Byrd Man

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

Los Angeles

Silver Lake
9:23 PM

The young woman's long fingers nimbly moved across the piano keys. She sat alone on stage with no accompaniment. When she sang, it came out clearly across the room.

"I would send out for assistance but there's someone on the signal wire, and the corporation logo is flashing on and off in the sky. They're putting all your names in the forbidden book. I know what they're doing but I don't want to look."

Jessica and Penelope watched her preform in silence. They were only two of maybe a dozen people sitting at small tables in front of the stage. Jessica couldn't believe she had actually made it to Daily Bread. It was a rumor among the lefist community in LA. Everybody claimed they knew someone who had gone, or they knew someone who knew someone. But now here she was with a cup of coffee in her hand watching the woman on stage singing a protest song MacArthur outlawed.

"Everybody's singing with their hand on their heart, about deeds done in the darkest hours. That's just the sort of catchy little melody to get you singing in the showers. You think they're so dumb, you think they're so funny. Wait until they've got you running to the night rally, night rally, night rally."

Light applause broke out as the song ended. The young woman politely bowed before walking off stage.

"This used to be a speakeasy," Penelope said.

The older woman reached out and wrapped her hand around Jessica's. They weren't the only pair of same-sex lovers in the place, but they were the only two women together. Jessica squeezed her hand and offered up a smile.

"It was before my time," she added. "But it explains why the place is so hard to find."

Jessica nodded. Penelope leaned forward and brushed hair away from Jessica's face.

"Are you okay? You seem distracted."

She thought about Parker and the Pinkertons, his threats to hurt both Jessica and Penelope.

"I'm tired of LA," she finally said. "I want to leave all of this behind."

Penelope leaned forward, her brow wrinkled. "Why? LA isn't perfect, but for people like us it's the best we'll ever find."

"Canada," said Jessica. "I grew up in Canada."

"I didn't know that..." Penelope smiled and squeezed Jessica's hand. "But I could never go to Canada. There's still work to do here. Negroes are being denied civil rights down south, labor unions can't organize, and the government stomps on our civil liberties. To leave now would be running away."

"What's wrong with that?" Jessica asked, leaning forward and speaking softly. "It's an unwinnable fight, Penny. The government will never be beaten."

"We have to try, Jess," she said with force behind her voice. "Men and women before us fought for their beliefs. Harrison, Bromowitz, Peters, Hecht. They all fought.

"And they all died!"

All eyes in the room were suddenly on Jessica and Penelope. It had been that last name that made her lose her composure. She could feel tears forming in her eyes and she tried to hold them back. Penelope was so passionate... and so very, very foolish.

"Excuse me," Jessica said, standing and hurrying towards the door.

"Wait!"

Penelope followed after her out the door and through the hall towards the elevator.

"Jessica!"

Jessica was starting to go down the stairs when Penelope touched her shoulder.

"Talk to me, please. What's going on?"

Jessica spoke barely above a whisper. She was afraid if she raised her voice, emotion would overcome her and she would collapse into a wreck.

"Hecht," she said, swallowing hard. "My real last name is Hecht. I'm... Jessica Hecht."

Penelope looked as if she had confessed to being god. Her eyes were wide, a look of disbelief on her face.

"No... she died."

"No, she didn't," said Jessica. "I'm her."

She let out a choking noise as she let the tears flow. Penelope embraced her and the two women cried together in the doorway of the stairwell. Jessica had let her biggest secret slip, but she still hadn't told Penelope about Parker or the Pinkertons.

---

Washington DC

The White House
12:03 AM

"The vice president and I would like to thank all of you gentlemen for gathering here."

President Michael Norman stood at the head of the table with his glass raised. Russell sat at the opposite end of the table. Between them sat the most powerful men in America. New York's political boss Lennie Parrish sat next to New England's Big Jim Dwyer. Chicago Mayor Charlie Ricketts and Kansas City's A.J. Patterson sat on the opposite side from them. Wilbur Helms and LA's Walter Babbit sat on both sides of Russell. Big Jim's chair had a booster to make him look just as tall as the rest of the men at the table. Russell and the rest of the group knew they would be assembled in a similar fashion in just a few days in LA. They were the kingmakers of the Democratic Party. To Russell, they were more like feudal lords.

"I wanted to also mention Lewis Brisco resigned today. His health has taken a turn for the worse. He's in our thoughts and prayers."

The men around the room seconded the president's well wishes. Russell hid a smile. As Postmaster General, Brisco served as patronage chief for the entire federal government. Next to the president, the Postmaster General was the most powerful employee in the federal government. Every single man in the room, save for Helms, wanted that position for themselves.

"Let me be the first to wish the Brisco Family my sympathies," said Ricketts. A fat man with bright orange hair, he oozed corruption the way a slug oozed slime. "I'll see to it that the Chicago city council names a day after Lewis."

"Kansas City will name a boulevard in his honor," said A.J. Patterson.

"To Lewis Brisco," Russell said, standing with his drink raised. He traded amused looks with the president as they toasted.

"Thank you, Russell," said Norman. "In addition to a last bit of fellowship before the convention, I wanted -- the vice president actually --" Norman gave Russell a friendly nod. "Wanted to mention our friend Lewis and that when it comes time to appoint a new Postmaster General, we will start looking at all of you in this room to fill that vacancy."

"Remember that," said Russell. "And remember that while promises are the bedrock of political campaigning, it's the fulfilling of the promises that separates the campaigning from governing."

The president nodded and gave the men a reassuring smile.

"Senator Fernandez is on the outside looking in. Remember that when it comes time for your delegations to vote."

"Power is where power goes," said Russell. He aimed a finger at Norman. "And there, gentlemen, is power."

"This administration has a long memory," said Norman. "We always remember who stood with us."

"And we never forget who crossed us," Russell snarled.

An uneasy titter came from the men. Some, like Babbit, took it all in stride. But Ricketts and Dwyer both did not look amused at the blatant reminder of the president's power. These men ruled their political machines. They were not used to having someone above them, someone rubbing their noses in the fact that they were small time.

Afterwards, as they had after dinner drinks, the president buttonholed Russell for a private conversation.

"I don't know if this will work, Russ," he whispered. "I saw the way some of them looked. They're not happy. I think it may have antagonized some of them."

"Trust me," said Russell. "I know these men. They need a wake up call. Flexing your political muscle like this keeps them in line."

"It's just...," the president trailed off before lowering his voice further. "What about the postmaster general thing? Instead of making them united and fall in line, we're just going to encourage them to fight among themselves. That's the last thing we need at the convention."

"Don't worry." Russell squeezed Norman's shoulder and gave him a kind smile. "It'll all make sense in time, Mr. President. I know exactly what I'm doing."

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

Los Angeles

Chinatown
7:35 PM

"Right this way, Mr. Shaw."

Uncle Ace Kwan personally led Elliot to a table. Uncle Ace: Full-time restaurateur, part time dope and gun runner. The money he made off it ended up funneled across the Pacific to support Chinese anti-communist causes and smuggling dissidents out of the country. Elliot bought horse, opium, and girls from him from time to time. It depended on whatever the craving starlet or movie producer needed at that time.

Detective Jefferson Thomas was already waiting for him. A metal pot of tea and two ceramic cups sat on the table. Thomas stood up. He was bigger up close than Elliot realized, that was because the even taller Detective Hoyt was not present to dwarf the two of them. The two men shook hands and exchanged greetings. Elliot ordered lo mein for the two of them before Uncle Ace shuffled off to the kitchen.

"I'm surprised I didn't get any lip from the old man," Thomas said, pouring himself a cup of tea. "If you think some white people are bad when it comes to negroes, they don't have anything on Chinamen."

"Uncle Ace knows where his bread is buttered," replied Shaw. "He pisses off the studio people and he loses a lot of cash and favors coming his way."

Detective Thomas nodded, pulling a pencil and notepad out of his jacket pocket. Elliot's eyes glanced down at it. He saw notes jotted on the paper in shorthand, but it was unreadable.

"Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Shaw. Just some routine questions. But I'm sure you know all about that. I understand you were a cop back east?"

"Boston," said Elliot. "Five years in patrol, ten as a detective."

"What brought you out west?"

Elliot saw flashes of memory: Christmastime. Snow flurries. He stood in the cold. Blood spatter on his face. A pump shotgun in his hands. Red, numbing hands on cold gunmetal. Eight people dead. Heinous crimes required swift resolution. Shotgun justice.

"The weather," he said after a long second. "I got my fill of New England winters."

Thomas made a note of it before he looked back up at Elliot. There was a soft smile on the detective's face and it set off alarm bells. He knew the look well, he had used it often. The smile was to put someone at ease, to help them forget the authority of the cop. They were two friends, after all, just having a nice chat. No reason for Elliot to worry or be concerned. At least not until the other shoe fell.

"What can you tell me about Miss Beauchamp's personal life?"

"Not much there," Elliot shrugged. "Part of my job at Pinnacle is to know about our star's personal lives. We have a moral clause in all our talent contracts and they are rigidly enforced. Claire was in full compliance of the morality clause."

Thomas made a note and spoke without looking up. "What about with screenwriters, Mister Shaw?"

Elliot raised an eyebrow as the detective looked back up at him impassively.

"Excuse me?"

"Wendall Brock," said Thomas. Elliot had to resist the urge to curse. He knew exactly who Brock was. "He is -- he was -- a negro man, gunned down in South Central a few days before Miss Beauchamp, a few blocks away from the Voodoo. It took me a while to find it, but Brock worked as a screenwriter for Pinnacle Pictures, at least until he was blacklisted two years ago."

Thomas reached into his jacket and pulled out pamphlets. He laid them on the table and Elliot felt a lump forming in his stomach. The pamphlets were political tracts, and they were just like the ones he'd recovered from Claire Beauchamp's bungalow.

"Brock also had a redacted criminal history, the redacting started around the time he was blacklisted. Brock and Beauchamp. Two people with ties to Pinnacle, one with radical politics, are killed less than seventy-two hours in the same area of town in the same way. And let's not forget your involvement, Mister Shaw."

Son of a bitch, thought Elliot. "Me?"

"I remember seeing you that night at the Voodoo. The bartender remembered you, too. A white man like you stands out like a sore thumb in a place like that. Three people with Hollywood connections all in the same area, two of them murdered. What do I make of that?"

Elliot tried not to sweat. The son of a bitch had laid a trap for him and Elliot had waltzed right in. He had to give Thomas credit. The detective gave him just enough rope to hang himself with. He'd handled it just like Elliot would have.

"I thought the LAPD were rounding up all the criminals in South Central?" he asked.

Thomas nodded. "They are. They want an easy bookend to the case. They want to say the case is closed, regardless if they get the guilty person or not. The truth is a lot of things, easy isn't one of them."

Elliot saw a wedge and plunged into it.

"So this is all unsanctioned," he said with a laugh. "You're on your own on this, Detective Thomas. I wonder if the commissioner would like to know. You know I have his personal line in my address book, right? The studio people have that kind of power."

Thomas smiled. It was nowhere near the comfortable one he had been wearing minutes ago.

"Do that, Mr. Shaw, and I'll leak what I have to the tabloids. I have just enough to create a sensation. Communism, murder, and the movies. It'll sale a million copies. Congress will be very interested in that old story of radical influence in the picture business."

They didn't speak as a waiter laid a steaming plate of lo mein on the table along with utensils and two plates. Once he was gone, Elliot looked over the food at Thomas. He was way out on a limb on his own, which meant there was an angle he was playing. He was fine with that. Playing an angle meant Elliot could make his own play if he needed to.

"What do you want?"

"Access," Thomas said, scooping noodles on to a plate. "I need to know everything I can about Brock and Beauchamp to find out who killed them. For that access, I'll keep quiet with what I know. If you help me catch the killer or killers, then you get to spin the story of why they were killed how you want. The case is closed, everybody forgets about it, and Pinnacle can move on. Do we have a truce."

Elliot watched Thomas eating noodles. He looked like just another jig the first time he saw him at the Voodoo. How wrong he had been about that.

"Fine," he finally said. "It's not a truce. It's a non-aggression pact."

"Excellent," said Thomas. "Now, I need to know everything about why Wendall Brock was blacklisted."

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

EDIT: DOUBLE POST.

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

As far as I know, that whole part of the world is wide open. If I'm wrong, someone correct me.

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

The Assassination of Huey Long by the Coward Samuel Polk

May, 1939
Brooklyn

"I believe in America."

Anthony Fortunato said as he looked over his cup of coffee at the two men.He didn't know their names, their real names anyway. They'd introduced themselves as Smith and Jones the first itme they met last year. Jones was some kind of military officer. Even without a uniform he sat with ramrod straight posture, his hair cut short in compliance of military regulations.

Smith wore a three-piece suit and shoes that marked him as upper crust, a New England WASP whose yearly government salary couldn't cover the cost of that suit. He had a breezy confidence that marked him as someone who had always had money and connections. To him, privilege was a birthright.

"I came to America as a young man in 1898. I could not speak a word of English. I worked as as street cleaner in Little Italy. I literally shoveled shit for pennies a day."

Anthony took a long sip of coffee for dramatic pause. After he finished, his eyes shifted towards the skyline of New York, visible from his patio.

"Now here I am. The most successful businessman in New York City, if not the entire state. I have more money than I or my children or their children could ever spend."

What he didn't say was that his business was built on the backs of gamblers, hookers, and drug addicts. But that was America. Smith's people had made their money by killing Indians, enslaving blacks, and exploiting Chinese railroad workers. The unspoken truth was that in America, a crime lay at the heart of any vast fortune.

"How much do you want to see the country whole again?" Smith asked.

"They say it is a matter of time," said Anthony. "After Denver and Salt Lake City, the west coast lost their fighting spirit. Before long, the south will collapse as well."

"Did Vinnie tell you that?" asked Jones.

Anthony raised an eyebrow at the man and set his coffee on the patio table. Vincent, his youngest son, served in the Marines and was somewhere in the south. The last letter the family received from him was postmarked Houston.

"If this is regarding the previous matter we discussed, then I have to warn you gentlemen that the south is a different beast than the radicals out west."

Late last year, Smith and Jones met Anthony and his Jewish counterpart Herman Green. Even though the west coast was more fervent than the south, their labor unions were still interwoven with men who owed their alliegence Anthony and Herman, men who who recognized that politics were ever changing, but this thing of theirs was here to stay.

"Long abolished all labor unions through the south," Anthony shrugged. "My friends in New Orleans, Miami, and Atlanta were not pleased."

"This isn't about labor disputes or causing strikes," said Smith. "This is about something more serious."

"You're right that the end of the war is a matter of time," said Jones. "But, there are people who want to speed it up. There is a serious roadblock to that process, and he sits in Baton Rouge."

"Your son is doing his part with the war effort," said Smith. "Help us bring him home."

Anthony picked his coffee back up and drank from it as a sardonic smile played on his lips.

"We'll take care of it," he said after a long pause. "Not because of my son, or you, or even President Wheeler. Because I love this country."

---

June, 1939
Columbia, South Carolina

President Huey Long bounded on to the stage. He seemed to glow with confidence and energy. The crowd at the fairgrounds roared in approval. Ten thousand strong, all of them cheering their hearts out for the populist hero, the man who had escaped MacArthur's grasp and was carrying on the legacy of both Washington and Lee, a soldier and statesman who stood for american liberty.

Towering over Huey was South Carolina's Wilbur Helms, the SUSA's Secretary of State. The two men shook hands, Helms' big hand wrapped around Long's pudgy one. Helms held up Long's arm to the crowd. More applause and cheers for the two men. Mixed among the people were the Louisiana State Police, dressed in all black with sunglasses. Long's personal guard, handpicked by him and loyal only to the president.

In the third row sat Samuel Polk. He was sweating, more so than he should be in the humid June air. He was sweating because it was almost time. Time for the pain to end, time for the headaches and the smells of rotten flesh to stop. Time to die. That would be okay, though. He'd feel no pain, and he would set up his family to live without him. They had promised him so much money that his wife and children would be set for years.

"How y'all doing out there?!" Long boomed. There was a microphone in front of him, but Samuel was so close he could hear the man without it. "South Carolina, y'all sure know how to make an old country boy feel right at home!"

Samuel took a deep breath and slipped a hand into his sports coat. A little five shot revolver rested there. He wrapped his right hand around it and said the Lord's prayer. Long was starting the wind up part of his speech when Samuel pulled the revolver from his pocket and took aim.

He suddenly felt pain in his armpit, the sound of a gunshot followed it. More shots let into before he could even pull the trigger of his revolver. A bullet caught him in the chest and sent him spinning. The crowd all around him was in total disarray and panic. On stage, two troopers flanked Long on both sides, guns drawn.

Samuel started to topple backwards. As he did so, he saw one of the guards behind Long turn his gun away from Samuel and towards the president himself. With a clear line of sight, the trooper shot Long three times in the back of the head. Long crumpled to the ground as the guards opened fire on the guard. Both he and Helms went down in a torrent of gunfire.

---

Sergeant Michael Bordeaux died on the way to the hospital, as did Samuel Polk. Wilbur Helms would survive after multiple surgeries, the use of his legs robbed from him by the attack. After lingering for two days, Huey Long died on June 17th, 1939.
Officially, Polk was labeled the assassin of Huey Long and Bordeaux. Records showed that his family never received any money after his death. Sergeant Bordeaux, who was later discovered to have been on the payroll of New Orleans' Mancini Family for years, was buried will full honors in Baton Rogue.

The Southern United States surrendered to federal forces on August 22nd, 1939. Gerald L.K. Smith, acting president of the SUSA, signed a formal surrender two days later. On January 1st, 1940, the nation was dissolved and the rogue states were admitted back into the Union.
Corporal Vinnie Fortunato made it back to New York City for Christmas with his family. He was gunned down by unknown assailants in 1947, a casualty of the Mafia's Chinatown Wars.

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

London
1968

Mood Music

The streets of London were alive with the spirit and optimism of the counter culture. A peaceful demonstration of some sort was happening. Women in colorful mini-skirts paraded around while men with long hair, shirts that displayed their chest hair, and bell bottoms followed after them. Bobbies in uniform looked on the scene impassively, their nightsticks at the ready in case the scene turned violent. The potent scent of marijuana hung in the air and everyone seemed to be bopping to the collective sounds of youth as they waved signs.

Smack dab in the middle of the protest was Abraham Lincoln. Nobody could recognize him. The Executive Branch's magic did its work to disguise him to the outside world. To them, he looked like a generic tall man in a suit and tie with longer than usual hair. The hair was not the magic but Lincoln himself. He had started to grow it out to match the changing styles of the time. His beard was gone, shaved back in the 50's when it seemed like most men either had a trim mustache or no facial hair at all. He had never been able to grow a decent mustache so he just kept his face smooth save for a thick pair of sideburns that extended to his earlobes. He'd been alive now almost one hundred and sixty years. Beards would be back in style before long.

"1,2,3,4, we don't want your fucking war!"

The crowd all around him chanted in protest while he made his way through it. As unpopular as the Vietnam War was in America, in Britain it was overwhelmingly hated by both the people and politicians. The UK never seriously pledged men or aid to the conflict despite its closeness with the US, something that explained the current strained relations between the two nations.

"Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids you kill today?"

Lincoln pressed on through the crowd as they continued on their path to wherever they were heading to. It was apropos that he would run into the protest on his way to the safehouse. Vietnam was heavy on his mind, as it had been on the minds of the rest of the Executive Branch. This war was a different beast all together than what had come before. The US had dropped more bombs on the Vietnamese than they ever had on the Germans or Japanese combined. Instead of armies and tank columns leading the way, helicopters and bush patrols were where the battles were waged. There was no way the US could emerge from the conflict unscathed. For the Vietnamese, their was their American Revolution... and the Americans were the British.

He now found himself alone, the crowd marching further up the street to the square. He walked a few more blocks before ducking into a side alley. He found a wooden door halfway down and gently knocked on it in order, three long knocks and four short ones. The sound of latches and locks clicking came from behind the door. By Lincoln's count, there had to be at least seven on that door. At last, it swung open and a man peered out at him through the darkness.

"You need a haircut," said Andrew Jackson.

Jackson's once long hair was trimmed. A crewcut, they called it. A conservative hairstyle many counter-protesters wore with pride. It seemed to sum up Jackson's attitude on change very well.

"Did Mr. Roosevelt tell you I was coming, General?"

"Yeah. Come on in."

Jackson walked inside and Lincoln followed. The safe house served as the Executive Branch's Western European headquarters. Jackson, a one man station, was responsible for all intelligence and operations on this side of the Iron Curtain. Lincoln looked around the small house. Jackson made the place his own. A ceremonial Indian head dress rested on the fireplace mantel, above it was a portrait of his wife Rachel. Maps of the US, Europe, and Germany hung on the other three walls. There was a table and three chairs along with a fully stocked liquor and gun cabinet.

"I see you're settling in nicely."

"Mr. Wilson kept this place like a library," said Jackson. "It was mostly history books, some photos of his daughters."

"He is an academic," replied Lincoln. "Not a... man of action such as yourself."

Jackson grunted, opening the liquor cabinet and pulling out a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. He placed the glasses on the table, filling them to the brim. He picked the two glasses up and looked at Lincoln.
"I'm sorry, did you want something?"

He upended the two glasses, one after the other in fluid motion, and grimaced as the bourbon went down.

"It's ten AM," said Lincoln.

"Breakfast of champions."

Lincoln ignored him and instead sat down at the table. Jackson followed suit, pouring himself another full glass.

"I'm here because you're needed in the field."

Jackson raised an eyebrow as he sucked down his third drink.

"There are strange reports coming out of Vietnam. US and Vietnamese soldiers are experience unusual phenomenon.
Lights in the sky, disappearances of whole villages and platoons. Whispers of abductions by... someone or something."

Jackson wiped his mouth with the back of his arm.

"No," he replied. "Hell no. I dealt with that once before."

"Which is why you're the best man for the job. You're the closest thing we have to an expert, General. Whatever these things are, they are abducting both soldiers and civilians."

"Not my--"

Lincoln held up a long finger. "Before you say it's not your problem, know this: It's a chance to get back out into the field, General. An honest to god warzone."

Lincoln saw the hairs on the back of Jackson's neck stand up. Jackson, like Colonel Roosevelt, relished the opportunities that war provided. Even with his fear of the mysterious flying machines, the chance for combat would always weigh out.

"Let me pack my guns," he finally said.

"Which ones?"

"All of them."

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

Arizona

Kingman
2:31 AM

Hank Carter was forced into the stiff wooden chair by the big gorilla in a sports jacket. The room had nothing in it besides the chair. No carpet, just bare concrete walls. Anybody who knew enough about casinos knew this is where card cheaters and welshers were dealt with. Even in a cut-rate place like this, the house rules were enforced with an iron fist.

He'd watched his dreams go down the drain. He'd put what was left, all twenty-six bucks of it, on black to win. The little roulette ball landed on Red 8 and the uncaring dealer swept the chips into a slot and said how sorry he was with his words, while his eyes stared right through Hank and on to the next customer. That was when the gorilla gently took him by the crook of his elbow and steered him to this back room.

"Playing with house money, Hank?"

The Toad stood at the room's entrance, his bulbous eyes staring unblinkingly at Hank. He wore an all white suit with matching shoes and tie. A thick cigar rested in his plump hands. To Hank, he looked like a square, since he was almost as wide as he was tall and so fat his double chin had a double chin.

"Toland," Hank said coolly. "I like the outfit. I suppose you have to strip to your skivves come supper time."

The Toad waddled into the room and looked down at Hank with wry amusement. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and took a long drag off of it before he expelled smoke in Hank's face.

"I don't think you're in a position to crack wise," he said after the smoke disappated. "Especially since you're in this room, owing Kingman Gardens, me to be specific, five thousand dollars."

"You can't get blood from a turnip," said Hank. "Beat me until I'm raw, Toland. It won't get you your money."

Told chuckled softly and took another drag on his cigar. This time, he pushed the smoke from his mouth and up into the air overhead.

"You have no idea how bad I'd like to beat you raw, Hank. You see, were not like the Sun City outfits--"

"No matter how much you try to copy them," said Hank.

The Toad scowled. His goon put a meaty hand on Hank's shoulder and squeezed. Hank winced at the pain and squirmed in his chair. The Toad held out a fat hand to stop the pain.

"As I was saying, before being so rudely interrupted, the Sun City boys have policies and procedures they have to follow. They report to people back east, people who don't take kindly to mavericks. The people who make the people back east mad end up in shallow graves out in the desert.

"No, what makes me different is that I am sole owner of Kingman Gardens. You debt can be wiped away at the wave of my hand."

To demonstrate, the Toad waved his hand. It seemed to Hank that the effort of the action caused him to break a sweat.

"Who do I have to kill?" Hank asked with a raised eyebrow.

The Toad laughed and came close to him. Even though Hank was in the chair and the Toad was standing, the two men were at eye level. The Toad put the cigar in his mouth and allowed himself a grin.

"I don't want you to kill, Hank. I want you to find. Tell me, what did you do in the war?"

Hank let out a sigh.

"I was a desk worker."

"Come now," said Toland. "You did more than that."

"Well, you already know," Hank spat. "So why lead me on?"

"I just want to know if the rumors are true. They said you were some kind of treasure hunter."

"It was a bit more complicated than that," Hank said with a shrug. "We made sure artwork, monuments, historical items and all that weren't destroyed during the war."

A large smile broke out on the Toad's face. Hank didn't like the look of it at all.

"Then you know all about the ruins of Salt Lake."

"Oh, no..."

"Oh, yes. Your choices are simple, Hank: You either take a trip to Utah, or you take a trip to the desert."

Hank couldn't believe what he was hearing. This fool believed the stories. The Treasure of the Latter Day Saints. Pure myth, the stuff of dreams. Countless people had went into the desert looking for it, never to return. He looked at the Toad. He was a fool, but he also held Hank's life in his fat, sweaty hands.

"Get me maps," Hank finally said after a long silence. "Maps of Utah, maps of the Salt Lake City."

Maybe if he played his cards right, he could get escape before they got to Utah.

----

Sun City
3:21 AM

Johnny Leggario smoked a cigarette. His suite had a perfect view of the Sun City strip in all its neon glory. He was clad in only boxers, his clothes were crumpled near the bed right next to the crumpled dress and heels the hooker wore. She was on the bed above the sheets, bare ass and lighting snoring. Johnny had put her through the paces soon after she arrived to his room.

He was always that way after a job. In the run up, he was as celibate as a monk. He stored up that aggression and focused it on to the task at hand. After the work was done, regardless of the outcome, he would live like a hedonist for a few days. The hooker was his for tonight and tomorrow morning. If he still had the itch, he'd call the whorehouse on the outskirts of town and get another woman.

He could afford it, after all. After Frenchie and the Valestra Family took their cut of the Cloud Nine heist, Johnny and his two-cohorts were left with a little over a million bucks. Prussian Joe did quick math and broke down their three shares to about four hundred thousand dollars a piece.

A gentle knock on the door drew Johnny away from the view. He padded across the carpet, stopping by the coffee table to pick up his Colt. He cracked open the door and saw two guys he recognized. Rocky and Toots. Both were low-level guys, on the cusp of getting made.

"The boss wants to see you, Johnny," said Rocky.

"This late at night?" he asked.

"Shit," Toots laughed. "Frenchie don't get up until after the sun goes down."

Thirty minutes later, a fully dressed Johnny followed Toots and Rocky into Frenchie's office at the top of the Lucky Gent Casino. He had recreations of famous renaissance artwork scattered through the office. A faux Mona Lisa was mounted next to a Venus de Milo with giant tits. Behind a desk large enough to host an orgy on its surface, Frenchie Gallo sat with his slippered feet up.

"There's my favorite sky pirate," Frenchie said as he dropped his feet and stood up.

After a quick, awkward embrace, Frenchie dismissed Rocky and Toots and plopped back down behind his desk. He wore a tiger striped kimono around his hefty frame and dark sunglasses, even in the middle of the night.

"You were amazing on that airship, kid. You were always an earner, Johnny. But not like this!"

"Thanks," Johnny shrugged, at a loss for words. "You mind if we cut to the chase. I was in the middle of something when your guys showed up."

"More like in the middle of someone," Frenchie winked. "Okay, so here's the deal. I'm going out of town in a few days. Heading to LA for the convention, I have a job for you while I'm gone."

"What's the job?" asked Johnny.

"Pest control. We've been having trouble with some biker trash riding up and down the strip. Highway Rangers, bunch of rednecks who can't get over the fact they lost the war, both of them. They cause trouble everywhere they stop and they're fucking bad for business. Toots and his boys had to get in between them and a couple of shines last night, the Rangers were about to knife the poor spooks. They hauled ass out of town, but they'll be back unless we do something."

"Understood," said Johnny. "Should I preform surgery, or just lop the whole thing off?"

"You're Italian," Frenchie said. "I want you to do to them what Rome did to Carthage. Destroy them, level them, salt the goddamn earth. Capisce?"

"Enjoy your trip to LA," Johnny replied. "When you get back, you'll find that the highways of Arizona are free of the Rangers."

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

Los Angeles

Downtown
12:02 PM

"Jess? Someone's here to see you."

Jessica Hyatt looked up from the counter at Bernadette. The two women were in the stockroom of Beaumont's. Bernadette had a playful smile on her face and an arched eyebrow. She was younger and shorter than Jessica, round enough to fill out the sales girl uniform that hung on Jessica's frame. The uniforms Beaumont's provided ran small, medium, and large without any special alterations. Jessica had the height for the large, but not the rest of the proportions to properly fill it out so it was always baggy.

She passed Bernadette and adjusted the beret on her head before stepping out on to the sales floor. The ladies section of the large department store was as busy as it always was on a weekday afternoon. Her curiosity was piqued by who would be calling on her at work. She secretly hoped it would be Penelope. But how would she know where Jessica worked? The two women discussed many things last night before they drifted off to sleep, but her employment had not been one of them.

"That is a smart looking outfit."

Special Agent Nate Parker stood by a rack of dresses with a smirk on his face. A dark hat hid his rapidly retreating hairline. Jessica felt a mixture of anger and fear at the sight of him. Parker turned his eyes away from her and looked at the dresses on the rack. He removed a hand from his pocket and thumbed through them.

"You know, Jessica. I find it a grand irony that the radical socialist works for the largest department store company in the world."

"A girl has to eat," she replied. "Not all of us can live off the tears of the oppressed."

Parker chuckled, staring at the dresses as he spoke.

"What a cutting remark. Your new friends teach you that insult, Jessica?"

"No, Nate. I don't need them to tell me you're a rat bastard."

He looked at her sharply. His mask of amusement slipped and she saw real anger underneath it. Just like that, the mask was back on again and he was smiling sardonically.

"My men followed that car into Brentwood," he said. "We know about Penelope, known about her for years. Our file on her is as thick as a phone book. I'm sure she'd be happy to hear that."

Jessica could feel her anger rising. For this man, this creature, to say Penelope's name enraged her. For Jessica, it sullied Penelope's beauty for him to even know of her existence.

"Thanks to you," he continued. "We know everyone who was at her house by the license plates on their cars. Curiously enough, you spent the whole night."

"I had too much to drink," she replied. "I crashed on... the couch."

"Sure you did," he chuckled. "I just need you to confirm who was there and tell me what they talked about, corroboration the courts call it."

"I was never introduced to anyone." It was her turn to look amused. "We talked about baseball all night. I'm an LA girl, so I'm rooting for the Dukes to take the pennant."

Whatever emotion that was on Parker's face evaporated. He looked at her blankly, his eyes so chilly they made Jessica shiver.

"Do not forget who I am," he said softly.

He leaned in to her, towering over her and making her back up into a rack of ladies slacks as he spoke.

"Do not forget what I can do to you. Do not forget that I know who you really are. I can destroy you like that!"

When Parker snapped his fingers, Jessica flinched.

"You thought the LA city jail was bad? Wait until I throw you and your little dyke friend into a female federal prison. You'd be used as currency, passed around from bull dagger to bull dagger until you couldn't take it anymore and make a noose out of your bed sheets."

"Jess--"

Jessica and Parker looked suddenly. Bernadette stood a few feet away with a worried look on her face. Her chubby hands were clasped together.

"Is everything okay?"

"I was just leaving," Parker said with an easy smile. "I'm a friend of Jessica's. I just wanted to remind her of something very important."

He looked at Jessica, the smile gone and replaced with a blank expression.

"I'll see you later. Hopefully your memory improves."

Without another word, he walked away.

"What was that about?"

"A customer," she said, adjusting her beret with shaky hands. "Some old creep who thinks I owe him something."

She looked off the way Parker had left. She thought she was in an untenable position when she had been pressed into service by the Pinkertons. Now, she knew that earlier pressure was nothing compared to now. Parker wanted names. But, names would mean arrests and an end to what she had just discovered. She felt like she had a place with Penelope and her people. For the first time in a long time, she felt like she belonged. And now, this man -- this bully -- was threatening to end all of that before it could even begin.

"You okay?" Bernadette asked.

"Yeah," Jessica said with a smile. "Let's get back to it, huh?"

Absolute Comics: Rebirth

Let's try this again.

[+]

T H E F L A S H

^{W A L L A C E R U D O L P H “ W A L L Y ” W E S T ♦ 1 9 9 4 ( 2 3 ) ♦ M A L E ♦ H E R O}

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

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Take #2 – this time with direction, and plot! Wally’s a young guy who’s still trying to figure out his own identity as the Flash. He hung up his Kid Flash ‘stume around three years ago, becoming the third Flash with Barry’s (who’s alive and well, ready to be picked up) blessing. Graduating into Titans seniority, he juggles his time as a leader and mentor to the younger heroes with his own heroic duties, as well as his job as an assistant mechanic at S.T.A.R. Labs. Maybe it’s because of this that he feels like his relationship with Linda is on shaky ground – with his life so hectic and often unpredictable, he wonders if there’s any room left for her. He loves her, yes... but is that enough? Ultimately, I want to try my hand at fun character-driven stories that’ll see Wally come into his own as the Scarlet Speedster, with plenty of action, romance and superheroic craziness.

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P L O T M O C K - U P

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_{C H A P T E R O N E}

SPITFIRE

<Snipped quote>

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N O T E S

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See the WEST FAMILY TREE for clarification and migraine cures.

ALLIES AND FRIENDS

[+]

Iris Ann West-Allen – Known to Wally as Aunt Iris, she’s been a mother to him ever since he was a kid, spending time with him when his parents neglected him. A successful and well-known journalist, much of her prosperity is owed to her investigative and civics pieces – as a prominent voice in Central City, she’s one of its most publicly known citizens, almost (but not quite) as well known as Metropolis’ Lois Lane.

Linda Park – Wally’s girlfriend of four years, Linda works as a reporter at WKEY Channel 4 News. She is well aware of his activities as the Flash.

Barry Allen // The Flash (II) – Wally’s mentor and uncle, Barry’s the second person to take on the identity of the Flash. He now happily shares the name with Wally, believing his nephew to own it just as much as he does. ^{AVAILABLE FOR PLAY – HAPPY TO DISCUSS}

Bart Allen // Kid Flash – Barry’s grandson, Bart hails from the future. Having inherited the Allen family’s speed, he’s a junior member of the Titans, and has been since he first arrived at present day.

Jason “Jay” Garrick // The Flash (I) – The original Flash, Jay’s connection to the Speed Force has allowed him to live far longer than his beloved wife, Joan. Having lived through more than most, he’s a ninety-nine year-old source of boundless wisdom, making it through World War Two, Vietnam, and the rise of metahumanity, as well as helping found the Justice Society – and he only looks like he’s in his early sixties. Wally’s personal hero since childhood, he’s always there when the young West needs some guidance.

Dick Grayson // Nightwing – Wally’s best friend since he first started out as Kid Flash. Fellow field team leader of the Titans. ^{PLAYED BY @INK BLOOD}

Roy Harper // Arsenal – Wally’s other best friend since he started out with the Teen Titans. Fellow Field team leader of the Titans. ^{AVAILABLE FOR PLAY – HAPPY TO DISCUSS}

Artemis Crock // Artemis – A former Titan, and Wally’s ex-girlfriend. Artemis is a master archer and talented hero in her own right – and also the daughter of one of the world’s most notorious assassins. Her and Wally ended things... badly.

Joseph “Joe” West – Great grandpa Wallace West’s second son, the result of a drunken affair with an African American woman. Raised by Wallace and his wife, Joe was treated well, adored by his half-brother, William. At the age of forty, Joe took in his brother and his niece, Iris, after the former was crippled by his youngest child, Daniel. Daniel had run away after the incident. Joe is a captain at the C.C.P.D., and was a good friend and ally to Barry. He supports Wally as the Flash, proud of the path his great-nephew is taking.

Wallace Joseph “Wally Joseph” “Joey” West – The product of a teen fling, Wally Joseph was named after his great grandfather, Wallace, and great uncle, Joe – Daniel West’s idea of thanking Joe for taking Iris in after he crippled their father. At fifteen, Joey is in Iris and Barry’s care, as Daniel is an absentee father/supervillain and probably not a suitable caretaker for his son.

ENEMIES

[+]

Eobard Thawne // Reverse Flash (I) – Nora Allen’s murderer, the original Reverse Flash. An extremely powerful speedster, and the personification of Wally’s nightmares.

Daniel West // Reverse Flash (II) – Wally’s uncle, Daniel turned to crime at an early age after he ran away from home. Gifted a connection to the Speed Force by Thawne, he let his vendetta against his abusive father turn into one against Barry and his nephew after they stopped him from killing William. His mind has since twisted into something unrecognisable, consumed by the power he holds.

The Rogues – Led by Captain Cold, the Rogues are a group of mercenaries and thieves powered by an assortment of tech. Thorns in the Flashes’ sides.

Grodd – A telepathic gorilla who rules over the hidden Gorilla City in the African plains. A damn ruthless, bloodthirsty, dirty ape.

Lawrence Crock // Sportsmaster – Artemis’ father. A hockey mask wearing, ex-League of Shadows assassin wanted in most countries by most law enforcement agencies.

THE WEST FAMILY TREE

[+]

@GreenGrenade

Time is a flat circle.

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

1938

Gulf of Mexico

Robert Baker knew today was the day he would die. He and eleven other men stood in the landing craft as it rocked against the choppy waves, all of them dressed in full combat gear and rifles over their shoulders. The artillery guns of a destroyer boomed off in the distance. A pair of NEWI Jackrabbits roared overhead, low and fast and on a course to cause havoc on the beaches of Galveston.

The plan was somebody up at the top’s idea of bold. While the Southern armies fortified all along the Mason-Dixon Line, the US would catch them with their pants down by invading the largest state in the Southern United States and push through to establish a beachhead in Houston. Houston was less than three hundred miles away from the SUSA’s seat of power in Baton Rouge. Home by Christmas, they had promised.

Baker thought that was a load of horseshit. At thirty-one, he was the oldest man in his company by almost five years. Even Lieutenant Terkanian was only twenty-three. The only person close to his age was Major Grice at Battalion HQ. Men Baker’s age were either officers or support staff and not company sergeants. The few in infantry weren’t on the front lines, in one of the first boats on the beach. But Bob Baker wasn’t like the typical army grunt.

He was a teacher before all this. History and English Comp in Hamilton, Ohio. He’d read all the anti-war lit that was written both during and after the Great War, read up on the war. Baker was a student of history, and he knew an assault on this scale had been tried once before. Gallipoli. Allied troops came off boats and right into machine gun fire. There was a chance it wouldn’t be like that, but Baker knew enough about the army to know that they factored thousands of casualties as the price of doing business.

A squadron of a dozen NEWI Big Sticks all flew in formation above them. Most of the time, the sight of the big bombers inspired whoops and cheers from the enlisted men. But now, none of them responded at the sight of the powder blue bombers with the USAAF star on their tails. Every man, Brewer included, was too busy with their thoughts to muster any enthusiasm.

"We're a minute out," the pilot of the landing craft announced.

Baker inhaled and exhaled slowly. He was already dead, he reminded himself. He died the second he signed those enlistment papers in Ohio. If he died today or tomorrow or any day after that, then it would be a simple fait accompli.

"Thirty seconds!"

The sound of machine gun fire erupted from somewhere close. An explosion rocked the landing craft. Baker leaned against the walls of the craft to steady himself. He slung his rifle off his shoulder and held it tight. Another Jackrabbit appeared overhead, its guns firing at the now close beach.

"Ten seconds!"

"Keep moving," Terkanian shouted from the front of the craft. "No matter how bad it is, we keep moving. More men are coming behind us. If we end up stalled on the beach, then we're easy picking for the rebs. I'll see all you on the other side."

The giant door of the craft swung open and landed in the shallow waters of Galveston beach. Gunfire burst through the early morning light as Baker and the men pushed out of the craft and on to the beach. He almost tripped on the way out. He caught a glimpse of Lieutenant Terkanian on the ground, half his face destroyed by bullets.

A half dozen fortified machine gun nests at the edge of the beach was the welcome committee for the army. A Big Stick flew low, dropping a bomb right between two of the nests. Baker felt shrapnel and heat pepper his face as he ran towards the gunfire.

Keep moving, his now dead lieutenant had said.

If you stay still, you die.

---

Now

Boulder, Colorado
10:23 PM

"Keep moving," Ohio Governor Robert Baker said softly. "That was the key to survival that day on the beaches of Galveston, and that is the key to American prosperity."

Baker looked out at the crowd of people watching him with rapt attention. The trip through Colorado was the Baker campaign's first big test of national support. His war time service was well documented and Colorado held many scars from the war. Things like what happened to Denver would never be forgotten. On top of that, it was the president's home state. And while Baker was Republican, the large turnout at all of his rallies instilled confidence in him heading into the convention this summer.

"We have become stagnant in the past four years, under the leadership of the current administration. They are hampered by corruption, incompetence, and indecision. We've stopped moving forward. It's time for a change, ladies and gentlemen. My six years as governor Ohio has proven I am up to handling the role of executive, that I know the challenges that come with the position and am capable of meeting them head on. No state has grown like Ohio has. While the country as a whole has spun its wheels, Ohio has moved forward. And if you can help me make it to Washington, I'll see the rest of the country catches up and together we all move forward. Thank you."

The crowd cheered wildly. A rolling wave from the back started forward until every person was standing and applauding. Baker stepped out from behind the podium. He limped on his false left leg as he waved and smiled. The crowd went even crazier when they noticed the limp. This kind of response in the state Michael Norman was born and raised in? Baker had very little doubt that come November, he'd bury the president in a landslide.