned into his microphone while the band accompaniment behind him played an up tempo number. They were all dressed in tuxedos, several of them with cigarettes hanging out of their mouth while they played and swayed to the music.

“So if you don’t want to cry like I do, keep away from runaround Sue.”

Mariano continued to sing while the rest of the Moonlights played the song that had made them household names twenty years ago. The crowd applauded when the song started. It was always the band’s big finishing number. From his vantage point backstage, Stein looked out at the crowd and mostly saw middle aged men and women watching with awe. It made sense. They were all smack dab in the middle of memory lane, Mariano and the Moonlights the soundtrack of their youth.

On paper, Stein was one of the band’s equipment managers. He’d traveled with them up to the ship and even helped them set up their amps and instruments for the two shows they were doing tonight. Stein had made sure he was the only one who touch the special amp that was among their equipment, the one with the false bottom. He’d taken what was in there out before they even started to set things up. The band knew to give him a wide berth; they also knew he wouldn’t be coming back with them on the ride down. It would have been too suspicious if three men like himself, Johnny, and the little doctor all showed up on Cloud Nine all at once, so they’d used the Trojan horse idea for Stein. Like a lot of entertainers, Mariano had some debt with the mob so he was in position to refuse when they demanded he slip Stein into his road crew.

From out in the dim lighting, Stein could see Prussian Joe sitting at a table at the center right. He had to suppress a smile when he saw the look on the man’s face. The guy was enamored with the band on stage. It made sense, Stein figured. Joe was the right age to have grown up with the band. He could get into it all he wanted, Stein guessed. The important part was that he was here. Johnny had said if he was at the band’s late show, then that meant the job was on.

The band finished its last number, getting a standing ovation from the crowd. The group bowed and exited off the stage, passing Stein without making eye contact. They knew the score. The less they saw of him, the less they’d have to lie if they were asked about him.
Stein followed behind the musicians, but veered to the left instead of going right to the backstage green room. The corridor led out to the exits of the theater. The little German was waiting for him. He passed Stein a stack of chips.

“Play on the floor,” he said softly. “We’re making our move at two.”

He cradled the chips in his big hands and nodded as Prussian Joe disappeared into the crowd exiting the theater.

---

Los Angeles

77th Street Station
3:22 AM

Chaos and disorder was the name of the game at the police station. Jeff Thomas was trying like hell to make sense of it. Everybody who was at the Voodoo had been brought in to the station via paddy wagon. Patrons and employees alike sat on long benches awaiting police interview. Even T-Bone and his band sat on the benches in their bright purple suits.

Jeff was in the middle of it along with the rest of the cops who worked nights at 77th Street. The night boss had called in dayshift detectives to help with the interviews. Hoyt was at the scene, working it with coroners. In the back of his mind, Jeff thought about the killing of Wendall Brock from a few weeks ago and how it had only rated a couple of uniforms and two detectives and nothing else. But a white woman gets murdered and it’s no stone left unturned.

“I already told you what I know,” the bartender said defiantly. Jeff knew him well enough to know the man didn’t like him. That put him in the same column as almost everyone at the Voodoo.

“I know,” said Jeff. “But I gotta put it down on the record. Just, give us time.”

He walked away as the bartender kept mumbling. Jeff headed towards his desk. He was the only detective at 77th Street Station who had a desk all to himself. The rest of the plainclothes shared their desks with one other detective who was always off duty when they were on.
Jeff knew exactly why his desk wasn’t shared. It was the one time he didn’t mind segregation.

Something on the desk caught his eye. There was a thick manila packet on the corner, resting on the top of his inbox. An LAPD logo had been stamped in the middle of the packet, a red slash cut diagonally across it meant it was an internal document not meant for distribution outside official police channels.

“Mack,” Jeff called to the nightwatch sergeant as he passed. “Did someone drop something off while I was gone?”

“Courier run from downtown,” Mack said in an annoyed tone. Mack was the type of nightwatch guy who liked working nights because they were quiet. The murder had thrown a monkey wrench into his plans and now he was actually having to work.

Jeff turned away from the package. Whatever it was, it could wait. He picked his notebook and pencil off the desk and found the bartender again, still looking perturbed.

“I don’t know why y’all interviewing me,” he said with a shake of his head. “It’s the whiteboy you need to talk to.”

“Hoyt?” asked Jeff.

“No, not your walking boss, Officer Tom. The mean looking one who stood out like a sore thumb, suh. The one who ain’t here, Officer Tom.”

Jeff ignored his insults. They were far from clever and he had heard much worse. Instead, he thought back to the nightclub just before it all went to hell. He had seen a white man by the bar, tall and with his face hidden by a hat. The bartender was right that he had been there. And he was right that he wasn’t at the station either.

Where the hell was he?

---


West Hollywood
3:51 AM

Elliot Shaw looked both ways before he popped the lock. This time of night, the foot traffic around Claire Beauchamp’s bungalow was non-existent. He pocketed his lockpicks and pulled on the leather gloves he wore to keep them tight before going into the apartment.

He knew he had to come here as soon as he saw that Beauchamp was dead. While the cops would be slowed by the procedure of forensics and confirming her identity, Elliot had no restraints. This wasn’t the first time he had to perform what Jeannie called sanitation. When western idol and gunslinger Phil McCoy died, Elliot made sure his house had been cleared of the bondage equipment and freaky porn before he pulled off the rope Phil accidentally strangled himself with while jerking it.

Elliot pulled out a penlight and flicked it on. The apartment was neat and orderly, everything in its place. It wasn’t what the home of an up and coming movie actress would look like. If not for the lack of cobwebs, it almost looked like nobody lived here at all. He stepped through the living room area into a hallway towards the bedroom. If there was any dirt to be had, it would be somewhere in that room.
He was on the lookout for drugs and porn, probably white on black stuff. He put odds that Claire Beauchamp’s killer was some spook that didn’t take kindly to being a white woman’s side thing. He knew the LAPD would at least try to spin it that way. A white woman is killed in darktown means a full-out assault of police resources. He knew that the cops would be an occupying force in South Central until the killer was found… or at least until one was fabricated to fit the narrative. The cops were a lot like the studios in that regard. The easier the storyline, the easier it was to sell it to the masses.

As far as Elliot’s job was concerned, as long as he got rid of the scandalous shit and made the press play down the jungle fever angle, the studio would have a boon of publicity. A young starlet killed in the prime of her life. It was another Hollywood heartbreak that would turn Claire Beauchamp from footnote to a silver screen legend.

Nothing under the bed, the obvious hiding place for dirt. Elliot swept out to the dresser beside the wall and went through the drawers. No pictures, but other shit. Worse shit. He found political tracts on the LAPD and the Pinkerton, a profile on some Chink commie, one glorifying the old west coast communes back during the war, one on the infamous Victor Hecht.

Elliot dropped the pamphlets like they were radioactive. Claire Beauchamp was a commie. That was so much worse than being a mudshark. The other way, Elliot could strongarm enough shines until her reputation as white girl persona non grata was established. But being a commie was different. It meant she was a radical, something dangerous even out on the partially radicalized west coast. The question the press would ask, and his bosses would certainly demand, was who else in Hollywood had she infected?

Pocketing the tracts, Elliot saw a sheet of paper at the bottom of the drawer with names and phone numbers on it. He pocketed that as well and did a final sweep of the house. When he was sure it was sanitized, he left the house and walked to his car parked at the end of the block. He got into his car just in time to see an unmarked police cruiser pull up to the bungalow.

He watched two uniformed officers set up a perimeter in front of the house before turning to the list in his pocket. A half dozen names in all, most of them just first names or monikers that were clearly nicknames.

“The good people,” Elliot said to himself, reading the heading on the paper.

Putting the list back, he started his car and headed home.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Manhattan

When he didn’t get any answer the second time he knocked, Parker kicked the door in. Two swift kicks to the place around the knob snapped the cheap lock in half. He came in gun first through the tiny studio apartment. It took him all of thirty seconds to clear the place of any human life. He slid the piece back in its shoulder holster and did a quick inventory of the surroundings. Bare walls and cracked wallpaper greeted him. A scuffed hardwood floor was obscured by stacks of garbage and filth. The place stunk to high heaven and Parker had to hold his nose as he went into the little bathroom nook.

From the window he looked out across the city. New York's lights were ablaze in the early dusk. Movement below caught his eye and he looked down. A fat man in a ill-fitting suit was running down the fire escape for dear life. Parker yanked the window opened and gave chase, racing down the rickety, rusty stairs after him.

The fat man was off the stairs and running down the alley by the time Parker got to the bottom of them. He leapt the five feet down to the pavement and pulled his gun from its holster. The fat man was at least ten yards away when Parker drew a bead on him with the gun's iron sight. The piece jerked just once and the fat man crumpled to the ground. He kept the gun on the body as he walked up to it.

Parker kicked the fat man over and made sure he was dead. A neat little hole in the back of the guy’s neck wasn't nearly as neat when it exited just under his left eye and took out what little brains he had with it. A quick search revealed a wallet, a cellphone, and a half brick of heroin tucked in the man's suit jacket.

The wallet had a driver's license made out to one Henry Carter with matching debit and credit cards. Parker pocketed the wallet and dope into his own jacket and held on to the phone as he walked out the alley towards his car. The rental was parked down the block from the flophouse he'd just went in to. This part of town was filled with rundown apartments and no-tell motels so he knew he'd be able to leave the area at his own pace before anyone found the body.

He drove to a parking lot three blocks away and let the engine idle while he inspected Henry Carter's phone. The man didn't make many phone calls -- but who did in the age of texting? -- and most of the calls were either from contacts listed a HOME or SARAH. The texts revealed Sarah to be Carter's wife or girlfriend or something. Parker didn't remember seeing a wedding ring on Carter's pudgy hand. Most of the text were mundane stuff from Sarah and friends, but one number jumped out at Parker.

M -- number 914-202-6005 -- never called Carter nor did Carter ever call him. But they texted. Every two weeks, M would text Carter the word 'Package' and Two weeks later, Carter would text '$' The last such text was a package one from M a week ago. Parker pocketed the phone and started the car. He pulled out into the street with a few ideas on how to proceed next.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other on the gun Graves had given him five days ago. The piece felt good in his big mitts. He liked the weight and feel of it. It wasn't fancy but it got the job done. Parker could visualize putting the barrel right in Mal Resnick's face and pulling the trigger until it clicked.

The job that led to here was supposed to be a pretty straightforward one. The small town of Susanville, California had two banks that were merging. In the middle of the night, all the cash from one bank would cross town in an armored car with a police escort and deposit it into the other one. Parker and two other guys -- Mal and Joe Wilson -- ambushed the car at the halfway point with an honest to god rocket launcher that Joe Wilson had somehow gotten his hands on.

The front end of the armored car went up like a roman candle when the rocket hit. The blast was pure shock and awe, a good enough cover for Parker, Mal, and Joe to overtake the cop escort and the guards and crack open the back of the armored car. Fire trucks were hauling ass to the scene as Parker and company fled into the night in a SUV loaded with three quarters of a million dollars in cash. Joe Wilson drove them north to Cedarville, an even smaller town that was spitting distance to the Nevada state line.

The plan was to lay low in a small house there, split up the take three ways, and go their separate ways after a few days of hiding out. Parker made sure the house was stocked with water and sandwich supplies. Mal, apparently, had other ideas. The last night of their hideout, Mal stabbed Joe Wilson to death in his sleep and came for Parker. Lucky for Parker, or unlucky for Mal, Parker was a light sleeper and struck out when he saw Mal at the foot of his bed with a knife. Parker's gun was close by, but Mal's was in his other hand and he drew down, hitting Parker twice in the torso.

The gunshots drew the cops, who got there in time to save Parker from bleeding to death but not in time to intercept Mal or the cash as he drove off into the night. Parker woke up two days later handcuffed to a hospital bed. Cops from Susanville, California State Police, and even feds sweated him about what had happened in that little house. Parker didn't say a word and they couldn't prove he robbed the armored cars. So instead he got charged with Joe Wilson's murder while he healed from gunshot wounds. Parker was still awaiting trial for murder when he was magically released by someone. Graves, whoever the hell he was, had serious pull.

He wasted no time getting to New York after the file on Mal put him in the city. A few quick cons and paper hangings in California got enough cash in his pocket to get across the country and into a cheap motel in Jersey. From there he staged his hunt for Mal. The dossier put Mal in Manhattan, working as a wholesaler of Big H. The bastard had taken Parker and Joe Wilson's shares of the loot and paid off some big debts to the Outfit, what was left he used to set up shop as a supplier. Carter, the man Parker had just killed, was one of the people Mal supplied. Parker pulled into a parking spot on the Upper West Side and dialed M's number.

"What the f--"

"Mal," Parker said in his most panicked voice. "I-I-I-It's me!"

"We don't talk on the fucking phone, you--"

"We need to meet! Something's gone wrong, it's all gone wrong. I don't know what to do!"

"Chill the hell out," Mal said with some force behind his voice. "And stop talking over the phone about this, okay?"

"What do I do?"

"Meet me at this address --" he fired off a location in Brooklyn. "Got that?"

"Okay. I'll be there in an hour!"

---

Center City, WA

Tracy's charger cruised slowly through the posh suburbs. Hunter's Creek was just a scant thirty blocks away from downtown Center City, but it may as well have been on another planet. There was no trace of the old junkies on the corner, doing the dope fiend lean as they shot up and fried what little brains they had left. No sign of the hookers who walked the streets, selling their bodies to feed themselves and their children. No dilapidated buildings with its copper piping and electrical wiring ripped out by money hungry fiends looking for a quick payday.

He felt uneasy surrounded by these big lawns and big houses shining in the early morning light. Tracy was just white trash from the city, something that would never change. The people out here were tantamount to American royalty with their fleets of cars, jets, and boats. His destination, the Flynn mansion, loomed on the hill above it all. Guys like Tracy and his boss Hyde were called criminals for no other reason than the types of crime they committed.

Hyde peddled drugs, the guys who owned the houses out here peddled Democracy to any third world country with finite natural resources to exploit. They robbed pension plans and left retiring employees penniless. Society condemned guys like Tracy, saying they were the problem with America, all while the people out here overthrew governments to pay fifty cents on the dollar for exports. The only difference between Hyde's empire and the empires of business were that those criminal enterprises were deemed too big to fail by the government.

Tracy ended up stopped on the edge of the big manor by an armed guard. His car idled outside a big iron gate while the man gave him the stinkeye and double checked Tracy's identification. Tracy had to hand over his gun before parking his car and being led into the big house by another guard. He wasn't too impressed by the large courtyard and expansive corridors. The place was small by House of Windsor standards. The guard showed Tracy into an office somewhere on the third floor and left him alone.

He walked up to a wall that looked like a shrine to the home's owner. Three different photos of Thomas Flynn shaking hands with the last three US Presidents, one of him in New York ringing the stock exchange bell, a cover of a financial magazine with a younger looking Flynn on the cover. Photos of family accompanied the ones of achievement, but Flynn was always in the middle of whatever was going on. That didn't surprise Tracy. A man like that had to be center of attention in everything he did. For guys like Thomas Flynn, if you weren't first you might as well have been last.

"Are you the man Mr. Hyde sent?"

Tracy turned and saw Thomas Flynn enter the room. He was just a few inches shorter than Tracy, but lean and trim in a bathrobe and pajama pants, slippers covering his feet. If not for his white hair, Tracy would assume the man was closer to his age than the sixty some odd years he was supposed to be. He strode forward and shook Tracy's hand.

"Thank you so much for coming, Mr..."

"Tracy, just Tracy."

"Right," Flynn said with a nod. "Have a seat, Tracy."

Flynn took a seat behind the large mahogany office desk while Tracy took a chair from across the desk. He watched Flynn as he settled into the chair and leaned forward, both palms flat on the desk. He had a stern look on his face that read too stern. It seemed more like a put on than anything.

"They said they would call again at noon to confirm I have the five million dollars they're asking for. Details for the hand off will follow."

"Will you be able to get the money that fast?" Tracy asked. "I know that a lot of rich people don't have that kind of cash on standby."

"I have enough bonds and stocks I can liquidate quickly once trading opens up on the Asian markets. I'll have to be quick about it since it's Friday and there won't be a chance to do it for the weekend."

"Hyde wants me to also look into who may have kidnapped your daughter. Mr. Flynn, can you think of anyone who might want to do this?"

"Take your pick," Flynn said with a wave of an arm. "You don't get where I am in life without pissing people off. Rival capitalist, politicians, labor unions, even my own employees. Name a person or a group of people, and chances are I have stepped on their backs to get ahead. You don't make an omelet without breaking eggs."

"Right," said Tracy. "Anything recently?"

"Not at the moment, no. At least nothing obvious."

"Did you daughter live here? Would it be possible to look into her room?"

"As you wish," Flynn said with a nod. "I'll have a guard escort you."

Linda Flynn's room screamed trust fund brat. Expensive furniture in the big room with an ornate four-poster bed in the center. A walk-in closet held a wardrobe that cost as much as many people's homes. What Tracy thought was another closet turned out to be a whole room just to house Linda's jewelry. The guard shadowed Tracy while he searched the room. He found drugs in the dresser, a little bit of pot with a fair amount of coke and X. The CDs in her room were all electro club crap. Tracy pegged her as a club kid. All the rich kids with nothing to do but sponge off mommy and daddy hit the clubs hard.

A pink laptop on a desk was password protected. Tracy tried the usual common passwords, 1234 ABCD, but couldn't crack it. He settled for the consolation prize beside the computer. A post-it note had a phone number scribbled on it with just a single letter above it: X. If Linda Flynn was indeed a party-hard club girl, she would need her X if she wanted to party right. Tracy pocketed the number and headed out the room with his guard in tow.

----

Crazy Horse Indian Casino
South Dakota

"Fuck you, Redman!"

Dash Bad Horse resisted the urge to pound the drunk's face into the casino bar. Instead, he popped his knuckles and flexed his muscles, showing off his Tribal Police uniform as a warning to the man.

"It's time for you to go, pal."

Dash grabbed the drunk by the scruff of his neck with one hand and started pushing him through the casino with the other. A few of the gamblers on the playing floor stopped to gawk at the big Indian manhandling the little white man with the big mouth.

Outside, Dash tossed the drunk across the parking lot. He banged against the pavement and slid up against a parked car. Dash brushed his hands off and looked down at the dazed drunk. "You're banned, white boy. I see you in here again and I'll beat the piss out of you along with half my tribe. Custer's Last Stand, motherfucker."

He turned away from the prostrate man and headed back towards the casino. The bright neon lights of the place lit up the prairie night for miles. he went back inside and back to work. The crowd tonight wasn't too bad, a few dozen gamblers out on the floor and giving their money to the Tribe. Most of the people at the Crazy Horse went for slots over cards and dice.

"Bad Horse report to management," the PA system announced. "Bad Horse report to management.'

Lincoln Red Crow the head of the Lakota Tribe, looked down his large Roman nose at his Dash. It was a bit amazing to Dash that Red Crow was as old as he was. His hair was still pitch black, but a shock of gray ran through the middle. His body was still muscular, but it was at the point where muscle started to become fat. He had a slight double chin that was becoming more prominent as the years passed.

"Bad Horse, have a seat."

Dash complied and sat down in one of the plush chairs facing Red Crows's desk. The older man pulled a cigar from the box on his desk and offered Dash one. He politely declined as his Red Crow lit up.

"I know you're busy, but I needed to talk to you about something before I go home."

"What's up?"

Red Crow blew smoke rings above his head. "I need you to get two guys from the PD for me. The meanest ones, just for show."

"What's going on?"

"We're having a sit-down meeting in Minneapolis with some people, Asians and various businessmen. Also your buddies from the Horde."

The Horde. Trailer trash on bikes. Dash had a scar above his left eyebrow because of a pair of brass knuckles from one of those rednecks. That attack had put the Tribe on the precipice of war with the biker gang six months ago, but Red Crow managed to negotiate a truce with their president. Now the Horde stayed away from Rez, and the Tribe stayed on their land.

"What's the play?"

"Negotiations" was all Red Crow said.

"Anything else you feel the need to clue me in on?"

"No," Red Crow said as he blew smoke rings towards Dash. "Just do as your chief says, Dash. As head of the Tribal Police Force--"

"Nominal," replied Dash. "It's an honorary title."

"I'm the reason you're on the TPF," said Red Crow. "Never forget that. You, Shunka, and a few others are gonna take a drive tomorrow morning. So get some rest."

Marvel: Knights of New York

Harlem.

There's nowhere like it in the world. A bunch of Dutch settlers founded it as a village way back in 1658, named if after the city of Haarlem in the Netherlands. Back in the day everyone from Alexander Hamilton to Harry Houdini called Harlem home. It's where Jim Reese Europe invented Jazz music. It's where Norman Rockwell, that guy who painted all those pictures of happy white people, was raised.

In the early 20th century black people began flocking here in en masse to escape the Jim Crow south. Sometime during that migration, a boy from South Carolina name of Joe Lucas made his way up to Harlem. He'd be my great grandfather. He was here during the Renaissance, when Louis Armstrong blew his horn and Langston Hughes talked about a dream deferred. But there was plenty of bad with the good. For a Marcus Garvey or Lena Horne you had gangsters like Queenie St. Clair, the Madam of Harlem herself, and Bumpy Johnson who ran numbers and pushed Horse for the mob.

The sixties brought Frank Lucas, no relation, the man who ran the East Coast heroin trade and forced the mob to bend the knee. Civil Rights and rent strikes existed concurrent to Lucas' drug empire, and his cheap and strong heroin gutted the neighborhood. Junkies and unemployment ran rampant over the years, anybody with any kind of money got while the getting was good. Upper and middle class flight meant that only the poorest and most desperate will still around in the eighties.

That was when I entered the scene. Crack was king when I was growing up, plenty of people I went to school with and knew around the neighborhood chased the rock until there wasn't anything left of them but skin and bones, so empty you could hear their insides echo when they walked. Those of us that didn't smoke it sold it. I was sixteen years old when I left school for good to work on a corner. Only took four years on the streets before I got pinched and sent up the river. The funny thing was that, for all the shit I did as a corner boy, I actually went to jail for something I didn't do. Ten years away and I came back to a different Harlem.

It was still tough and dangerous, but it was on the comeback. Good people were tired of how it was around here and wanted to change it. They're trying to turn things around without reverting to the soul destroying process of gentrification, but it isn't easy. There's a lot of money to be had in that game. The temptation to gut that old rowhouse and turn it into a yuppie condo is fierce. But if there's one thing I've learned about Harlem over the years is that the people are tough. Black don't crack, and it certainly don't run.

Through good times and bad times, Harlem still survives.

---

Pop’s Barbershop

“I’m glad Mello’s gone!”

That statement from Mo sent the four other men in the barbershop into general pandemonium. Pop’s took time from the plate of food in his hands to call Mo a bum, while the Boykins brothers just booed. Me? I just shook my head and gave him a thumbs down.
“Overrated!” Mo said definitely. “He can score, but he can’t win. Give me five guys like Porzingis over one Mello any day.”

The mention of the lanky European center sent the Boykins brothers into a frenzy.

Barry Boykins. “You’re talking out your as—“

Barry stopped short when he saw Pop staring at him over his barbecue, the swear jar right beside his chair and filled to the brim with money.

“--You’re crazy,” Barry finished with a grin. “

“He’s got a point,” I said with a shrug. “Mello never played hard on D, never passed, never did anything but shoot. You can’t build a team around that.”

“What about Jordan?” Bobby Boykins asked.

“Are you comparing Mello to Jordan?” Mo shook his head. “Get out of here with that sh—stuff. Mello ain’t a franchise guy. He’s a ballhog, which is why the Knicks were losing even though he was dropping points.”

“Yeah,” said Pops. “And it’s also why we lose to Sherm’s every year. Mo thinks he’s Mello.”

“But his game is more like Jello,” Bobby Boykins said with a giggle.

That sent the group of men into another round of bickering and arguing. I opted out, looking out the window with a grin on my face and enjoying an evening off. Pops was one of the very few places I could just hang and be one of the guys. In here, nobody thought of me as Harlem’s hero.

There was a pretty steady rain outside that night. That's usually good news for everyone. Rain means the gangbangers are too scared to go out, lest they get their sneakers dirty, and the cops aren't up to getting out of their cruisers unless they really need to. They avoid banging people up on the small fry stuff that really pisses off communities. My previous observation was contradicted almost at once. Two NYPD patrol cars with rooftop lights flashing sped by the barbershop, basking the small room in an eerie glow before they disappeared further down the street. Like I said, the rain is usually good news but not always.

Suddenly, all eyes fell on me and the din from a few moments ago was now a silence that seemed to be just as loud as their yelling. I stood up, held out a fist that Pops tapped with his own, and looked back at Mo and the Boykins twins with a grin.

“Joakim Noah is gonna be the next great Knick.”

That sent the four of them into a new round of debate as I walked out into the rain and pulled my yellow hoodie up over my head. There weren't many people on the street, but the few that were all headed in the same direction: down the street and around the corner. The corner blocked the sight, but I could see the blue and red flash of police lights reflecting off the buildings.

A few minutes later and I stood in front of police tape. My hood kept my head dry against the slow pitter patter of rain. The crime scene was at the playground just around the corner from Pop’s. Two uniformed cops kept the small crowd gathering back from the scene, but everyone could see through them to the white tarp covering a dead body sprawled out in a sandbox. There were murmurs and talk rippling through the crowd. I didn't take part, but I listened and got the gist. The body under the tarp was Bobbito Garcia, seventeen years old and a nearby resident. Someone said he had his girlfriend with him when he got shot, someone said they heard the shots and turned around to see Bobbito falling to the ground and an unknown shooter running from the scene.

A detective in a cheap suit walked through the crowd, flashing a badge. I started to fade back into the crowd to avoid being seen. The less police attention I attracted, the better. From my vantage point I could see the crime scene and the few places the officers had protected from the rain. Bobbito's body was covered, as was a small space I assumed covered up the murder weapon. A plastic baggie lay on the ground with a small card inside. I couldn't make out the words scribbled on the card, but I saw the logo in the middle of the card as clear as day. A bright red crown, dripping blood.

Who murders a seventeen year old kid execution style and leaves a calling card?

I didn't know, but I was going to find out.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

"By birth, certainly, they were not prepared in any way to achieve their desires. They were not the smartest kids in the neighborhood. They were not born the richest. They weren’t even the toughest. In fact, they lacked almost all the necessary talents that might have helped them satisfy the appetites of their dreams, except one: their talent for violence."
-- Nicholas Pileggi

The American Dream is a lie.

I don't mean that in the quasi-socialist, Bruce Springsteen and John Mellencamp plight-of-the-working-class way.

I mean it never existed. This nation wasn't founded with egalitarian ideals in mind. It wasn't founded because of high taxes and low representation. It was founded to be a kingdom for those with the wealth of kings, but no land to rule. The New World would be theirs for the taking, a compact sealed in the blood of the settles of Roanoke. And that was decided before the first shots were fired in Lexington and Concord, before the first treaties to the king, before the first chest of tea got chucked into the Boston Harbor, and even before the first anchor dropped off the coast.

Thirteen Families in all. They've been here since the very beginning, watching and controlling from the shadows. They are the Bushes, the Kennedys, the Roosevelts, the Rockefellers, and the Vanderbilts all rolled into one. They are the oldest of the old guard, the powers that be, and the keepers of the status quo.

And they use some real bastards to enforce their will.

---

Prairie Rose Indian Reservation
South Dakota
10:23 PM

"Tribal Police!"

Dash Bad Horse waited half a second before he kicked the rickety door with his boot. The shot, aimed just below the door's cheap knob, splintered the wood at the doorjamb and sent it swinging back on its hinges. Dash came through the door with his shotgun raised, a flashlight mounted on the barrel gave him light to see. The living room of the house was a sty. Overturned furniture with burn holes in them were cluttered around the room with trash and old styrofoam food containers.

In the next room, the kitchen, Dash found the cook site. Bottles, both plastic and glass, sat on a plastic card table with hot plates, chemicals, and syringes. Dash lowered his shotgun and raised an eyebrow. What had been a simple warrants check for Jody Two Feathers ended up as something much more.

Dash turned when he saw movement out the corner of his eye. Jody Two Feathers, wearing nothing but a pair of stained tighty-whities, blinked at him with a confused look on his face.

"What the fu--"

Jody's question was cut off by the butt of Dash's shotgun to his face. He went down on the dirty linoleum floor, spitting blood and teeth and cursing unintelligibly.

Five minutes later, Jody Two Feathers sat handcuffed in the backseat of the police car while Dash called for backup to remove the meth making equipment inside the house. He walked back into the house and found a sandwich bag of crystal meth from the kitchen table and pocketed it before going back outside.

Even though it was miles away, Dash could see the lights from the casino blinking on and off in the night. The Crazy Horse. It hadn't even existed back when Dash left the rez. A lot of things had changed since he'd been gone. The Army. He'd enlisted and been gone, served some in Afghanistan and Iraq before coming back home.

That's what he told everyone, and that's what he knew had happened. Yet... it didn't feel right. He'd wake up from his dreams in the middle of the night and see images from a life entirely different than what he knew. Dreams of guns and violence and sex and money. Men in immaculate suits and beautiful women in dazzling dresses sitting together at a long wooden conference table. A woman with tears in her eyes, begging him to not pull the trigger.

The sound of a siren snapped Dash back to reality. Franklin Falls Down pulled up in his cruiser and got out. The six member staff that made up the tribal police were a mix of crooks and humps; half of them got their job because they knew someone on the tribal council while the other half were just bullies looking to flex. But not all of them were like that. Falls Down was the one good cop among them. For his part, Dash figured he fell close to the bully category. Three excessive force complaints in his six months on the job, something of a record even among the tribal police.

"Hazmat stuff is in the bank," said Falls Down. "Let's slip it on and box that crap up."

Dash nodded, his eyes drifting back towards the lights of the casino. Something wasn't right. There was a thinness to everything, his current situation and his life in general. Something lurked beneath the surface, something dark and foreboding. Dash knew that whatever it was down there, it involved the people in the fancy dress, the guns, and the crying woman asking him not to kill her.

"Dash?" Falls Down said. "You with me?"

"Yeah," said Dash, shaking his head. "Let's get to work."

---

Center City, WA
12:21 AM

Linda Flynn and her girlfriends walked down the sidewalk on unsteady feet. The group of four girls swayed and bobbed on their big high heels, clinging to each other as they walked. All four wore expensive and tight cocktail dresses and heels that were just a bit too big for them. They didn't care how gaudy they looked. They were young, they were rich, and they wanted the whole damn world to know it.

"Denise, you are such a slut," one of them said in a drunken slur. The rest of the pack broke out into a fit of giggles.

"You're the slut," Denise countered. "I saw you with that guy, just grinding on him. He looked so fucking ugly! You're such a slut!"

The girls looked up at the sound of a roaring engine. A large black van raced down the road and skidded to a stop beside them. Two men in balaclavas jumped out with pistols in their hands. The girls let out screams of horror as the two gunmen zeroed in on just one of them. They took Linda roughly by the shoulders and shoved her into the van. The three remaining girls tried to reach out to their friend, but were pushed back by the kidnapper. He aimed his gun at them and put a finger to his lip.

"Tell her father, we'll be in touch," the masked men said. "Tell him if he goes to the cops, she fucking dies."

The two men jumped into the van, slammed the door shut, and the van peeled off into the night, leaving the drunk and hysterical young women to cry and panic for their kidnapped friend.

---

4:48 AM

It was the middle of the night, but Tracy Lawless was wide awake. He sat on the edge of the bed, smoking a cigarette and staring through the darkness at the city outside. Sleep was something he no longer seemed to need much of. The dreams had cured him of that. Horrible dreams of a life he couldn't remember leading, dreams of violence and depravity and something always out of reach. Those dreams had taught him how little sleep he actually needed to function. No more than five hours a night and he was good until another twenty-four hours.

The woman in his bed stirred and he looked down at her exposed bare back. Gennelle was her name, or at least her stage name. She was one of the strippers at the club he managed for Hyde. It was stupid, taking her home that night after they closed... but Tracy's base biological functions had been gnawing at him for the past few weeks. He needed to clear the works out, so to speak, and Gennelle with her long legs and rich coffee colored skin was just what he needed. He should have just went to a bar and picked a woman up, or even better bought a call girl for the night. Sleeping with one of the girls would no doubt cause some sort of trouble back at the club.

The cell phone on the dresser across the room rattled as it vibrated. Tracy stood and padded towards it. A blocked number was calling.

"Yeah," he said softly.

"It's me."

The voice on the other end was recognizable enough. John Galston, some lawyer type Hyde just recently started to use as a go-between for him and all the people he dealt with. It made Tracy wonder why he set up the stop-gap. Maybe he was getting paranoid in his old age?

"He needs some work done," said Galston. "Get to his office right now."

"Okay. I'll be there."

Tracy hung up without another word and wondered what was the point of a go-between if he still had to meet Hyde face to face? He walked towards his closet and started to dress. When he was done, he took a key off his ring and placed it on the nightstand beside the sleeping woman. He left her a note, asking to lock up after she left. Tracy tucked his piece, a Smith & Wesson compact .40, into the shoulder rig he wore under his coat and left out of the apartment before the morning sun had a chance to creep up over the horizon.

---

6:02 AM

To look at Sebastian Hyde's office, you would think he was a college professor or some well to do businessman instead of the kingpin of Center City. There were books, shelves and shelves of books on the three office walls. The lone wall not loaded down with books had an entire long pane of glass that stretched across the wall in a window that gave off a pretty impressive view of Center City. The books were all random as hell. Everything from Gibbon's six-part series on the decline and fall of Rome, to Max Allan Collins, to Danielle Steel sat on the shelves. Tracy doubted very much that Hyde had even cracked open one of those books in his library. The man didn't care about books, and he didn't care about his impressive view. The books and window were all a show to anyone who came into the office. It was projecting power. Look at how many nice things I have, it said, look at the entire town that I sit above like a king. All of that boiled down to a simple message: Do not fuck with me.

"Tracy," Hyde said as he came in.

Tracy stood and wordlessly greeted the old man as he walked towards his desk. Hyde wasn't in his usual three-piece, but he still wore dark slacks and a collared shirt. Tracy remained standing until Hyde sat down behind the desk.

"It's late, or early depending on your point of view, so let's skip the usual crap, son. Do you know Thomas Flynn?"

"Rings a bell. Does he owe you money?"

"No, unfortunately not. Flynn owns a good deal of the industrial park here in town. Supposed to be worth half a billion. He keeps his nose mostly clean, as clean as anyone worth that kind of money can be. Early this morning, his daughter Linda was kidnapped by some masked men. They called the house a few hours ago, demanding five million dollars for her safe return. They also demanded no cops be involved. Flynn wants security and he's afraid to go to the police... so he came to me. For a nominal fee, I'm guaranteeing her safe return. For a cut of that fee, you'll provide the service."

Hyde working for money didn't jive true to Tracy. He had more than enough money than he or his kids would ever spend. But what was left unsaid Tracy knew all too well. Flynn was asking Sebastian Hyde for a favor. All it took was for Hyde to get his foot into the door and he owned you. Flynn thought it was a simple transaction, money for goods and services, but it would be so much more than that. For Hyde to get in good with a man like Flynn would give him something much more valuable than money. Flynn got you connections, contracts, businessmen, and politicians. Influence. Flynn was half a billion dollars worth of influence Hyde could call on.

"Do I just watch over the deal, make sure it goes down smoothly?"

"Very much so. And when the deal is over, it is expected you find the kidnappers and liquidate them. These cocksuckers are operating with impunity in my city, son. I will not let that stand."

"And the money from the ransom?"

The old man's eyes lit up and his eyebrows arched as he smiled.

"You know how it is, son. Things sometimes go missing. If Flynn can't recover that money, it's a small price to pay for the safety of his family."

Message received. Tracy nodded and stood, heading towards the door. He hated when Hyde called him son. He made a mental note that when he got his revenge on the old prick, he would hit him in the balls for every time the old man had called him his son. After tonight, Tracy's count was up to 219.

---

Stockton, CA
11:21 AM

When the gates of the prison opened, Parker walked out a free man. He wore the same shirt, pants, and jacket he'd been picked up in six months earlier. The bullet holes in the shirt were still there even though his own wounds were long healed. He eyeballed the idling car and walked past it, opting instead to hoof it into town. The car followed him down the road. It was a black sedan with windows so darkly tinted you couldn't see inside. The electric window whined as it rolled down.

"Want a lift?"

"Go to hell," said Parker.

"Always the hard case, huh, Parker?"

That stopped Parker in his track. He'd been incarcerated under the name Ronald Kasper. The only people who knew to call him Parker were people who were in the Life. He looked into the car and saw an old man with sunglasses on, a slightly amused look on his face.

"How do I know you?" asked Parker.

"From a past life," said the man. "My name is Graves."

"Don't know you, so get lost."

"Well I know you," said Graves. "And I know all about you and Mal."

Parker felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

"I know how to find him, too."

"You got a minute to explain yourself," Park said as he climbed into the car.

Graves told Parker to look in the backseat and get the case. Parker reached back and got the attache case. He popped it open and looked inside. Resting in the case was a file folder with the words RESNICK, MALCOLM stamped on them. Beside the folder rested a glock and a cardboard box of ammunition with the word 100 written on its top. He looked up at Graves, who just smiled as he drove away from the prison.

"Inside that folder, Parker, is the location of Mal Resnick. The gun, as well as the bullets, are untraceable. Any investigation into the crimes you commit with the gun and ammo immediately stops once they're run through ballistics investigation. You have carte blanche to do what you need to do."

"Why?" asked Parker.

Graves lit a cigarette, using the act to create a pregnant pause inside the car.

"Because Mal Resnick double crossed you on your score, shot you twice, and left you for dead. Because I know you're a man who takes betrayal seriously."

"No," said Parker. "Why are you doing this? I got sprung after only six months in the clink, that had to be you. Then you give me this gun and bullets and the means to find Mal. What did Mal do to you?"

"He hurt you," said Graves. "That's enough to provoke my ire."

"And what am I to you?"

"An asset," said Graves. "Something that needs protecting."

Graves pulled into the city bus terminal and found a parking spot.

"They still give cons enough money for bus fare?" he asked.

"Barely," said Parker.

"I'm sure you'll manage. You're a survivor." Graves flicked his cigarette out of the window and turned to Parker. "Do what you want to do with the case, Parker. The choice is yours. That's all I am offering you. The means to get your revenge. You are uniquely situated. You have something that almost no one has."

"What's that?"

"The power of choice," said Graves. "The freedom to right your personal wrong... or not. There's power in that choice, Parker. Never forget that. Now take the case and happy hunting."

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Graves

^{“The trouble with "now" is that no matter how much you wish it would, it doesn't last forever. But then... other than a grudge...what does?”}

^{Phillip Graves♦ 2/2/58 (59) ♦ Male ♦ Walking the Line}

C O N C E P T A B S T R A C T:

Essentially, I'm doing a version of 100 Bullets. The early structure is, to wit "Graves approaching someone who has been a victim of a terrible wrong. Graves gives them the opportunity to take revenge by providing a handgun, 100 bullets, and documentation about the primary target responsible for their woes. He informs the candidate the bullets are completely untraceable by any law enforcement investigation, and as soon as they are found at any crime scene, investigations will immediately cease." Graves will serve as a catalyst, supporting character, and maybe even an antagonist to characters and stories that are loosely connected.

To quote wiki "Agent Graves was the leader of a group known as The Minutemen, a group of six men (plus one "Agent") who serve as the enforcers and police of a clandestine organization known as The Trust. The Trust was originally formed by the heads of 13 powerful European families who controlled much of the Old World's combined wealth and industry. The Trust made an offer to the kings of Europe by which they would leave the continent and their considerable influence and holdings, in exchange for complete autonomy in the still unclaimed portion of the New World. When England ignored this proposition and colonized the Roanoke Island late in the 16th century, the Minutemen were formed. The original Minutemen, seven vicious killers, eradicated the colony and all of its inhabitants, leaving behind only the cryptic message "Croatoan" as a warning, reclaiming the land for the Trust. Since this time, the Minutemen's charge has been to protect the 13 Houses of the Trust, serving as their force against outside threats and more frequently as police of the internal conflicts between the Trust families themselves. The groups' interactions are often facilitated by a person holding the title "Warlord" for the Trust, who serves as the Houses' liaison to the Minutemen.

Sometime in the early 21st century, the Minutemen were betrayed by the Trust and disbanded after Agent Graves refused a direct order. The Minutemen retaliated with the assassination of one of the heads of the Trust in Atlantic City, and they were then sent into hiding. Most of the Minutemen of that time were 'deactivated' by Graves. These former Minutemen had their memories repressed for their own protection and were returned to 'normal' lives."

Interwoven through Graves and these characters are a story of a secret society that lies at the heart of America. It is crime, it is politics, it is pulp, it is noir, it is espionage and intrigue, it is history, and it is all blended together to make something very much me.

N O T E S:

Cast of Characters:

Graves: Head of the Minutemen
Dashiell Bad Horse (The Indian): Former Minuteman and Graves' protegee.
The Colonel: Current Warlord for the Trust.
Ethan Roark: Head of the Roark Family, voting member of the Trust.
Augustus Medici: Head of the Medici Family, controlling member of the Trust.
Tracy Lawless (The Solider): Former Minuteman turned mob enforcer.
Quarry (The Hunter): Former Minuteman turned hitman.
The Op (The Bastard): Former Minuteman turned private investigator.
Parker (The Thief): Minuteman turned criminal.
William Roque: The Colonel's right hand man.
Forever Carlyle: Member of the Carlyle Family
Berta Tubbs (The Girl): Newest Minuteman initiate

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Graves

^{“The trouble with "now" is that no matter how much you wish it would, it doesn't last forever. But then... other than a grudge...what does?”}

^{Phillip Graves♦ 2/2/58 (59) ♦ Male ♦ Walking the Line}

C O N C E P T A B S T R A C T:

Essentially, I'm doing a version of 100 Bullets. The early structure is, to wit "Graves approaching someone who has been a victim of a terrible wrong. Graves gives them the opportunity to take revenge by providing a handgun, 100 bullets, and documentation about the primary target responsible for their woes. He informs the candidate the bullets are completely untraceable by any law enforcement investigation, and as soon as they are found at any crime scene, investigations will immediately cease." Graves will serve as a catalyst, supporting character, and maybe even an antagonist to characters and stories that are loosely connected.

To quote wiki "Agent Graves was the leader of a group known as The Minutemen, a group of six men (plus one "Agent") who serve as the enforcers and police of a clandestine organization known as The Trust. The Trust was originally formed by the heads of 13 powerful European families who controlled much of the Old World's combined wealth and industry. The Trust made an offer to the kings of Europe by which they would leave the continent and their considerable influence and holdings, in exchange for complete autonomy in the still unclaimed portion of the New World. When England ignored this proposition and colonized the Roanoke Island late in the 16th century, the Minutemen were formed. The original Minutemen, seven vicious killers, eradicated the colony and all of its inhabitants, leaving behind only the cryptic message "Croatoan" as a warning, reclaiming the land for the Trust. Since this time, the Minutemen's charge has been to protect the 13 Houses of the Trust, serving as their force against outside threats and more frequently as police of the internal conflicts between the Trust families themselves. The groups' interactions are often facilitated by a person holding the title "Warlord" for the Trust, who serves as the Houses' liaison to the Minutemen.

Sometime in the early 21st century, the Minutemen were betrayed by the Trust and disbanded after Agent Graves refused a direct order. The Minutemen retaliated with the assassination of one of the heads of the Trust in Atlantic City, and they were then sent into hiding. Most of the Minutemen of that time were 'deactivated' by Graves. These former Minutemen had their memories repressed for their own protection and were returned to 'normal' lives."

Interwoven through Graves and these characters are a story of a secret society that lies at the heart of America. It is crime, it is politics, it is pulp, it is noir, it is espionage and intrigue, it is history, and it is all blended together to make something very much me.

N O T E S:

Cast of Characters:

Graves: Head of the Minutemen
Dashiell Bad Horse (The Indian): Former Minuteman and Graves' protegee.
The Colonel: Current Warlord for the Trust.
Ethan Roark: Head of the Roark Family, voting member of the Trust.
Augustus Medici: Head of the Medici Family, controlling member of the Trust.
Tracy Lawless (The Solider): Former Minuteman turned mob enforcer.
Quarry (The Hunter): Former Minuteman turned hitman.
The Op (The Bastard): Former Minuteman turned private investigator.
Parker (The Thief): Minuteman turned criminal.
William Roque: The Colonel's right hand man.
Forever Carlyle: Member of the Carlyle Family
Berta Tubbs (The Girl): Newest Minuteman initiate

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>

Sounds good.
Keep in mind, you can also write in a different time period.

@Retired

Spoiler it's just historical fan fiction.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>

If you're intending to come back and rejoin once you settle back into your new place/have internet a couple months from now, then I think this is a good idea. Allows you to still participate and contribute, as well as an outlet to write, and enables you an 'easy in' if/when you do return for good.

Is this idea related to any character you were playing beforehand, or something new?

@Retired

Something new. It'd be off in its own corner of the world. I'd be doing it soon... like, have a few posts pre written already.

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Byrd's stalking us.
Kinky.

@Retired

I still get notifications from y'all. Also, I might be working on something. It'd be me writing a bunch of shit in advance and solo posting.