Byrd Man

Marvel Knights

Part 1:
"Gimme the Loot"

Spanish Harlem
10:58 PM

"Up against the wall, fuck faces."

Detective Sergeant Vincent Abbott walked up and down the sidewalk, strutting almost. On the wall to his left were over a dozen drug dealers with their hands against the wall, all of their pants were down around their ankles. Some of them were as young as twelve, but none of them were older than eighteen. A pile of small pile of drugs, money, and weapons sat on the sidewalk. The rest of Abbott's five-man narco crew looked on with guns in their hands and amused looks on their faces. The big man Malone had a sawed-off shotgun cradled in his hands.

"We rolled through last night but it seemed like you didn't get the message. So, let me be clear."

Abbott pulled a telescopic nightstick out and popped it open. He walked down the line, hitting each of the boys in the back of their kneecaps. One by one, they all went down to their knees in pain. Abbott spoke as he struck.

"If. We. Don't. Eat. Nobody. Fuckin'. Eats."

Abbott twirled the nightstick in his long, slender fingers as he looked down at the hurting men.

"Either your boss bumps our monthly envelope by twenty percent, or every fucking corner he has in Spanish Harlem and nigger Harlem gets raided and indicted every night."

"It's a small price to pay for peace of mind," Malone said before laughing and adding, "Peace of mind and intact kneecaps."

Abbott laughed and bent down over the pile of contraband. He pocketed the cash and drugs before standing to look at the injured kids.

"Look at all these weapons," he said to his men. "Seems like enough probable cause to run these fuckers in."

---

Harlem
1:21 AM

Mood Music

Hip-hop blasted from the bluetooth speaker set up on the table. Naked women moved to the beat as they cut and packaged drugs into little baggies. They weren't completely naked. Topless and bottomless, yes, but they all wore rubber gloves and surgical masks. At one large table, six women packaged cocaine while six more packaged heroin at an adjacent table. They were naked to prevent any stealing. Though, each of them were illegal immigrants and had too much to lose by skimming any of the top. Raymond Jones watched the girls working from the landing above the floor.

He grunted and cracked his knuckles. He always cracked his knuckles when he contemplated and he had a lot to think about. One of his partners had just called with bad news. They'd lost a lot of product tonight, but that wasn't the problem. Product that they could eventually replace. Shit, the girls on the floor were busy doing that. But they had also lost respect. Respect couldn't be replaced as easily. Jones knew that the hard way from his days on the street. He'd been scrawny with a mouthful of rotting teeth.

He'd been an easy target growing up, they called him Shitmouth and made him eat dog shit. But he got big, he got mean, and he got a new set of teeth. He fought back with his fists and his teeth. He showed them by force to put respect on his name. But the motherfuckers disrespecting him now? That was a different case. They had no respect for the streets or the game. All they cared about was paper. But they were cops. And even thieving ass cops were still cops.

Jones pulled his phone out and dialed his partner back.

"Yo, it's me. How much you got in your rainy day fund?"

He smiled, showing two rows of razor-sharp, metal teeth that shinned in the trap house light.

"Why? Because I got an idea."

---

Bushwick, Brooklyn
1:46 AM

"Language like muttering pant smells running silver scanning

Passed down the Arab Street in the gutter patterns

Translucent medium from its like i talky you of a place

the vacuum of silent panic forgotten red mud flats

sharp fish syllables where is he now? he moved as sharp as water

assassins smile and drink--"

Bullseye left the coffee shop, fighting an urge to kill the guy reading poetry on the stage. Bushwick was a different beast than he remembered it being. He'd moved here in hopes that it was still the crime-ridden hellhole from his youth. The neighborhood that clocked in almost eighty murders and two thousand robberies a year. He was looking forward to being accosted by some crackhead with a dull rusty knife, someone he could kill with a quick move and move on.

But what he had found was far worse than crackheads. Bullseye had found hipsters. Crack had given way to kale, whores to gluten-free wheat germ. Property values were through the roof and it was artisan bakeries as far as the eye could see. He passed a group of young men and women wearing skinny jeans, flannel, and those stupid as fuck eyeglasses without any lenses in them. Bullseye reached into his jacket pocket and touched the razor-sharp playing cards he kept there. It would be the easiest thing in the world, a quick flick of the wrist, and they would all drop to the ground.

That was when his phone rang. He stopped short and watched the hipsters pass by. The phone ringing meant there was a job offer. Nobody else had his phone number. He pulled it out and looked at the number with the Jersey area code before answering.

"Yeah?"

"It's me." The man on the other end was a lawyer and a go-between that fancied himself as a kind of criminal broker. "I got a job offer but it's risky."

"How so?"

"It involves cops. As in, cops are the target. But money wise it's worth the trouble."

Bullseye paused for a moment and thought back to the poetry of the coffeehouse.

"To get out of Bushwick I'd do it for free."

Marvel Knights

So... this would be a replacement for White Tiger. Talked it over with EE.

MARVEL KNIGHTS OF NEW YORK

Bullseye

“This violent state of mind.
This violent state of mine.”
-- Don Winslow

CHARACTER BIO:

Real Name: "Lester"

Age: Mid to late 30's

Gender: Male

Powers, Abilities, and Gear:

No powers. Bullseye is one of the most deadly assassin's in the world. An expert in combat, he is a master with almost any form of weapon, from conventional firearms to edged and throwing weapons. He's even an expert in creating and using improvised weapons.

Origin:

Bullseye true origin is mysterious and unknown. His early life is a mystery. After dropping out of high school, he enlisted in the Army and was soon drafted into special forces. He became a Green Beret just as the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were heating up. He worked countless black operation across the two countries in the mid 2000's. Eventually he retired from the military to become a contract employee of the CIA. He traveled across the world, killing and causing mayhem on Uncle Sam's tab.

In late 2009, Bullseye and three other CIA contractors entered a village in Northeast Afghanistan on a mission to eliminate a Taliban leader. Things got out of hand and the entire village was wiped out by the four men. Bullseye's employment was terminated and the event was silently covered up by US authorities. Returning back to the states, he didn't have to wait long until he was contacted by the shadowy criminal underworld. They were desperate for the services of a man like him, a man who could kill. Now he works as a gun for hire. If it absolutely, positively needs to be killed as soon as possible then accept no substitutes.

STORY INFO:

High Concept:

I want to tell hard-boiled crime type stories in the a superhero setting. My biggest influences are Richard Stark's Parker, Max Allan Collins' Quarry, and Lawrence Quarry's Keller. All three are criminals with one-named alias, all three are pros who know how to get the job done. One of the things I like about comics is when a series has a villain protagonist. It's fun to be bad.

Motivation and Conflict:

Bullseye is motivated by money. A true mercenary, he works for the highest bidder and sees a job through. Bullseye does what he does because he's good at it, and when you're good at it you have to take pride in it. He seems himself as a professional and will not hesitate to kill anybody he sees as an amateur, sloppy, or untrustworthy.

PLAYER INFO:

Player Name: Byrd Man

Preferred Contact Method: Discord/PM

Why This Character?: We need a bad guy, and I'm happy to oblige.

What Can You Bring to the RPG?: Things 'n stuff.

Marvel Knights

Blame Chris Priest.

Marvel Knights

MARVEL KNIGHTS OF NEW YORK

The White Tiger

“I think of crime when I'm in a New York state of mind.”
― Nas

CHARACTER BIO:

Real Name: Kevin "Kasper" Cole

Age: 29

Gender: Male

Powers, Abilities, and Gear:

Through imbibing a synthetic drug that mimics a Wakandan herb, Kasper has peak human strength, speed, and agility. In addition, he is a trained law enforcement officer who has experience with armed and unarmed combat. His White Tiger outfit is a repurposed Black Panther suit. Vibranium is weaved through it, rendering it nigh indestructible and allowing his claws to cut through every known metal. In addition, he wields a pair of 9MM pistols loaded with non-lethal gel bullets.

Origin:

Officer Kevin "Kasper" Cole is an NYPD narcotics detective, the son of "Black Jack" Cole, former corrupt cop now in prison. During an investigation into a Manhattan gang, the ambitious Kasper took things too far. Stealing a Black Panther suit from one of the king's NYPD allies, Kasper raided the gang's cook site and ended up crossing paths with T'Challa, the Black Panther, and his adopted brother, Hunter the White Wolf. Caught in the middle of a power struggle he didn't understand, Kasper helped Black Panther defeat White Wolf and the street gang he was backing.

During the fight, Kasper was thrown into the chemistry lab by White Wolf and doused in chemicals. Afterwards, both Kasper and T'Challa realized the chemicals were a synthetic substitute for Wakanda's famous heart-shaped herb, the one members of the royal family consume in order to have the abilities of the Black Panther.

Now, Detective Kasper Cole works downtown as a member of the NYPD's Organized Crime Squad, a five-man unit that makes major cases on all the city's underworld organizations. In addition to his work as a cop, he continues to moonlight as a vigilante. While Wakanda has the Black Panther, New York has the White Tiger.

STORY INFO:

High Concept:

I want to do cops and criminals and capes. Three things I love, and three things that taste great together. Potential story idea:

Big Trouble in Little Mogadishu

The OCS turns their attention to a Brooklyn neighborhood nicknamed Little Mogadishu. The nickname is appropriate as it is a viper's nest of criminal organizations, drug dealers who style themselves as warlords, and feudal territories. As the team monitor the situation, Kasper grows impatient. As White Tiger, he enters the fray as a catalyst to an already tense situation. War breaks out on all sides and Kasper has to navigate the shifting landscape of grudges and alliances in order to stay alive.

Motivation and Conflict:

Kasper is motivated by his ambition. As the son of a disgraced cop, he wants to surpass his father and be known as more than Black Jack's son. White Tiger is essentially a means to achieve that. His activities are supplemental to his work as a cop. He's not out there taking cats out of trees or running into burning buildings. He's circumventing the law as White Tiger in order to arrest criminals as Kasper Cole. As far as conflicts, he is about as impulsive as you'd expect from a man who beats up criminals in a costume. He often gets knee deep in the shit by his rash actions.

Notes:

NPCS:

Lieutenant Francis Tork -- Supervisor of the OCS and Kasper's boss.
Detective Sergeant Jean DeWolff -- Brilliant, chain-smoking cop, second in command of OCS.
Officer Denzel "Daz" Pierce -- OCS muscle, smart and tough.
Officer Vin Gonzales -- Ambitious cop and newest member of the OCD.
Jon "Black Jack" Cole -- Imprisoned former NYPD officer.

PLAYER INFO:

Player Name: Byrd Man

Preferred Contact Method: Discord/PM

Why This Character?: It's in my wheel house, but not the same old same old Marvel character I opt for (See Luke Cage, DD, Punisher.)

What Can You Bring to the RPG?:

Nachos.

Marvel Knights

MARVEL KNIGHTS OF NEW YORK

The White Tiger

“I think of crime when I'm in a New York state of mind.”
― Nas

CHARACTER BIO:

Real Name: Kevin "Kasper" Cole

Age: 29

Gender: Male

Powers, Abilities, and Gear:

Through imbibing a synthetic drug that mimics a Wakandan herb, Kasper has peak human strength, speed, and agility. In addition, he is a trained law enforcement officer who has experience with armed and unarmed combat. His White Tiger outfit is a repurposed Black Panther suit. Vibranium is weaved through it, rendering it nigh indestructible and allowing his claws to cut through every known metal. In addition, he wields a pair of 9MM pistols loaded with non-lethal gel bullets.

Origin:

Officer Kevin "Kasper" Cole is an NYPD narcotics detective, the son of "Black Jack" Cole, former corrupt cop now in prison. During an investigation into a Manhattan gang, the ambitious Kasper took things too far. Stealing a Black Panther suit from one of the king's NYPD allies, Kasper raided the gang's cook site and ended up crossing paths with T'Challa, the Black Panther, and his adopted brother, Hunter the White Wolf. Caught in the middle of a power struggle he didn't understand, Kasper helped Black Panther defeat White Wolf and the street gang he was backing.

During the fight, Kasper was thrown into the chemistry lab by White Wolf and doused in chemicals. Afterwards, both Kasper and T'Challa realized the chemicals were a synthetic substitute for Wakanda's famous heart-shaped herb, the one members of the royal family consume in order to have the abilities of the Black Panther.

Now, Detective Kasper Cole works downtown as a member of the NYPD's Organized Crime Squad, a five-man unit that makes major cases on all the city's underworld organizations. In addition to his work as a cop, he continues to moonlight as a vigilante. While Wakanda has the Black Panther, New York has the White Tiger.

STORY INFO:

High Concept:

I want to do cops and criminals and capes. Three things I love, and three things that taste great together. Potential story idea:

Big Trouble in Little Mogadishu

The OCS turns their attention to a Brooklyn neighborhood nicknamed Little Mogadishu. The nickname is appropriate as it is a viper's nest of criminal organizations, drug dealers who style themselves as warlords, and feudal territories. As the team monitor the situation, Kasper grows impatient. As White Tiger, he enters the fray as a catalyst to an already tense situation. War breaks out on all sides and Kasper has to navigate the shifting landscape of grudges and alliances in order to stay alive.

Motivation and Conflict:

Kasper is motivated by his ambition. As the son of a disgraced cop, he wants to surpass his father and be known as more than Black Jack's son. White Tiger is essentially a means to achieve that. His activities are supplemental to his work as a cop. He's not out there taking cats out of trees or running into burning buildings. He's circumventing the law as White Tiger in order to arrest criminals as Kasper Cole. As far as conflicts, he is about as impulsive as you'd expect from a man who beats up criminals in a costume. He often gets knee deep in the shit by his rash actions.

Notes:

NPCS:

Lieutenant Francis Tork -- Supervisor of the OCS and Kasper's boss.
Detective Sergeant Jean DeWolff -- Brilliant, chain-smoking cop, second in command of OCS.
Officer Denzel "Daz" Pierce -- OCS muscle, smart and tough.
Officer Vin Gonzales -- Ambitious cop and newest member of the OCD.
Jon "Black Jack" Cole -- Imprisoned former NYPD officer.

PLAYER INFO:

Player Name: Byrd Man

Preferred Contact Method: Discord/PM

Why This Character?: It's in my wheel house, but not the same old same old Marvel character I opt for (See Luke Cage, DD, Punisher.)

What Can You Bring to the RPG?:

Nachos.

Marvel Knights

Fuck y'all. I want join, but I don't want to put out an inferior product like I did last go 'round.

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

Arizona

Yucca
4:10 PM

Little Walter was fuming. The gas tank of his chopper had a giant scratch all the way down it, ruining the black finish he had worked so hard to keep immaculate. He sighed as he looked at it. Compared to the others, he'd gotten off easy. Otter's hog had its back wheel warped, the ape hangers on Curly Joe's bike were so concave they touched.

Walter had been relaxing at the bar in the clubhouse, polishing off the first beer to start the day, when he heard that god awful crashing noise outside. He and Pagan were the first two out, looking on in horror at the site of their wrecked bikes. A black car with a rag top sped off from the clubhouse back towards town. He managed to catch a glimpse of a man's dark head of hair behind the wheel of the car.

It took a few minutes to get the rest of the guys up, some of them still hungover from the night before. As soon as the damage to their bikes were mentioned they were wide awake. Now Walter and the rest were surveying the damage. Pagan looked the saddest of them all. But that was to be expected. His chopper had the most damage to it. The only thing to do to it would be to gut the engine out and start over with a new frame. Even now Pagan squatted over his bike, trying his best to hide his tears.

What the fuck was going on, Walter thought to himself. They were Highway Rangers, not Girl Scouts. The meanest, baddest sons of bitches this side of the Mason-Dixon Line. They didn't cry. They made people cry.

"Corporal Paige," Walter snapped. The whole group turned to look at him. Real names were rarely used, and their ranks from the war were used only when shit got serious. It had its effect, as Pagan stood at attention. His eyes were red, but there was no trace of tears.

"Do you want to get mad, or do you want to get even?" Walter asked.

Pagan's voice cracked as he spoke. "Even, Sergeant Hill."

"Good." Walter spat on the ground. "Anybody who got their bike totaled, double up with someone else. Won't hurt you to ride bitch for a little bit. Anybody else, if your bike is ride-able then ride it. We're going to find the son of bitch who did this. For every scratch, that's a cut on his chest. For every dent, that's a bone we break. For every bike he destroyed, that's a finger we cut off. Let's go."

The gang let out whoops and cheers as they started to mount their bikes. Four of the bikers climbed on to the back seat of one of their counterparts. Walter let Pagan ride on the back of his. He started his up with a roar and looked at the others.

"Hey, hey, hey," Walter called out over the noise of the engines. "I was born a rebel, down in Dixie on a Sunday morning."

"One foot in the grave, one foot on the pedal, I was born a rebel," the rest of the group called back.

Walter let out a rebel yell and hit the gas, the bike spinning in the gravel a few seconds before it roared across the parking lot and onto the highway towards town. Pagan held on tightly as the rest of the gang following behind him in formation.

---

4:23 PM

Johnny Leggario was only one of two customers in Mabel's Diner. He sat at the counter and nursed a cup of coffee while a burly man in overalls slurped down a bowl of chill. The chill was advertised on the sign out front of Mabel's as the best in the state. Johnny had no desire for food at the moment. He only bought the coffee so they wouldn't try to give him grief about loitering. Even now, the bony looking waitress at the far end of the counter watched him warily, hoping he'd buy something else. She was probably the titular Mabel.

He was really here for the payphone at the back near the corner booths. It'd cost almost a buck to place all the calls he'd needed. From Sun City, to Phoenix, back to Sun City, and then Phoenix one more time. He was waiting for one last call from Phoenix to close up his business. Kick in the dime for the cup of coffee and he'd be out a dollar and five cents for this little endeavor.

The idea came to him after he hauled ass away from the Highway Rangers' clubhouse. He needed to do more than penny ante shit like smacking into their bikes. He needed real muscle. So far the state was powerless to do anything about these rednecks who were terrorizing a town, terrorizing this half of the state pretty much. Yucca had no standing police force since it wasn't an incorporated town. Either through bribery or sympathy, the autonomous Mohave County Sheriff's Department seemed to turn a blind eye to it all. With no state police force, Arizona had no real means to actively stomp these bastards out. But then he started thinking about Arizona's old west past and it hit him like a bolt of lighting.

The payphone began to ring. Johnny stood up, ignoring the looks from the man eating chili and the waitress, and picked up the phone on the fourth ring.

"This is Johnny."

"Mr. Leggario? This is Governor Steiss."

"Pleasure to talk to you, governor."

"Wish I could say the goddamn same," he spat. "I don't know who the hell you are, but half the State House and almost all my major donators seem to know you."

"I have a lot of friends," Johnny said nonchalantly. "Friends with influence and money."

"Well, it's because of those friends I am allowing this half-crazed idea. It also helps that another chapter of these biker gangs got into some deep shit in Nevada and the federal government is thinking of intervening. So doing this makes me look good, like I'm getting out in front of the issue. Johnny, have you ever been convicted of a crime?"

"Not in Arizona."

"Goddammit... I guess that'll work. You raising your right hand?"

"Sure am," he lied.

"Do you swear to uphold the laws and Constitution of both the United States of America, and the state of Arizona?"

"I do," he lied again.

"Then by the power invested in me by the people of the state of Arizona, I declare you an Arizona Ranger. A courier will be sending you paperwork and identification shortly. Don't make me look bad."

Just like that the line went dead. Johnny smiled to himself as he put the phone back on the hook. The Arizona Rangers had been disbanded after the territory had been declared a US state in 1909. Like their counterparts in Texas, they had a broad mandate to stop crimes across the state.

And now Johnny was the first Ranger in over fifty years. He could hear Frenchie already laughing about it when he found out. A wop cowboy, he would say with tears in his eyes. What's your name, Johnny, The Ragu Kid?! Johnny laughed to himself as he walked by the counter, placing a quarter beside the empty coffee cup he had used,and kept walking outside. He crossed the dirt parking lot towards his car and stopped as he heard the sound of approaching motorcycle engines. Johnny quickly walked across the parking lot to his convertible and opened the trunk of his car. He came out with a loaded twelve-gauge shotgun.

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

LA Convention Complex
7:45 PM

"How does Georgia vote?"

"Georgia delegates cast all their votes for Michael Norman!"

The USC marching band fired up its rendition of "Hail to the Chief." They played it every time Norman won a state's votes. So far, the band had been busy but not overwhelmed. Eric Fernandez kept a running tally in his head. Norman was out to an early lead. Rick Marshall was second only because of how many delegates California had. Eric had only twenty-four votes to his name, all of them from Connecticut. That was at least reassuring. Big Jim seemed to be keeping up his end of the bargain.

"Norman gets Idaho," Alex Roy said from beside Eric, while the band kicked up "Hail to the Chief" once again. "No surprise there."

"How does Illinois vote?"

On the floor, Mayor Charlie Ricketts stood and basked in all the attention. He gave a big smile and milked the moment for all it was worth. "The great state of Illinois, of which I am honored to speak on its behalf, have decided that it will cast all its votes for our next president, ERIC FERNANDEZ!"

The decision caused both Eric and Roy to sit in their seats and look at each other.

"Illinois has a lot of votes," said Roy. "Not as many as California, or New York..."

"But just enough," Eric said with a smile. He could feel his pulse quickening "I think we're going to do this. At least on the first ballot. Enough to give us some momentum to carry us into the second ballot."

The two men traded quick handshakes and pats on the back. Eric felt the votes from Illinois had been a shot in the arm to his chances. There would be a second ballot thanks to Eric and all the favorite son candidates. They'd defied the president and denied him, at least temporarily, the nomination he so desired. The only thing lingering in the back of Eric's mind was why? Why had Ricketts and Illinois went to him when he had made it clear that he wasn't prepared to horse trade or outright buy their votes. Something or someone had changed their minds. And the only thing Eric knew was that it wasn't his doing.

---

8 PM

"Wyoming casts all of its votes for Michael Norman."

Frenchie Gallo didn't even have to do the math to know the president hadn't won the nomination. He could see it in the posture of everyone in the private booth. They were all hunched over, refusing to make eye contact with each other. The booth was packed with guys like him. Not pols by trade, but political movers and shakers by virtue of glad-handing and trading favors. Every one of them were Norman supporters, and now everyone of them looked like someone had shit in their shoes.

Foulke read off the tabulations from the dais above the floor. The president squeaked out a simple majority of the votes, but Fernandez had stolen roughly forty percent of the vote and caused him to fall short of the required 2/3rds majority. Not just enough to deny the president victory, but enough to give him an actual shot at the nomination. Frenchie chomped down on a cigar in anger. That bastard Ricketts. He had no idea what kind of deal Ricketts managed to cut, but he would make sure to have a talk to Bobby C. after all of this ended. He might have to go to Fortunato and the commission with it, but he wanted to fucking whack Ricketts for this grief. The old men might balk at political assassination, but he knew Johnny Leggario would see to it Ricketts ended up in Lake Michigan as fish food.

"Okay, fuckers," Frenchie said with a start. "Stop moping around and get to work. We all know enough about politics to know what happens next. We all got power and influence of some sort. Let's fucking use it and get our guy elected."

Frenchie waddled across the room and picked up the first phone he could reach. Suddenly, the box around him came to life with the people doing the same. He hadn't won on the first ballot, but the son of a bitch could win on the second if they all got to work.

---

The Baxter Hotel
3:30 AM

"Voting will be suspended for and will resume tomorrow morning at 11 AM for the sixteenth ballot."

Russell heard Foulke's gavel sharply pound through the radio. He and Jim Sledge were the only two in the room. Sledge had his eyes closed as he sat in the chair facing Russell's bed, but Russell knew he was wide awake. They both were, actually. Who could even feel anything close to being tired at a time like this?

"Now is the time," Sledge said, his eyes still shut but no trace of sleepiness in his voice. "Most of the bosses are heading back to the hotel, those that are already here are without a doubt picking a meeting place. We haven't had a deadlocked convention in quite some time, so they're embarrassed and want to end it quickly. I imagine the sixteenth ballot will be the last one. The winner will be picked by them before the sun rises."

Russell nodded. "I expect the phone to ring in about five seconds or so. Three... two..."

One of the phones started to chime. Sledge opened his eyes and smiled at Russell before standing and picking it up.

"Hello?.... Yes.... I see... okay. Yes, we'll be there shortly."

Sledge put the phone back down and looked at Russell.

"They're meeting in Parrish's room. All the bosses, Wilbur Helms, and now us."

Russell nodded and stood. For the first time in years, he thought of his father. Jon Reed had thought of himself as some sort of kingmaker in Northeast Georgia politics. Without the temperament to actually be a politician, he instead relished the role of being the power behind the throne as it were. But then he went bankrupt and became a laughingstock. It forced the Russell family to taking handouts and charity from the people in Lavonia.

When he was sixteen, Russell asked Lori Jo Tyner to the homecoming dance. Her mother and father told her she couldn't, that Russell was no good. They said that no Reed would ever amount to anything. He saw Lori Jo Tyner, now Lori Jo Wilson, when he came through Lavonia during the '56 campaign. She was so fat. Russell chuckled to himself and adjusted his tie before looking over at Sledge.

"How's my hair?"

"Good," said Sledge.

"Then let's go to work."

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

Los Angeles

LA Convention Complex
3:31 PM

"It gives me great pleasure to represent both Pennsylvania and its esteemed governor with this speech. These are times of careful consideration, times of reflection. Times that make us pause and take stock of where our nation has been, and where it shall go. Times like these require a man of vision."

From his box above the convention, Lennie Parrish scoffed so loudly that his jowls shook. The ever present cigar clamped in his teeth filled the box with heavy smoke. Russell sat next to him, watching him as much as he watched the speech Pittsburgh mayor Abe Fortson gave. With his ruddy face and gold teeth, Parrish was the latest in a New York City political dynasty. A dynasty not of blood, but of pragmatism. Parrish could trace his lineage back to men like Silent Charlie Murphy and Boss Tweed. Tammany Hall still held a firm grasp on New York state's Democratic party machinery despite over one hundred years of constant political warfare with Republicans abroad, and reformers within.

The biggest testament of their power came in 1932, when they beat all odds and managed to get an Irish Catholic both the nomination and elected president. In '32 Russell had been too busy running for Congress to keep an eye on the election, but even back then he knew enough about politics the credit to Al Smith's victory to the massive economic hardships and not Tammany Hall's machination.

"Something's brewing, Russell," Parrish's voice came out as a rasp thanks to a life of cigar smoke. "I can feel it in the air. Hallsey is the third straight favorite son candidate whose been nominated. And we still gotta get to Fernandez and the president."

"We knew Hallsey was coming," Russell said with a slight sigh. "The California delegation nominating Rick Marshall is a ceremonial gesture, one you had to account for here in LA. He's seventy-four years old. If he's too old to be governor, there is no way he can be the president."

"That takes California out of the president's camp," said Parrish. "At least for the first ballot, which is what Fernandez wants."
"I'm more worried about Ohio," Russell confessed. "Jerry Ryan is a good senator, but it worries me that the president can't even get his own party in that state to follow him. It doesn't bode well for November."

"Especially if Baker gets the Republican nomination," Parrish added, not that he needed to add it.

"California, the midwest, Ohio." Russell looked hard at Parrish. "Where does New York stand in all of this?"

Parrish made a face, one that showed he didn't appreciate Russell's questions. He had to keep a straight face as Parrish chomped down on his cigar and spoke through his bared teeth like a cartoon character.

"We stand with the president."

"Remember what we said at the dinner last week, Lennie. Friendship is rewarded and hostility is punished. Do you want to take over as the Postmaster General? Play ball with us."

It was quiet, but Russell heard something softly coming from Parrish's mouth.

"What was that?"

"I said, if the president was worth a flying fuck this wouldn't be an issue!"

Russell regarded Parrish with a cold look.

"Don't blame me," he roared. "Tell me you can't feel it all around us, Russell? There are a lot of options to vote for out there and Michael Norman ain't one of them. Why the fuck should I throw my support behind a man who is going to get his ass kicked come November?"

Now it was Russell's turn to shout. "Because of the party!"

"Fuck the party," Parrish spat. "I'm not backing a loser. What can you do for me?"

Russell stood, buttoning his suit coat.

"The president is not prepared to buy votes."

"And that's why he'll lose," Parrish said as Russell started to walk out. "If not this week, then in four months. That's not how politics works, Russ. You know that, better than most!"

"I said the president won't buy votes," Russell said softly. "I never said anything about myself."

On the floor, Fortson's speech reached its climax. "That is why I nominate Pennsylvania's Governor Hallsey as the Democratic Party's nominee for president!"

Parrish smiled, showing off a row of gold teeth. Below them, the convention floor broke out in tepid applause at the end of the mayor's speech.

---

6 PM

"Please welcome, Massachusetts Congressman Liam Kane."

Big Jim Dwyer made the stations of the cross, the first time in over thirty years that he had done it. He sat in his suite in the hotel across from the convention, listening to it on the radio. He didn't want to be in person to see Liam's speech, especially after watching him snort three lines of cocaine just before leaving for the convention. At least this way, he could turn off the radio the second the boy started into nonsensical ramblings. He wouldn't have to watch both his and Liam's political futures go up in smoke.

"Thank you, thank you. I am honored to to give this speech. What do we think of when we hear the word president? Do we think of George Washington's stern portrait? Or do we think of newsreel footage of President Wheeler surveying the ruins of Salt Lake City? Or do we think of fiery Andrew Jackson battling with congress over nullification? Jackson was the first who expressed the idea that the office of president is quite different from the congress. While senators represent their states, and congressmen represent their districts, it is only the president who represents the people as a whole. While Congress has many contrasting voices, overlapping and creating a din, the president has but one that rings clearly and alone. It is a voice that speaks for the people, a voice that channels our hopes and wishes, a voice that embodies America's spirit. Or so we would like.

The truth of the matter is that voice has become quite muffled and muddied in the years since the war. The voice has become choked by the special interests that value money over merits, by the political machinery that values patronage over progress, and corruption within our own party that value power over passage of legislation. For so long now, that voice has spoken for the politicians and not the people. That changes tonight.

There is a man who speaks for all of America, the rich and poor, the white and negro, the southerners and northerners. He will remind the government that it serves at the pleasure of the people and not the other way around. And when he speaks, Congress shall listen. I hereby nominate Senator Eric Fernandez from the great state of Wisconsin as the Democratic Party's nominee for president. I implore the delegates to use their voice, so that the people can have theirs once more. Thank you!"

Big Jim breathed a sigh of relief as the speech ended and applause came out of the radio. Liam got through it all without any trouble. And not only that, it was an okay speech. Not presidential quality... but vice-presidential? Very much so. Jim pulled himself out of his chair and started towards the door. There was only one more speech to give, and after that voting would begin.

---

7:13 PM

"Yes, sir, I can hear you."

Russell had the phone close to his ear so he could hear the president. Down below, an ex-governor of Colorado was giving the speech that would nominate Norman. Russell couldn't remember his name, but the president held him in high esteem for some reason. Russell wasn't entirely sure why.

"Where do we stand, Russell?"

"First ballot," Russell quickly replied. "It'll be close."

"What about California?"

"Jim Sledge is down on the floor right now doing some arm twisting and I've been working on other states. Even if California goes favorite son for the first ballot, we're still gonna get to that two-thirds majority."

"Russ... I'm trusting you here."

"I understand, sir."

"No, I don't think you do..."

There was an awkward silence between the two men, a silence that felt as long as the intercontinental physical distance between them.

"What do you mean?"

"If you want to be vice president for the next four years, you'll get me elected on the first ballot."

"Are you threatening me, sir?" Russell said through his teeth.

"You ran your mouth to all of Washington about how you got me elected in '56," the president snapped. "If you're such a miracle worker, then get to work. If not, well... I think Congressman Kane gave a hell of a speech a few hours ago, don't you?"

The line went dead. Russell tried to speak, even pressing the receiver down again. Finally, the operator came on the line and informed him the call had been ended by the president. He placed the headset back in the cradle and calmly stared at it before he let out a yell and slung the phone halfway across the box. It snapped in the middle of the air as the phone cord drew taunt and fell to the ground with a solid thump.

"The nerve... the fucking gall of that son of a bitch."

Russell took a deep breath and looked down at the floor. Applause was receding as the ex-governor walked off stage. Clay Foulke, Speaker of the House and Russell's protegee, banged the gavel beside the podium.

"The time for nominations has passed," Foulke announced. "Voting will now begin, starting with each state's delegation in alphabetical order."

Russell sighed and sagged into a chair facing outwards. That was it. The time for preparations, horse-trading, and threats were all done. He'd done everything he could. Now, it was time to see if luck was truly on his side.

"How does Alabama vote?"

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

Los Angeles

Silver Lake
12:35 PM

Jessica Hyatt pulled into the driveway of her apartment and turned off the car. She looked up in the rearview mirror and cursed. The car that followed her all the way across town now sat halfway down the block of her street. It had to be Parker or one of his Pinkerton lackeys, reminding her once again who was in charge. She sighed and closed her eyes. She was exhausted from all the games and the lies, wearing one face with with Penny and a different one with Parker, neither one of them her real self. Escape seemed so far, but yet so close. She could leave right now, drive out of the city and not stop until she got to Canada. It would be the easiest thing in the world. She could---

"Ma'am."

The sound of the man's voice made her jump back. She snapped her eyes open and was surprised at the sight. A tall negro in a suit stood above the car, looking down at her with a curious expression. She saw a badge in his hand but didn't look at it closely.

"Leave me the fuck alone," Jessica yelled. "Tell Parker I'll give him the names, but it'll take time, okay!"

The negro man took a step back, his brow furrowing in confusion. It was then that Jessica noticed his badge was larger than the one the Pinkertons had. This one with the words LOS ANGELES POLICE written underneath the city seal.

"Detective Thomas," he said. "LAPD. When you said Parker, you mean the Pinkerton agent?"

"How do you know him?"

"How do you know him?" the man asked with raised eyebrow.

Jessica could kick herself. But, Thomas had showed up suddenly and she snapped without thinking. The best course was to keep her mouth shut.

"I don't think I should say."

"Ms. Weiss--" he started to say before Jessica cut him off.

"I'm not her. Actually, I don't even know her."

Jessica reached into her purse and passed over her driver's license to Thomas as proof. He looked it over before looking back at her.

"No?" A soft smile crept on to the detective's face as he passed the license back. "Well, Miss Hyatt, whose house was that you came out of? Some random stranger you don't know? By my count, you were there most of the night. Still want to lie to me?"

"Look," she said flatly. "I know my rights. Charge me or leave me alone. Those are the rights of the people. I know that may be hard for a -- what's the word -- Uncle Tom like you to understand."

The smile on Thomas' face disappeared and he started to clench his jaw in anger.

"Am I being charged with something?" Now it was Jessica's turn to smile.

"How about being part of a criminal conspiracy?" He asked just above a whisper. "A conspiracy to commit murder."

"What?"

"Your friend, Weiss. At the very least she is complicit in the murder of two people, one of them a pretty little white girl who has been all over the news. Know what I'm talking about?"

Jess thought back to the dresser in Penny's bedroom. The photos of Claire Beauchamp. There was no way she could be capable of something like that. It was murder. But then again... what Penny proposed to Jessica. It was as dangerous and illegal as it was crazy. But worth killing over?

"They're not murderers. They're..." she started to say. Suddenly, she looked around. "Look, we need to go somewhere else. It's not safe to talk here. They could be listening."

Thomas looked apprehensive. He looked around before looking back down at Jess. His skeptical look evaporated as he saw the look on her face.

"C'mon," he said with a nod. "We can talk in my car. I'll drive us someplace safe."

---

Pinnacle Studios
3:04 PM

Four horses galloped across the sand of the studio back lot, Raymond Hollister riding the lead horse while three stunt men followed behind him. All four were dressed in black hats, coats, and pants. The standard attire for western bad guys. Hollister looked halfway decent riding, at least from where Elliot was watching. Maybe through the camera he looked every bit the imposing bandit leader he was supposed to be. That was the magic of movies, after all.

Elliot stood well behind the camera and crew as Hollister filmed his scene. That day the back lot was made up to resemble a western expanse, the perfect place for the final showdown between the evil Rudy Cleef and the enigmatic gunslinger Joe. All-American Van Hopper played the part. From what Elliot saw of the dailies, the picture was shaping up to be quite good. Both Hopper and Hollister were playing against type in the picture. Hollister traded in being the lead in another romantic comedy, while Hopper turned away from his boy-next-door image to play the taciturn gunfighter who becomes a reluctant hero. Not bad for a Roy Abercrombie picture.

"Cut!"

Abercrombie sat just behind the camera, wearing his trademark sunglasses and sucking on his pipe. The story went that he lost part of his eyesight during the war. Nobody else knew anything else because they were always too afraid to ask. Elliot pulled out a fresh cigarette and walked across the sand towards him.

"We'll pick back up on the gunfight," said Abercrombie. "Close-ups."

"Roy," Elliot said once he was close enough.

He saw the scowl on the director's face. For a man who directed middle of the road cowboy pictures, Abercrombie thought a lot of himself. He was an artist and had little patience for studio people like Elliot, a fact he never tried to hide.

"What do you want, money man?"

"I need five minutes with Raymond."

Abercrombie puffed on his pipe for a few seconds before finally turning away from Elliot.

"Hollister! The corporate stooge wants a word with you. Be brief, please. We are already behind schedule."

Elliot rolled his eyes and walked away while Raymond climbed off the horse and walked bow-legged towards him. He remained silent as they walked away from the rest of the crew.

"How's it going, Ray?" Elliot asked once they were far enough away. "Enjoying the picture?"

"Sure am," he replied. "Elliot... what's this about?"

Without a word, Elliot passed him a folded up piece of paper. He saw the look on Raymond's face as he saw the contact sheet with names listed on it. Elliot took a drag off his cigarette and expelled smoke from his nose.

"Want to explain that to me, Ray?"

"I-I-I-I-"

"Why are two of the names listed on that list dead? Murdered by person or persons unknown. Want to explain that."

Hollister started to regain his composure. He was a world class actor after all. "Look... this is not what it looks like."

"Tell me what it looks like," said Elliot. "Because to me, it looks like a list of people, two of those people had radical and subversive literature in their house. And the rest of them have ties to a politically charged movie the studio tried to squash."

Hollister let out a sigh. "That movie... that goddamned movie."

Elliot leaned forward. "Tell me about it, Ray. The movie, the group, the murders. What the hell is going on?"

"Gimme a cigarette." He took the smoke from Elliot with shaky hands. He had to help him put fire to the tip. He seemed to calm down as he blew smoke from his mouth. "It... got out of hand, Elliot. Things weren't supposed to be this complicated."

"Hollister!"

They both turned at the sound of Abercrombie. He stood twenty feet away, his hands on his hips and an agitated look on his face.

"Any reason why you're delaying my picture."

Raymond turned back to Elliot, his eyebrows raised.

"Go," said Elliot. "We'll talk after the scene. I gotta talk to Abercrombie, too."

Hollister nodded and flicked the cigarette away. He trudged back across the sand to the waiting camera and crew. Elliot drew closer and watched them set up while . In the shot, Hollister would pull his gun and fire off two quick blanks while a stuntman with his back to the camera did the same. Hollister would act like he'd been hit and fall, the climax of the film as the outlaw Cleef's death would come at the hands of the hero Joe.

"Ready," Abercrombine shouted from his chair. "And... action!"

Hollister squinted before pulling his gun as fast as he could. As fast as he was, the stuntman was faster. They both opened fire at the same time, the stuntman firing twice while Hollister only shot once before he jerked his body back and flopped to the ground.

"Cut! That was too over the top, Hollister. Let's do it again."

Elliot felt dread rising up in his chest at the sight of Hollister on the ground. He began to see fake blood pooling on the sand below his body and knew something was wrong. It was against the censorship code to show any kind of blood on film.

"Ray," Abercrombie said, standing up. "Ray... get up."

Cursing, Elliot ran across the sand towards Hollister. He turned him over, revealing two neat bulletholes in his chest that were rapidly bleeding out. The crew behind him screamed, the stuntman dropping the gun that was supposed to be loaded with blanks. Raymond looked up at Elliot, blooding dribbling out the corner of his mouth. He started to say something before he coughed blood, his eyes glazing over as he died.