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3 yrs ago
Current "I'm an actor. I will say anything for money." -- Also Charlton Heston
7 likes
3 yrs ago
Starting up a preimum service of content from actors like Radcliffe, Day-Lewis, Bruhl, and Craig. Calling it OnlyDans.
3 likes
3 yrs ago
Please, guys. The status bar is for more important things... like cringe status updates.
4 likes
3 yrs ago
Gotta love people suddenly becoming apolitical when someone is doing something they approve of.
4 likes
3 yrs ago
Deleting statuses? That's a triple cringe from me, dog.
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Bio

None of your damn business.

Most Recent Posts

Los Angeles


July 4th
The Baxter Hotel
11:10 PM


Mood Music

A wonderful mixture of red, white, and blue sparkles flashed across the night sky. More fireworks shot up into the air and exploded in dazzling patterns of stars and other shapes. One explosion took the shape of a sparkly Liberty Bell. Senator Eric Fernandez watched the show from the balcony of his hotel room.

The Convention Complex, where the Democratic National Convention wrapped its opening ceremonies a few hours earlier, sat right across the street from the stately hotel. The Complex's loud speakers were blasting Petey Peterson's recording of "America the Beautiful", something that would no doubt piss off a few of the Southerners watching the show.

The convention floor was where votes would be cast and counted, but the Baxter is where they would be decided. All the bosses and party players had suites on the hotel's fourteenth floor where they could hold court. The best Eric could muster was his room here on the eighth floor. The men on the top floor would eventually gather in one of the suites to discuss the platform and the nominee, more so the platform since the president was the assumed incumbent. That was if Norman got his way. The smoke filled backroom was a cliche, but it was a cliche that still applied to the party. And it was a cliche Eric needed if he was actually going to have a shot.

A strong enough showing early in the voting would deadlock the convention. It would toss the decision to the backroom. And once there, they would realize a weak showing by Norman would mean disaster in the general election. Nominating Eric would be the only way the party could save face, their only chance to keep the White House through 1964.

He was a longshot and he knew it. Eric wasn't under any false beliefs that he was anything but a dark horse. But there was hope. He'd seen it in the eyes of the people he'd been courting. They said they were strong with the president, but their eyes told a different story. They were following the party line. But, one hint of weakness was all it took sometimes. Another firework exploded, a bright red MN shape, in honor of the president.

Eric didn't need to beat the president. He just had to show the party that Norman could be wounded. Once blood was in the water, they would do the rest.

---

Big Jim Dwyer watched Liam Kane snort a line of cocaine off a mirrored tabletop. The boy came up and squeezed his nose, snorting down mucus and the left over residue in his nostrils. His bloodshot eyes caught sight of the colorful display outside.

"Look at the fireworks, Jim."

He stood up and crossed quickly to the window. The large glass pane took up almost the entire far wall of Jim's top floor suite. One firework exploded into the shape of a revolutionary war solider. Liam leaned against the window, staring at the display with wide eyes.

"Wow!"

While Jim thought of Liam as a boy, he was actually thirty-six years old and a three-term congressman from Massachusetts. Young, handsome, and well spoken. Liam represented the future of the party, a the young scion of an old dynasty. The Kane family were New England royalty. Liam's father William had been a two-term governor of Mass and served in the US Senate, older brother Robert was the state attorney general and bucking for governor in this fall's election. They could trace their family roots back to the days of the pilgrims, as American as apple pie and baseball.

And they were all fucking rotten to the core. Liam loved coke and hookers, while Bill's liked barely legal Chinese girls. Boston's Chinatown would be filled with red haired chinamen if not for the timely intervention of Jim and back alley abortionists. Brother Bob's likes were more... unconventional. While married with four kids, Bob still liked to cruise the parks and bathrooms of Weymouth in search of discreet male companionship. Their dynasty only lived because of Jim's interventions and help. He'd lost count of the scandals he'd squashed, almost all of them able to end their political careers.

To Jim, they were the antithesis of himself. They had been born into their lives of privilege and influence, handed everything. His empire was one he'd built with his own hands. He'd started forty years ago as a member of a highway road crew. From sunrise to sunset they worked, work so brutal it almost killed the little man. But he survived, he went to school and earned a degree in engineering. He stayed with the highway department and began his rise through civil service. He hadn't done hard labor in over thirty years, but the callouses and scars were still there. They were always with him. A reminder of how far he'd come.

The sad truth was Jim needed them as much as they needed him. Plenty of the Boston Brahmins looked down their WASP noses at him. To them he was just an Irishman, a second generation immigrant who was only made to serve them and could never rise above his station. That was fine. He knew he'd never become mayor or governor. He'd have to settle to be the man behind the throne.

"Elliot's out here now," Liam said, turning away from the window. His eyes were pinned from the cocaine. "He works for one of the studios now."

Elliot Shaw. He had been to Liam's personal fixer the same way Jim was for Bill. An ambitious cop who had a talent for cleaning up messes, Jim had been grooming Shaw to rise in the BPD and one day maybe enter politics himself. Then Shaw flushed it all down the drain and skipped town. The kid used what little political suction he had left to go west and get a job in Hollywood.

"You know how I feel about him," said Jim.

"C'mon." Liam began to thrust into the air with his hips. His hands groped and squeezed a pair of imaginary breasts. "I wanna fuck a movie star, Jim. I wanna see if Elliot can get Janet York to blow me. I wanna stick my dick right between those big tits of hers and just go to town! See how that prim and proper British accent of her sounds when she's got my cock in her mouth!"

Jim turned away as Liam kept going on with his ramblings. He always got like this when he was coked up. He'd probably have to get the boy a hooker to calm him down. Sledge could take care of that. The girl wouldn't be Janet York, but she'd be close enough for sure. This was LA, after all. City of broken dreams and broken dreamers. Even the prostitutes were movie star gorgeous.

Jim turned to see Liam with his hands down his pants, fondling himself. He suppressed a sigh at the sight. Over the next three days, Jim would work around the clock and expend untold amounts of political capital to secure this jackass's future. City of dreams, indeed.

---

"To the party."

LA Mayor Walter Babbitt raised his tumbler full of scotch in the air. Almost all the others in the room followed his lead. Only Russell ignored the toast, sipping his drink while he sat in a chair removed from the festivities. He watched the fireworks pop outside. The room was mostly filled with California pols kissing Babbit's ass over his successful speech to open the convention. He was maneuvering for the governorship in '62. Russell supposed he couldn't blame him. Babbit would be one of over a dozen to run for the seat.

After nearly twenty years in office, the Old Man wouldn't be seeking another term as governor in the '62 election. For an entire generation, Rick Marshall had been the only governor they'd ever known, the state's first non-military governor after the fiery collapse of the CWP in the war's twilight days.

"You'll never guess who wants me to get them a whore."

Just like that, Jim Sledge was at Russell's elbow. Sledge was quiet like that. You never knew he was with you until he wanted you to. It was one of the reasons Russell liked to use him for work. When it came to intimidating, it always paid to use surprise.

"Knowing the crowd that's in this hotel, I probably won't be able to ever guess," said Russell.

"Big Jim."

"So, what you mean is you're getting a whore for Liam Kane?"

Sledge nodded. It wasn't that Big Jim was above cheating on his wife. The man was like Russell in a lot of ways when it came to sex. It was nice, but it served him no way to further his goals. The Kane boy on the other hand? There were stories about him all over DC.

"Janet York type," said Sledge. "Very specific."

"I met her once," Russell said after sipping his drink. "The young congressman has good taste. Do you have someone who might fit that type? Someone we can rely on?"

Sledge nodded.

"She's a heartbreaker, boss. She'll be able to get a hounddog like Kane wrapped around her little finger. Get him involved in some pillow talk."

"Then, how about we arrange a rendezvous with her and our friend?" Russell asked with a smile.

"Love is in the air, sir," Sledge said as he shuffled off to do his job.

Russell turned back to the window. There were rumors floating around about Dwyer and Kane. Big Jim was angling to get the boy to replace Russell on the ticket. A change of VP might shake things up, a fresh face to attract voters in the general election. To Russell, that would be putting lipstick on a pig. Even though he was biased, the Norman administration's problems would not be fixed by replacing a man with no constitutional powers or duties except breaking tie Senate votes. The problem with the Norman administration was Michal Norman.

Eric Fernandez, Big Jim, Babbit, the Chicago Boys, even President Norman. Enemies on all sides. Each one with their own agenda and their own scheme. One false move, and what he had spent four years building would come tumbling down. Russell smiled and turned towards the party, raising his glass in the air.

"To the party, to the delegates, to America, and to the president of the United States."

Everyone raised their glasses in celebration and cheered. Russell drank the rest of his scotch down in two big gulps and let the glass fall to the carpeted floor. He quietly sat up and left the party. He had work to do.
Carthage Must Be Destroyed


1939
Salt Lake City


Even though Hank hadn't slept for twenty-seven hours, he was wide awake as the driver of his jeep rolled into the city. The sights they slowly passed left him awestruck. Many buildings were either half-destroyed or smouldering from fire, and even more just heaps of rubble. The road they were on was little more than mud after so many trucks tires and tank treads ripped it to shreds. Two NEWI Jackrabbits flew overhead, gunfire bursts erupting from them.

And then there were the bodies.

Piles and piles of dead men lined the streets they passed. Bodies dressed in the olive drab of the US Army uniforms mingled with the men in the powder blue of the LDSA. The Mormon uniforms were streaked with mud and blood, just like the faces of the dead men who were inside them. Hank applied the word men loosely to many of the Mormon dead. Boys were more like it. Peach fuzz and pimples as far as the eye could see. If any of them were older than eighteen he would have been surprised.

His job with the army often put him miles and miles away from the front lines. He still dealt with the horrors of war, but from a distance. Usually by the time FAAD arrived, the bodies were gone and the rebuilding process was underway. Hank had been in Denver the last few weeks, helping recover anything of value from the wreckage of the city. FAAD set up shop south of Salt Lake City, on the outskirts of occupied Provo. Hank and the other curators and historians were preparing their reports on Utah's cultural significance when Colonel Anderson told him his presence was required at the front.

Now here he was. A deuce and a half rolled past them on its way back to base. Hank saw many weary young men on the back of the truck, almost all of them with the thousand yard stare. He suddenly felt very foolish in his pristine clothes that were never soiled and his helmet with the oak leaf that had never been dented or scratched by enemy shrapnel.

A pair of MPs stopped the jeep at a sawhorse barricade. After Hank and his driver confirmed who they were, they were let through and led to a olive drab tent.

A tall, dark haired man with wire-framed glasses met them at the front flap of the tent. Hank caught a glimpse of the name PARKER sewed on to his fatigues. His helmet identified him as a Lt. Colonel. Like Hank's, it was in perfect condition.

"Colonel," Hank said with a salute. "Major Dr. Henry Carter, Fine Arts and Archives Division."

Parker lazily returned the salute It was always that way with upper rank solider, Hank noticed. They wanted the salutes to them to be perfect, but could afford to be sloppy returning it. Respect to them was a one-way street.

"Follow me, Major."

Parker led Hank into the tent. More command staff worked at desks with pencil and paper and typewriters. A map of Salt Lake City took up most of one wall, a red circle showing the army's encirclement of the LDSA. An even larger map of the city was spread out on a table that took up most of the tent's center. Markers denoted the US and LDSA positions respectfully. A heavyset man with gray hair and two stars on his shoulder and JASPER on his fatigues turned away from the map and looked at Hank and Parker.

"General," said Parker. "Major Carter."

"Always wanted to meet a FAAD boy," he said as Hank saluted.

"Tell me what you need from me, General," Hank said as the general returned his salute with an actual decent one.

"Context," said Jasper.

He pointed a finger at the map.

"What's left of the Mormons has been encircled in the radius on the map. There are some platoons serving as guards, but the church elders, army high command, the last few Mormons and their families are all inside the Tabernacle. Maybe nine thousand people total, majority of them are civilians. This is where you come in, Dr. Carter. Now, we've been told that you have extensive expertise on the building. We need to know main routes of entrance and exit."

"Hank, sir," he said. "You can call me Hank. I wrote a two hundred page historical and architectural analysis of the Tabernacle in grad school. Unless there's been some modifications over the past four years, I know of every way in and out."

"What about hidden escape routes?" asked Parker.

Hank stepped forward and looked down at the map on the table. An artillery shell exploded nearby, shaking the table left and right. Hank was the only man in the tent who flinched. He could feel his face flushing in embarrassment as he tapped a spot not far from the Tabernacle.

"One was installed on the northwest side of the building in 1931 after the leadership began to enact radical policy. They were afraid of unrest and violence from both Mormons and non-believers. It comes out at a high school about a mile away."

He traced the path from the Tabernacle to the school. The building sat on the outskirts of LDSA territory, far enough into US occupied territory to avoid sentries. Jasper nodded at Parker, and Parker quickly walked off.

"Anything else?" the general asked."Any other ways to get in and out that only they might know about?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Hank shrugged. "Since the war started, who knows."

"We're ready, general," said Parker. "Two platoons are setting up in front of that school. They have orders to open up on anyone who comes out. Ready for the assault,sir."

"Head on assault?" Hank asked. "That might be risky."

He realized he made a mistake the second the words left his mouth. Jasper stared blankly at him while Parker's face seemed to visibly bristle. The general's expression shifted to a smile that was very cruel.

"Thank you for your insight, Major," said Jasper. "But I am through risking men today. I'm ready for the whole goddamn war to be over with. Denver was a hell of a punch, now we've got to knock the sons of bitches out."

Jasper walked towards the tent flap. Parker and Hank trailed in his wake.

"They can fire when ready," Jasper said to Parker, who passed it on to another aide.

They came out of the tent and onto an overlook ridge. Below was the city and the Tabernacle. Hank could see the ring of troops and tanks that encircled it. A loud cacophony started up suddenly. Artillery guns from miles away were all opening fire at the same time. A shell exploded against the roof of the building, sending fire across the top of the Tabernacle.

"No!" shouted Hank. "What are you doing?! You said that there were civilians in there."

Both men stared coldly at Hank.

"We're ending the war," said Jasper. "The Mormons helped start this thing. By god, we're finishing it. If that means some women and children die, then so be it."

"We lost thousands of men taking this city," said Parker. "Thousands of husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers They're gone and they're not coming back. Whole families were shattered because of the Mormons. They were killed because this cancerous religion was allowed to prosper. No more. It dies today. The Tabernacle, the LDS, the city itself."

Hank started to speak. The sound of another explosion cut him short. All three men turned to see the Tabernacle ablaze. Even from this far away, they could hear the screams. A door opened and a woman ran out, smoke curling from her clothes. A machine gun burst opened up from somewhere and she fell to the ground, her clothes igniting and her dying body catching fire.

Explosive shells bombarded the building, one after the other. The Tabernacle turned into an inferno, the heat felt from even their observation point. Hank felt tears burning his cheeks. End the war, he thought. A war led by opposing dictators and radical committees. A war waged on the dead of Denver, a war waged on the ashes of the Church of Latter Day Saints. A war of atrocities and political oppression on all sides. The US would win, no doubt about that. Even though it didn't deserve to.

He suddenly remembered Scipio from his ancient history class in college. At the sight of Carthage's destruction, the great general had wept. For he knew that this fate would one day befall Rome, as it would eventually befall any city or any people. As it would one day befall America.

Without a word, Hank walked away from Jasper and Parker. He suddenly needed a drink very, very badly.
Los Angeles


Pinnacle Studios
10:23 PM


Jefferson Thomas followed Elliot Shaw down the shining marble halls of Pinnacle. Glossy black and white publicity photos of starlets and movie posters lined both sides of the wall. Blackface comedian Spanky Young beamed down at Jeff with his greasepaint covered face.
Shaw opened a door with his name stenciled on it and led Jeff through into his office. Shaw clicked a light on and started to rummage through a file cabinet.

"Brock was a pretty reliable screenwriter for Pinnacle," he said over his shoulder. "You ever seen Lion's Den?"

"The one based on the Bible?" asked Jeff. "Yeah. I saw it twice when it opened."

"Brock wrote that. He also wrote Tomorrow Isn't Today, I Was a Kentucky Bootlegger, and at least four westerns that all made back their budget. Everything he wrote made us money."

"So why the blacklist?"

"Because of this."

Shaw pulled a script from the file cabinet and dropped it on to the desk. It made a loud smack as it fell on the hard surface. Jeff leaned down and looked at the thick script. The cover page announced the title of the screenplay in bold, red typed letters.

COMRADES IN ARMS:
THE RISE AND FALL OF THE CALIFORNIA PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC
A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS
WRITTEN BY W. BROCK
PRODUCED BY P.K. WEISS

Jeff looked up at Shaw and waited for the man to light up a cigarette.

"My boss commissioned Brock for a war picture," he said, blowing smoke. "She wanted something like Mr. Lankham Goes to War. Pro-US, anti-red, anti-Long. What he submitted, instead, was this giant piece of shit. It's over two hundred pages, Detective. To give you an idea, in the picture business one page of a screenplay is supposed to equal about a minute of screen time. It's three and a half hours long and unusable, even if it weren't filled with leftist propaganda."

Jeff ran his fingers across the cover page. He tapped the name typed underneath Brock's and looked up at Shaw.

"Who's P.L. Weiss?"

"Penelope Weiss," said Shaw. "Penny's a rich heiress who finances pictures on occasion. She was willing to go halves with Pinnacle on this picture, at least until Janie pulled the plug on the whole thing."

"Was she blacklisted?"

Shaw shrugged. "We stopped working with her and let other studios know, but she's got her own cash. We fired Brock, but Penny's independent."

"Who was going to direct?" Jeff asked as he picked up the script and started to thumb through it.

"Roy Abercrombie. He directed two of the westerns Brock wrote..."

He looked up as Shaw trailed off. There was a look on Shaw's face. He was thinking through something.

"What?" Jeff asked.

"The list," Shaw said softly.

"What list?"

Shaw looked up at Jeff, his face betraying his words.

"I didn't say anything about a list."

"What list, Shaw?" Jeff asked. He dropped the script back on the desk and let it land with a loud thump. "You hiding things from me will cancel our deal. The papers would love to know about this screenplay."

Shaw looked at Jeff for a moment, then he sighed and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and passed it to over.

"This was in Claire Beauchamp's apartment. I took it out the night she was killed, right before LAPD got there. That and a bunch of radical pamphlets."

It was a list of phone numbers. Penciled beside the numbers in a different handwriting were names. Pennelope K. Weiss was at the top of the list, Wendall Brock and Roy Abercrombie below her.

Jeff looked up from the list and stared hard.

"This is breaking and entering and obstruction of justice, Shaw."

"This is me doing my job," Shaw said, jabbing a finger towards the list. "Be it drugs, kiddie porn, or proof of subversive ideas. If it hurts the studio, I clean it up."

Jeff ignored Shaw's justifications. Instead, he sat down at the desk and pulled a pencil from his jacket. With a scratch piece of paper, he began to jot down the phone numbers and names on Shaw's list.

"This is my copy," he said as he worked. "I'll give you yours back when I'm done. You know what we do after that."

"Let me handle the movie people. They know me. I might be able to get some of them to actually talk."

"That's fine." Jeff passed the list back to Shaw and tucked his own copy into his coat pocket. "As long as you leave Weiss for me."
I'd provide it if I thought you fuckers would actually post some Olympic shit!
Stop wasting time and write.
Get the fuck out then.
Welcome back, bitches! Now get to work.
Arizona


Route 66
3:13 PM


"Oh give me land, lots of land under starry skies above. Don't fence me in."

Johnny Legarrio's supercharged Packard Stallion roared down the highway. He had the ragtop down and his sunglasses on. The wind blowing through his black hair was the only thing that made the Arizona heat bearable. A rolling expanse of desert the only thing he could see for miles, so far off a hazy mirage began to obscure his view. The radio played Bobby Chambers with the Edwards Sisters backing him.

"Just turn me loose, let me straddle my old saddle underneath the western sky. On my cayuse, let me wander over yonder 'til I see the mountains rise.

One hundred and four degrees outside. It was days like this that Johnny ever wondered why the fuck he had agreed to leave Chicago. But then he remembered the winters of Chicago and suddenly the heat of Arizona wasn't so bad. At least it was a dry heat. What that meant, he wasn't quite sure. People always said it whenever it got hot here.

"I want to ride to the ridge where the West commences, and gaze at the moon 'til I lose my senses. And I can't look at hobbles, and I can't stand fences. Don't fence me in."

Another hour on the road and he finally found the town he was looking for. A sign announced that he had arrived in Yucca, Arizona, Population 850. Above the sign was a flagpole displaying The Arizona state flag, and the confederate flag. Now he knew he was in the right place.

Only a few phone calls and he had what he needed about Yucca and the Highway Rangers. Most state and local legislatures were in Frenchie's pocket, which meant they knew the score when Johnny started asking about the biker gang. A bunch of crybabies who couldn't handle losing the war. Twice. So they banded together and roamed America. Yucca, one state rep had said, was where the Arizona chapter operated out of now. They'd damn near taken over the whole town over the last few months.

It was an open secret how they terrorized Western Arizona, but the Yucca police force wasn't standing up to them. With no state law enforcement agency, the only thing the governor could do would be to send in the state national guard. And there was no way he wanted to see his state make news by invading itself.

But Arizona was still the frontier even this far into the 20th century. The pioneer spirit was still strong throughout the state. Plenty of Arizonans prided themselves on being the last state admitted into the Union. With that spirit and pride came the concept of frontier justice. If the cops couldn't do the job, then Johnny would. The thought made him smile. A Chicago guinea hood playing sheriff in the middle of the goddamn desert. Only in America.

He slowed and pulled into a service station. A skinny, pimple-faced teenager in a grease-stained olive uniform came out to pump his gas. Johnny popped the hood of the car to let him check the engine out. When he was finished, Johnny passed him a twenty dollar bill.

"Hold on a sec while I go break it."

"Keep it," said Johnny. "Whatever I didn't spend out of it is yours, kid." He squinted at the name sewn on the shirt's lapel. "Jasper, let me ask you something. What do you know about those biker guys who hang around?"

The smile he had been wearing when he thought he was earning a seven dollar tip vanished. He couldn't look Johnny in the eye, and suddenly his feet were very attractive to his gaze.

"They're assholes," he mumbled. "Say that Arizona was part of the old confederacy in the first war, so they think this is friendly territory. They go around town and... they're assholes."

"Where do they like to party?"

"Road house on the other side of town." The kid hitched a thumb behind him, pointed towards town. "Used to be a bar. They took it over last year and call it their clubhouse. Only members and friends allowed."

He saw a sign posted across the street. Wooden and hand painted in ugly letters

"DON'T LET THE SUN GO DOWN ON YOUR BLACK ASS IN TOWN.
WHITES ONLY AFTER DARK"

"How many coloreds you got around here?" Johnny asked.

"Maybe twenty" Jasper said with a shrug. "Couple families. They live in Bucknelson, a small group of houses outside of town. Rangers put that sign up."

Johnny nodded before he reached into his wallet and passed the kid a ten dollar bill.

"For your troubles, Jasper. You got money saved up, kid?"

"A bit," said Jasper with a soft smile. "Even more now that I met you."

"Take what you can and buy a bus ticket to wherever you can." Johnny started the car and looked up at him. "Things are about to get worse in town."

He pulled out of the service station and cruised through Yucca. There weren't many people around in the middle of the work day, but those that did were drawn to Johnny's big, flashy car. The sound of his powerful engine caused many of them to flinch before they saw a car, not a motorcycle, was the source of the sound.

The Highway Rangers clubhouse sat just off the highway on the outskirts of town. A one story wooden frame building, there was an obviously added on second story above it that looked so shaky a strong breeze might topple it. Close to two dozen bikes were parked out in front on the dirt.

Johnny was on the other side of the highway, parked and watching. A plan was forming. First thing he'd have to do is get them out of the clubhouse. This time of day, plenty of them were still probably sleeping it off from last night. They wouldn't be out until hours from now. A smile crept on to his face. He knew exactly how he could do it.

He revved the engine of his Packard and put it into gear. The tires spun for a second before they caught on the asphalt. He raced across the road and the dirt towards the motorcycles on their kickstands.
Gotta give us more details for starters. Game is set in 1960, so it's a good forty years of ground to cover. You don't need to go into explicit detail, but you need more than what you have.


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