Byrd Man

①⑨⑥⑧

<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>
Yeah it's good I guess.

@TGM

①⑨⑥⑧

I felt like making a rash decision tonight.

T H E L O S E R S

Cpt. Franklin Clay, 33 (b. 1935)
Sgt. William Roque, 29 (b. 1939)
Sgt. Carlos "Cougar" Alvarez, 25 (b. 1943)
Sgt. Linwood "Pooch" Porteous, 21 (b. 1947)
Cpl. Jacob "Jake" Jensen, 23 (b. 1945)
Marie Tran, 23 (b. 1945)
_{Based in Saigon, Vietnam
Active since approximately late 1967}

Character Concept

---

"We the unwilling, lead by the unqualified to kill the unfortunate die for the ungrateful."

That pretty much sums up the average soldier's opinions on the Vietnam War. It's a fucking mess if you ask anyone who is even paying attention and there seems to be no end in sight. While President Johnson digs his heels in with an unprecedented bombing campaign with the ever optimistic goal of turning North Vietnam into the world's biggest parking lot, the CIA opts for a more surgical approach.

Green Beret Captain Franklin Clay heads up a new unit of less than desirable soldiers known as The Losers. Their targets are high-ranking VC members, as well as VC sympathizers and collaborators operating in South Vietnam. With intel given to them by their Agency handler, Max, they carry out a covert war designed to draw bring South Vietnam to the negotiating table and to get President Johnson four more years in the White House. But as Clay and his team wade deeper into the murky waters of Vietnam, they discover their work is in service of something much sinister than even the propagation of the US industrial death complex.

War, crime, death, history, conspiracies, and nihilistic characters if I can find the time to post. That's all I offer and nothing more.

Key Notes

---

TBA

References / Sample Post

---

Good Friday
100 Bullets Intro
Billyland

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

Ready or Not:
Pt. V

Industrial Pak
12:50 AM

I ran barefoot across the factory rooftop, gravel biting into the soles of my feet. With my running start I hurled myself into the air over a gap between buildings. I hit the roof of the adjacent building hard and landed with a hard thump. Recovering from my fall, I stayed low to the ground and hugged the shadows. Even in the dark I could feel his eyes upon me. It had been years since he had taught me the hunt, and I had learned well. But laying in the dark, with the a crushing sense of foreboding creeping in, I knew who the real master was. I took a deep breath in an attempt to clear my mind. Kraven was the better hunter. On that fact there was never any doubt. But he didn't know this city like I do. He's the master of the jungle, but the urban jungle is a different story.

Gathering myself, I began to creep across the rooftop. I prepared for an ambush after the crunch of gravel that accompanied each footfall. I made my way to the fire escape and climbed down towards the street. As I started down I heard a sound. A new noise amidst all the sirens, hoking horns, and sounds of industry. A gentle sound. Like rope tearing through the air.

Letting go of the fire escape I fell back towards the ground as a bola struck the ladder and wrapped around the rungs. Falling towards the ground, I straightened my body and dove from two stories up into a trash dumpster. I may have hit trash but it was all glass bottles and plastic trays. Cut, bleeding, and in pain, I climbed out the trash and hurried into the shadows.

"That was my warm-up," Kraven's voice echoed through the alley I was seeking refuge in. Although his voice was close, there was no sign of the man. "So far, so easy. You are predictable, richboy. What will you do, now?"

The courthouse clock four blocks over chimed one in the morning. That's when inspiration hit me like a bolt of lighting. Standing I darted from the shadows and ran down the alley. Kraven chuckled and the sounds of his laughter followed me out the alley. Leaving the alley, I ran across the street to another building's side. Once there I jumped on the building's fire escape and climbed up to the rooftop. A moment later I was running as fast as I could and leaping across the gaps between buildings.

Footsteps crunched behind me, distant at first they were rapidly approaching.

"I have tracked down cheetahs, gazelles," Kraven yelled. "Do you think you can outrun me?!"

"No," I hollered back. I could feel the gentle vibrations getting stronger as I approached the edge of the rooftop. "But I know the 1:05 can outrun you!"

Jumping from the roof I landed on the last car of a passing subway train as it tore past the building. Struggling to find a foothold, I managed to stand up and look back at Kraven as the train carried me off into the distance.

---

The Bowery
1:35 AM

I jumped off the subway while it was stopped at the station and melted into the shadows. The stunt with the train had bought me some time, but I needed to go on the offensive. A few blocks away I came across a closed hardware store. The doors and windows were barred, but it wasn't entirely impregnable. I kept a running total and I went in and took the items I needed. I made a note to send the money to the store the next morning.

If I lived to see the morning.

---

​

2:45 AM

Kraven could tell Wayne was nearby. He could smell him. Even through the repugnant stenches of this city, Bruce Wayne had a unique scent. He smelled like silk suits and money, like all people of wealth. Despite the year he spent at Kraven's side, Wayne had showed his true colors at the end. He was not a hunter, just a rich boy playing hunter.

Kraven jumped from a rooftop and landed in an alleyway. Bruce's scent was close now. Creeping, Kraven approached a trashcan. The smell was coming from the can. Looking inside, Kraven saw a pile of dark clothing and mask. On the shirt was the symbol of the Batman.

"Ha!" He scoffed aloud. "This is how richboy beats me? He gets naked and tries to hide his scent? It is a valiant effort, but it will fail!"

To show his rage Kraven kicked over the trashcan. A wire attached to the can's underside snapped. The spring loaded trap underneath the trashcan sprung, shooting a half dozen nails out at Kraven. While most of the nails missed, one lodged into his left shoulder, another nail struck his right forearm with a glancing blow.

"Ah," he grunted, holding his shoulder. "Clever, richboy... very clever. You fooled me. You will not do it again!"

Kraven yanked the nail from his shoulder. Holding it up, he noticed there was a balm slathered on the tip, mingling with his blood. "What..." His knees buckled as an intense burning sensation hit him. His shoulder irradiated in white hot pain. Kraven ground his teeth in pain and roared out into the night.

"DEAD! YOU ARE DEAD!"

Fighting his pain, Kraven saw a fire escape and jumped at the ladder. He grabbed a rung and fell back to the ground. Holding his hands up, he saw the grease covering his palms. The hunter yelled out in frustration again.

From a distance, a figure in work boots, jeans, and a hooded poncho watched Kraven from the shadows. The shoe was now on the other foot. For all his skill and ability in the jungle. Kraven was out of his element. In this concrete jungle, in his domain, Bruce Wayne was the hunter. And now Kraven had become the hunted.

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

Ready or Not:
Pt. IV

Then
Kenya

Both Bruce Wayne and his mentor Sergi Kravinoff, better known as the legendary Kraven the Hunter, were walking through the knee high brush of the Savanna. Both men carried opposite ends of a large wooden stake. The carcass of a boar swayed gently back and forth from the pole by its feet. They carried the dead pig towards the hut they had called home for the last few months.

"Our time here is ending," Kraven said nonchalantly. "I have taught you almost all that I can teach. You can track, stalk, and hunt masterfully."

"You've been a good teacher, Kraven," Bruce said.

"You have been a good pupil. Not too bad for a rich boy."

Bruce chuckled softly. No compliment from Kraven ever came without some small way to undercut the praise. "I can make arrangements and be on my way by the end of the week."

"Good. Because tonight, we will have our final lesson. One last hunt."

"What will we be after?"

"Tonight," Kraven said with a twinkle in his eyes, "we hunt the most dangerous animal,"

---

Now
Old Gotham
12:05 AM

I shot out a grapnel line into the night and waited for it to catch on the nearby building. The party was barely over, and I was out looking for trouble in a city that had it by the handful. This is where I belonged. Give me the stash houses over the penthouses. And, besides, Billy Russo was in need of a talking to.

Alfred found out rather quickly that Kraven was at the party on Russo's invitation. I normally made it a habit of not inviting mobster trash to my parties, but the people at the foundation were responsible for sending out invites. They would also need a talking to. The line went taught and I swung into the air. I released the line and activated my cape's glide flight function. I flew over the courthouse that I shared a name with and glided over the rooftops of the oldest part of the city like the winged creature some criminals believed I was.

KRAK!

Rifle fire broke the stillness of the night. I grunted in shock as my grapnel line went slack, the rifle's bullet severing the line. I began to free-fall towards the street, tumbling and twirling through the air. I struggled with my belt and pulled out an emergency line. Desperate I wildly aimed at a stone gargoyle on the building above me. The line caught and I jerked with the sudden stop. My body swung to the right and crashing through the office building's window. I fell hard to the floor and rolled to the stop, dazed and in pain.

That's when I heard the footsteps.

"This is what you have become?" A voice said from above. I felt strong powerful hands on my neck. I was picked up and shoved into the face of my former teacher. "You were a great hunter once," Kraven said with a sigh.

"And you used to be sane," I growled as I swung my arm at Kraven's head. He had his hand out and waiting, dropping me to the floor with swift counterstrike. He twisted my arm behind my back until I felt a sharp pain. Kraven growled and kept twisting my arm. I could feel tendons twisting, the arm in danger of popping out of the shoulder socket.

"I could kill you now, it would be easy. For a week, I watch and wait. I see you in action. And I am disgusted by what I see?"

"Someone who can kill, but doesn't?" I gasped.

"No. I see a once great hunter reduced to being a fool in a costume, a fool who relies on toys and not the hunters instincts."

With his free hand Kraven reached down and ripped my utility belt from my waist. "I am going to kill you. I was paid to kill Bat, and I will kill Bat. But not before I shame you to the point where you will be begging for death."

Kraven brought down the butt of his palm on my head, knocking me unconscious in one fluid motion.

---

I came to groggy and dazed. I ran my hands across the ground and felt gravel. Through my half shut eyes I looked up and saw my bare hands. Kraven had stripped me of my gloves and gauntlets. Standing up, I saw what else he had done. In addition to my belt and gloves, my boots and cape were gone. Just my suit and cowl remained. I was on a rooftop somewhere in the industrial area of town. Factories, plants, and smokestacks cluttered up the skyline.

"Your toys are gone," Kraven's voice said from somewhere close, somewhere I couldn't see. "All there is now is the hunter and the hunted. It is time for you to die, richboy. The hunt begins now."

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

Ready or Not:
Pt. III

Ural Mountains
Then

The two men lay flat on their stomachs on the snow-covered mountain ridge. They had each come into the mountains with very little supplies three weeks ago when their hunt began. A few weapons and a rucksack with clothing, but no food and no water. They would find their sustenance on the mountain, the same mountain would provide shelter. The only thing they carried now were their hunting knives and the rifle they shared. They opted for knives most times to conserve ammunition. At last count only six rounds were left.

"I see something," the younger man, Bruce Wayne, said under his breath. Like his partner, he wore white camouflage and his face was covered in a frost-speckled beard. A large brown bear stepped out of the snowy woods and lazily plodded towards a stream below. Bruce saw the dark markings on the bear's hindquarters and knew it was the same one they had been tracking for the past week.

"This is your kill," the man to Bruce's right said. For the past six months Bruce had been under his wing. The legendary man they called the Hunter had already him so much about tracking, scouting, and of course hunting. The only hunting Bruce had known prior to this was duck hunting with his uncle once when he was a teenager. And even that had only entailed shooting at a pack of birds as someone else found them and stirred them up. Thanks to the Hunter Bruce could not only hunt, but also survive and thrive in some of the harshest wilderness this planet had to offer.

The Hunter cycled a round into the rifle and began to hand it to Bruce before he stopped himself and laughed. "I forgot. Man who wants to be hunter, but not use guns. For you there is only one thing."

Bruce pulled his hunting knife from its side holster. It was ten inches and had a serrated blade. "Me against a bear with nothing but my knife... Kraven, are you sure?"

"What is the first rule of the hunt?"

"'Know your prey, watch it. Study it, get inside its head. Know it like it were you own flesh and blood.'"

"Da. For past week, we watch, we study. We see bear in fighting. We know bear's every movement, we know how bear thinks. That is most valuable weapon, worth more than a thousand of my rifles."

"You're right."

Bruce began to slowly creep through the snow. He was stopped as Kraven grabbed his ankle. "I will watch," he said with a nod. "If need be, I will but bear now... but then again, maybe not. When I was in Spetsnaz , we had saying when we did not live up to expectations: 'Иногда вы едите медведя, а иногда медведь ест вас.'"

"What does that mean?"

"'Sometimes, you eat bear and sometimes bear eat you.' In your case saying is quite literal, no?"

"Yes," Bruce said as he began to crawl towards the bear. "Quite."

---

Wayne Tower
Now

"Oh, Bruce, let me introduce you to one of our newest ADAs... Pretty young thing. Maybe even a potential candidate for the seat in the upcoming election."

"And me without my checkbook handy. Maybe they won't want to talk to me..."

Mrs. Van Patten, actually Judge Van Patten, laughed and took my hand. I followed behind her and let her lead me through the crowd gathered in my penthouse. The Thomas & Martha Wayne Charity Fundraiser, a black tie event that I was hoping to turn into a yearly gala. All proceeds were going to helping lower income Gotham residents find permanent work, affordable housing, and any medical treatment they would need. I may be doing... interesting work as Batman, but the work as Bruce Wayne is just as important, if not more important, to the future well-being of the city.

"Bruce Wayne," Mrs. Van Patten said as she stopped in front two people. A tall, handsome man in a tux and a shorter, blonde haired woman beside him dressed in a navy evening gown. "I want you to meet the District Attorney Office's newest star, Miss Janice Porter."

The blonde woman smiled and held her hand out for me. I shook it and grinned. "Well, the judge said you were a pretty one. I had no idea she had a habit of making understatements."

"Oh, Mister Wayne," Porter said with a laugh. "I'm flattered, by both your words and Judge Van Patten's. This is my fiancé, Henry."

I shook hands with the man accompany Porter and nodded. "So, the judge tells me you may have eyes for the DA seat?"

"That's putting the cart before the horse. I've only been in town for a few months. Lots of factors to consider, and the election is a long way away."

"Well, if you're ever interested in making a run I have lots and lots of disposable income, and like most people with too much money I like to meddle in politics. If I like what you have to offer we can work out a deal."

"I'm flattered, I really am. But for now--"

She continued to talk, but something across the room caught my eye. Someone with their back to me but with an unmistakable frame.

"--so just take a rain check."

"Will do," I said with a nod. "It was a pleasure meeting you both. If you'll excuse me."

I walked through the crowd and caught snippets of conversation as I navigated through the social scene.

"--missioner Pauling is just in it for the pension now, milk more time until he can retire--"

"--blepot is supposed to be coming back to town with some new business venture. His father, Chester, was always such a good businessman--"

"--And Mister Fields, let me introduce you to Miss Felicia Hardy--"

"Excuse me," I said as I approached the man. "I'm looking"

"You seek someone," the man said. He slowly turned around and revealed his face. Years had passed and there was more gray than I had remembered, but I would never forget the face and cold eyes of my one-time mentor. "And you have found them. Hello, richboy," Sergi Kravenoff said with a smirk.

"Kraven," I said without any warmth in my voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Not so happy to see me? We may have not parted on the best of circumstances but you were still my friend."

"You didn't answer my question," I said. "What are you doing here?"

"The hunt, my friend. Always the hunt. It calls me to Gotham."

"But there's nothing to hunt in the city," I said with a skeptical look.

"I am working for a client. They wish to bag big game. They call me in to hunt."

"What are you hunting?"

"I am--"

"Pardon me, Master Bruce," Alfred said as he approached us. "Councilman Dickerson is requesting your presence."

"Duty calls," I said with a glance towards my awaiting guests. "Enjoy the party... "

"I will try. If only you would serve vodka. Drink of real men, not champagne."

"I'll see what I can do."

I nodded and followed Alfred through the party. "Soon as you can, Alfred, I want you to pull the guest list for me. See who has plus one invitations and run those people through the computer downstairs, combing through their recent financial history. Look for large amounts of cash that have been withdrawn within the last thirty days. After that talk to security about the man I was talking to and see if he came here alone or with a guest."

"The large Russian?"

"Yes. He's here tonight on business, I know it. First rule of the hunt, Alfred: Know your prey. Watch it. Study it. Get inside its head. Know it like it were your own flesh and blood.'"

"Inspired poetry, sir. But who is he?"

"Sergi Kravenoff," I said, turning to look back at him. His eyes were watching me, unblinking and focused. "And he's one of the most dangerous men in the world."

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

Ready or Not:
Pt. II

Cameroon
Then

The jeep bounced up and down the poorly kept dirt road with a cloud of dust following in its wake through the countryside. The driver of the jeep chattered away in French while the young, dark-haired man in the passenger seat barely listened to him. Instead the passenger's eyes were focused on what lay ahead. The road began a slow and steady incline towards the peak of Mount Cameroon. The volcanic mountain was one of the premier spots for big game hunting in Central Africa. Everything from lions, elephants, chimps, and wild hogs mixed together in diverse bioshpere. The young man knew if he wanted to find a serious hunter, he would be here.

"Nous sommes arrivés, Monsieur Wayne," the driver said as the jeep skidded to a stop outside a grass hut.

"Oui, je vous remercie," the young man replied in flawless French. Two years "studying" in Paris had left him with a fluent understanding of the language. He handed the driver a handful of African Francs. The grabbed the canvas bag behind his seat and stepped out of the jeep. "Ce sera tout. Je peux le prendre à partir d'ici," he told the driver.

"Très bien. Ce vieil homme est fou. Vous avez besoin d'aide, tu m'appelles," the driver said with a nod.

"Oui. Je vais le faire, George."

The driver of the jeep reversed the vehicle and began back down the dirt road. The young man watched the jeep disappear down the road before turning to the hut. While he had his back turned a man had appeared out of nowhere with a rifle in his hands.

"Explain yourself," the man said in a slight Russian accent. He slid the rifle's bolt action and cycled a round into his the chamber. "Two seconds before I shoot you dead."

"My name," the young man said in English, his hands raised and his palms out "is Bruce Wayne. I came to speak to Sergi Kravinoff."

The older man looked at Wayne with narrowed eyes before he pulled his rifle back. "You want Kraven, richboy? You have found him. What do you want?"

"I seek knowledge," he said, and then softer said, "training."

---

Now
Old Gotham
8:04 PM

I was crouched in the shadows watching the lone gunman from a safe distance. Shortly before five this afternoon he walked into a daycare and proceeded to take the staff and a dozen toddlers hostage. The cops had been involved in a standoff for a little over three hours. Major Gordon stood outside supervising the scene, but word from Gotham Central was that new commissioner Peter Pauling was getting antsy. His orders were pretty straightforward: Give Gordon an hour to negotiate . If that didn't work SWAT would bang down the doors. The only way that ended was with dead bodies and bullets.

There's a better way. I managed to infiltrate the police perimeter with ease and slip into the daycare unnoticed. I'd been stalking the hostage taker ever since. The fourteen hostages, twelve of them scared and frightened children, were huddled together in an adjacent room.

"Attention!" Gordon's voice boomed through a megaphone outside. While his voice carried his tone was hesitant. "This is Major James Gordon with the GCPD... You have forty-five minutes to come out with your hands up or we will... we will breech the doors."

The gunman began to pace and fidget nervously across the floor. I stayed still and watched as he wildly swung the pistol in his hands. A child in the following room started to cry. The gunman ran his hands through his head and started to exhale in short, fast breaths. He growled and started towards the room where the crying child was.

"Can you shut that goddamn kid u--," he stopped short as my forearm came out the shadows and struck him in the diaphragm. The gunman gagged and grasped for breath. I slapped the gun from his hand and drove him to the ground with a forceful thump, my left knee pressed into his throat.

"Run!" I shouted to the workers in the room next door. "Take the children and get out of here, but be careful!"

As the hostages and children began to leave the daycare I had the gunman pinned to the floor. He tried to claw at my leg and find some sort of purchase, but he was too weak. "Please --gaak -- lemme go. Just following orders."

I relented my grip and leered at the hostage taker. "What?"

"Russian guy," he said weakly. "Told me he'd kill my family if I didn't come in here and take people hostage."

I slammed my fist hard into the floor just inches from his head. "Why?!"

"I... I don't know!"

Heavy footsteps were coming in the next room. I let go of the kidnapper and disappeared just as a cop came into the room, her gun out. "I found him," she cried out. "He's in here!"

While the members of the GCPD began to fill in the room, I was already out the daycare and on the roof of the building across the street. Someone threatened that man to take hostages. Why?

---

​

As Batman headed into the night, a pair of eyes watched him from a hidden vantage point. The man he had forced into service was adequate at doing his job. It had given him a chance to stake out the Batman and watch him in action. He was good. Patient, methodical, and ruthless when he needed to be. He needed more chances to watch his quarry, but for now Kraven the Hunter was convinced that the Batman would be a most worthy prey.

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

Ready or Not:
Pt. I

@DocTachyon

Blüdhaven
3:15 PM

Carmine Falcone scowled as he stepped out the back of his limo and headed inside the lobby of the Blüdhaven Four Seasons. As bad as Gotham was, Blüdhaven was a real shit-hole. It'd always been in Gotham's shadow, and it was easy to guess why. The town wasn't even a third the size of Gotham, but the city's crime was almost on par with Gotham's. He had a few business associates here, but nothing too serious. You could make money but it was just chump-change to a guy with rackets like his. Plus this place was like the goddamn wild west with all the hits and drive-by shootings that went on. It wasn't civilized here. The criminals who ran this place were savages. Fuck Russo, he thought. Sending him out all the way out here for this meeting.

Falcone headed through the opulent lobby with two of his bodyguards flanking him. They headed to the conference room where Falcone and his men were the last to arrive. The ugly son of a bitch with the square head was already waiting. Hammerhead sat at the table with three of his men behind him. They looked impassively at Falcone and his guys, sizing the three mobsters up.

"Here he is," a voice from the head of the table said with a touch of humor in his voice. Billy "The Beaut" Russo, acting boss of the Gnucci Family, walked towards Falcone and warmly embraced him. Falcone managed a strained style as he patted the younger man on the back.
"You look good, Carmine. Come, have a seat."

Billy was all of thirty-one when he took the reigns of the Gnucci Family from their matriarch. Ma Gnucci got sent up for life at the women's state pen. Since that time Billy had turned the sinking mob family around. He'd gotten a good deal when the families split up Maroni's territory. With confidence, ambition, youth, and now prime territory, Billy Russo was a comer. And he was starting to become a threat to Falcone.

After swapping pleasantries with Falcone, Hammerhead finally asked the question. "Out with it, kid," he grunted. "The hell are we doing here?"

"Exactly," Falcone said as he lit up a cigar. "What's so goddamn important we had to come to the state's sewage pipe to discuss it?"

"Batman," Russo said with a glint in his eyes. "It's time to get rid of him."

"Great plan," Hammerhead said sarcastically. "Why the hell haven't we thought of that before?! We kill Batman, and that's the end of it. Wow, you're a fucking genius."

"Funny," Russo said. "But here's the thing: you've sent killers after him and they've all failed. I finally got the right guy for the job."

Falcone exhaled a swirling plum of smoke from his mouth and looked at Russo, his eyelids have closed. "Hammerhead said the same thing six months ago. That weird fuck with the target on his head."

"That was the problem," Russo said. "You sent killers. The man I have for is so much more."

"That explains it," Hammerhead said with a sigh. "I figure that's why you called us here. Afraid the big, bad bat is listening."

"You can never be too careful," Russo said with a nod.

"How much," Falcone asked, stubbing his cigar in the ashtray beside him.

"Pretty cheap. Only a half mil from all of us."

"A half mil?" Hammerhead asked with a raised eyebrow. "Just a mil and a half for this job? It cost us five mil for Bullseye. Why's this guy cheap?"

"He gets off on it," Russo said. "Thrill of the chase and all that. He's here. Let me bring him out."

Both Hammerhead and Falcone stared at the man as he came in. His outlandish outfit threw both mobsters for a loop.

"This guy?" Falcone asked with a laugh. "He looks like a goddamn acrobat, not a killer."

"Killer is not what you need," the man said with a slight Russian accent. "Killer is what you used before. Killer will not work. You have animal problem in your city, you do not call killer..."



"You call hunter."

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

So my question here is: Why did everyone (that isn't new/making someone new) decide to take a go at these characters again? Why bring them back?

@Sep

Bro i am just literally trying to vibe

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

Spent Gladiator

Round 3

“This kid hits like a fucking frieght train.”

Ted Grant spat a wad of blood-tinged spit into the bucket at his feet. Ted let out a hiss as his cutman, Bobby Fallon, placed a cold enswell against his left jaw. The swelling there was so bad Ted was sure they could see it from the cheap seats. The thick black eyebrows of Ray Kelly knitted themselves together as he leaned into Ted’s ear.

“He keeps dropping his left when he’s going in for a hit,” he whispered in a rasp that came with sixty years of cigarette smoking. Ted smelled the aroma of Scotch on Ray’s breath as he spoke. It was always a bad sign if Ray was dipping into his hip flask this early into a fight.

“This kid’s a fucking puncher,” Ray shouted as the ref called out for five seconds before the fourth round started. “You’re a goddamn boxer, Ted. There’s a difference. Go out there and box.”

Ted stood up from the stool and took a deep breath before Bobby popped the mouthpiece back between Ted’s teeth. His corner stepped back and climbed down to the side of the ring while Ted shuffled towards the center ring where his opponent awaited. The crowd hooted and hollered as the two fighters began again. Ted could make out the kid through the haze of cigar smoke that hung through the air. Ten years younger, an inch taller, and with ten more pounds of muscle: Battlin’ Jack Murdock stood as a mocking testament of the passage of time. No matter how good Ted had been, there would always be someone better to take his place.

Like a spent gladiator,
Crawling in the Colosseum dust,
Who can count on his remaining limbs,
All the people he can trust.
Like the one who stands behind him,
Cheering him on.
Ecstatic when he stands defiant,
Wild with abandon when he's gone.

Round 6

Ted stepped backwards as the lumbering frame of Murdock pressed him. Twenty years dancing around the ring led to an acute sense of where he was and how close he was to the ropes. He couldn’t let Murdock get him pinned against the ropes. If he did that, the kid would go to town on his ribs and face. He was already dealing with enough as it was. Ted could feel the swelling on his jaw had worsened in the three rounds since Bobby had treated it, and a spot just above his eyebrow Murdock was tagging every chance he got. No way he could make it the whole twelve without the fucker busting opening and bleeding.

He felt the ropes tickle his back as Murdock went low with a punch to the gut that Ted warded off with his right, tagging Murdock with a quick left jab to the chin. The blow knocked the younger fighter off balance for a moment and Ted felt a surge of excitement. He saw an opening to bring in his right cross, the same right cross that had once taken out three of Slam Bradley’s teeth in one blow. He reached back and prepared to deliver what he hoped was the death blow. He saw Murdock’s eyes brighten as the kid realized what he was trying to accomplish. Ted’s cross ended up being deflected by a quick block from the kid. Ted cursed himself as the bell rang and the round ended.

“Too slow,” he said as he sat back down on the stool in his corner. Bobby started to work on his bruises and developing cuts as Ted spat out his mouthpiece. “I’m too fucking slow and too fucking old.”

Just stay alive.
Keep your eyes on the palum, and stay alive.

Round 10

The ref looked down at Ted. He was saying something, but Ted couldn’t make out what. It wasn’t until he saw the fingers that he knew he was counting. He was counting to ten and Ted was flat on his ass.

“SIX!” The ref shouted over the sounds of the crowd. He held up a full five fingers plus one.

“Sev--”

The ref stopped as Ted got to his feet. He pulled Ted in close and looked into his eyes to make sure Ted was all there.

“That’s your one, Grant,” he shouted. “Next time you drop, I’m calling it.”

Ted shook his head in reply and smacked his gloves together. Jack Murdock watched with a hint of a smile on his face. This late in the fight a knockdown was pretty much curtains for Ted. The fight so far had been pretty evenly contested. Both men knew that if it went the distance, Murdock's knockdown would be the clincher for the judges.

“Have a nice nap, pops,” Murdock said with a smirk. “Ready to go again?”

“Ready to go again is what I told your mother last night,” Ted said with a bloody grin. “Just before I fucked her in the ass.”

The smile on Murdock’s face vanished. Ted smiled and winked.

“Come on, junior, let’s finish this up before you gotta take Lulu to the box social or some shit.”

Stay in the game.
Just try to play through the pain.
Like a fighter who's been told it's finally time for him to quit.
Show up in shining colors,
And then stand and there and get hit.

Round 12

Jack Murdock was in the punishing mood. Ted’s crack in the tenth was like putting chum in the water for a shark. Ted danced around and tried to cover himself as the kid assaulted his sides with blow after blow. Ted could feel the cut above his eyebrow start to trickle blood along with sweat down his face. This was the end for him. He was sucking air and on his last leg, a bruised and bloody mess, but this kid was like a goddamn machine. He had no intention of slowing down or stopping his barrage.

Murdock was going to win the fight by decision, that much was for sure. But he wanted to make a statement. He wanted to knock Ted out. As Ted did his best to fight off Murdock’s punches he had a thought. It wouldn’t do to just win by unanimous decision or even TKO. The papers and the columnist were declaring Battlin’ Jack Murdock the next big thing, the future heavyweight champion of the world. At thirty-two, Ted was yesterday’s news. He’d been champ, but that was now five years ago. He was the past and Murdock was the future.

And Jack Murdock knew how important it was to score a knockout on an ex-champ. Ted had revved him up for sure, but he would go for the knockout blow if he could. And Ted could use that to his advantage. Ted shuffled back towards the corner, letting Murdock push him towards it. Nine rounds ago Ray had issued a piece of advice about the kid dropping his left when he went in for a big hit. Ted had been watching and waiting. He was almost to the corner when he saw Murdock drop his left, ever so slightly, as his big right hand started to wind up for that big haymaker. He was faster than Ted in almost every way, in his punches, blocks, and footspeed. But twelve rounds of relentless fighting slowed anyone down.

Ted saw his window and pushed for every last ounce of his energy as he swung wide with a right hook that connected with Murdock’s temple. The punch stopped the kid’s attack at once and dazed him. That's when Ted went in for the kill. He connected with a powerful uppercut that knocked the kid flat on his ass. The crowd got to their feet and roared as the ref stood over Murdock and started to count. Ted raised his gloves and looked at the crowd, his face covered in blood and sweat. Murdock sat up, but the punchdrunk face that looked at the ref was enough. The ref stood up and waved his hands.

“It’s over!”

Ted felt Bobby and Ray come up from behind and hug him. Ted broke away from them and walked towards the corner of the ring. He climbed to the top of the corner and held his hands up for all to see this old, past his prime fighter basking in victory one last time. To the young upstart the lesson was clear: You do not fuck with Ted Grant and get away with it.

Stay alive.
Maybe spit some blood at the camera.
Just stay alive.
Stay forever alive.

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Rome

Two Months Ago

Koning walked through the park with both hands wedged firmly in his pockets. A pleasant spring breeze through Koning’s hair and he took a momentary break from his vigilance to enjoy the scene. There were picnicking families eating lunch on the grass, people walking dogs, and what looked to be a pack of young toughs smoking cigarettes beside a bench. Somewhere a radio played an uptempo music number with Spanish singing. The Appian Way ran through the heart of the park. No cars could safely pass down the cracked and worn cobbles, but plenty of pedestrians and bicycles navigated down it at the moment. The same road Roman soldiers had marched down over two thousand years ago was still being used. It was a testament to the ancient world’s engineering prowess, and a reminder that Rome’s history stretched back several millennia.

A child’s loud and playful scream brought Koning back to reality. He pulled a hand out of his pocket and squared his glasses. It was almost time for his contact to show. He’d left his vestments back at the Vatican in an effort to blend in. A priest in a dowdy black frock walking through the park would get noticed. On top of that, emissaries of the Holy See were scrutinized once they stepped on Italian soil. Koning spent nearly two hours executing his tradecraft. He’d double back on his route and walk the wrong way on one-way streets, looking over his shoulder for familiar faces going the same way as he was. Normally archbishops in the Catholic Church weren’t experts in espionage tradecraft, but Koning was far from a normal archbishop.

He found Dončić sitting on a park bench eating a gelato. Koning sat beside the thin, mustached Slovenian man. Neither acknowledged the other’s existence as they continued to stare forward.

“You have some gelato in your mustache,” said Koning.

Dončić wiped his face with the back of his hand and grunted thanks before taking another bite.

“There is a packet under the bench,” said Dončić. “It includes some banking information my bosses in Belgrade need help with.”

Koning reached down and pulled a closed manila envelope from under the bench. He tucked it into his jacket for later reading.

“What is it related to?” asked Koning.

“A criminal group active in Yugoslavia. They are ostensibly a Muslim revolutionary organization, but they are little more than gangsters. They run guns, sell drugs, and pimp out women to fund their terrorism, but they have other donors who live abroad that do the heavy lifting. State Security found the information in your packet during a raid on one of their homes. Our theory is if we can identify and cut off their funding, then their revolutionary zeal will fade. ”

“‘One cannot serve both God and money. No one can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other’,” said Koning. “What do I seek to gain if I undertake this task for your country?”

Dončić shrugged. “The gratitude of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. In addition, you make me look good in the eyes of my bosses. I look good to them then I get promoted. That gives you a good Catholic friend deep inside the UDBA. A friend who will owe you a favor.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” said Koning. He stood and stretched. “Watch the wall outside the Yugoslav Embassy for the tic tac toe game. I’ll be in touch when I have something.”

Koning walked away from the bench without a look back at Dončić.

---

Boston

Now

Koning looked up from his papers as the train PA announced they’d arrived as his stop. He placed the papers in a briefcase on the seat beside him before standing. He stepped out onto the T platform and started the climb up the station steps. Speers managed to come through with the information Koning needed and it, along with a few items provided by other sources at his disposal, was in his briefcase.

He came out of the station and into the heart of South Boston. Southie, as it was called among Boston locals, was a neighborhood with a reputation. Heavily working class and heavily Irish Catholic, it wasn’t a place a lot of Bostonians liked to find themselves in this late at night. Koning wasn’t too worried. He could handle himself in almost all physical situations he may find himself in. On top of that he was decked out in his cassock. Only the most hardened criminals in Southie dared to accost a priest.

Clapboard row houses with multiple families living within them were on both sides of the street. Hungry faces peered out the windows as Koning passed by. He expected more kids and youngsters on the street, but a strict curfew administered by Boston police was in effect. Despite the huge Irish Catholic population in Boston they were still second class citizens. The nicer parts of the city were proddy only, so the Catholics had to stay in neighborhoods like Southie and Dorchester. Too many poor people living on top of each other led to crime and squalor. The old Boston Brahmins still had their hooks in city hall and their machine ran the BPD. On their orders the mostly Protestant cops treated the Catholic neighborhoods like occupied territory. Years of abuse built up resentment and rage at the cops and the establishment they worked for. Koning could feel that unrest even simmering under the surface even in the warm summer night. It was only a matter of time.

His glasses reflected the bright neon glow off the bar’s side wall as he approached the entrance. A green neon sign declared the place JOE’S. A four leaf clover above the E blinked on and off in an infrequent pattern.

Koning entered the bar. It looked like a typical dive bar: A few sadsacks were bellied up to the bar with a glass of beer and an empty shot glass. People sat at a couple of tables scattered around the floor smoking just as much as they drank. The walls were covered in graffiti along with vintage posters of old time boxers and black and white photos of people Koning assumed were somehow connected to the bar’s history. A jukebox in the corner warbled some Irish jig:

“Then we turned and shook as we had a look in the room where the dead men lay. So big Jim Dwyer made his last trip to the shores where his father's laid.”

He received a few curious looks as he approached the bar, but nothing too severe. There was a good chance he wasn’t the first man of the cloth to walk through these doors. The bartender sized him up with a slightly raised eyebrow. The middle aged man was beefy with a ruddy face and a flattened nose. The nose along with the cauliflower ear on the right side made Koning guess the man had been a boxer in his younger days.

“Sunday’s priests get penny shots,” he said with a grin. “Every other night it’s full price, father.”

“I would like to see the proprietor of this fine establishment,” said Koning.

The bartender wrinkled his brow and scratched the side of his head. “Do what now?”

“The owner,” Koning said with a sigh. “The Joe in Joe’s.”

“Ain’t no Joe,” said the bartender. “Never was. It’s just a name someone liked so they named the bar Joe’s.”

“Curious,” Koning said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I was under the impression this bar was owned by one Joseph Sullivan, at least it’s a de facto ownership. The actual deed of ownership and liquor board license is in the name of Colleen McDonough, Joseph’s aunt. Yet Boston Police Department intelligence indicates Mrs. McDonough is just a front because Joseph, a convicted felon, would be unable to get a liquor license on his own.”

“Get the fuck outta here,” the bartender said sharply. He started to reach for something behind the bar, a baseball bat Koning assumed. “Get out now, padre, before something bad happens to you.”

“Let your boss decide my fate,” said Koning. “I will have some tonic water while you tell him I’m here.”

The bartender eyed Koning sharply as the archbishop simply stood there. Finally, he moved slowly and deliberately towards one of the taps behind the bar. He poured a glass full of tonic water before spitting in it and putting it on the bar in front of Koning.

“Drink up.”

Koning watched him lumber away towards a door off to the side of the bar. All of the regulars at Joe’s were now all watching the priest as he put his briefcase on the bar and calmly waited.

“Word of advice, your holiness,” said one of the drinkers at the bar. Koning turned to look at him. His face was permanently flushed red from a lifetime of alcohol consumption and his eyes had a glazed over look that Koning was sure was permanently there all the time. “People who piss off Joe go in that backroom and they don’t come out upright. Run away while you can, Father. Not even that collar is gonna save you from Mink.”

The drunk hushed up and scurried back to his spot at the bar when he saw the side door open again. The bartender came out with a companion at this side. A short man with a sharp pointed nose and dark beady eyes stared intently at Koning. His red hair was slicked back by pomade and he wore a sports jacket even in the warm bar. Koning was able to make out the shape of a shoulder holstered gun beneath the jacket.

“This is Mink,” said the bartender. “He’s gonna take you back to meet Joe.”

The old drunk to Koning’s left looked and tried to flash a look with his eyes. Koning saw it, but the two other men remained oblivious. Koning nodded and grabbed the briefcase off the bar before he started to walk towards Mink. He gently patted the elderly drinker on the shoulder as he passed by. He wanted to reassure the man that whatever awaited him in the backroom, he could handle it.

Koning started down a short hallway with Mink behind him. The little man stayed closely behind Koning as they approached an open doorway.

“What’s with the get up?” Mink asked. “You work with Father Jamison and those other faggots at Gate of Heaven?”

“No,” Koning said shortly. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as his anger rose. “I know Father Jamison, but I am not here on simple parish business.”

They passed through the doorway and into an office. The heavyset man with dark hair and sunken eyes staring at him from across the desk had to be Joe Sullivan. Predictably, Koning felt Mink move swiftly behind him. Something hard and cold was placed on the back of Koning’s neck.

“What kind of fucking priest walks into my bar and asks to see me?” Sullivan asked in a thick Boston accent. “Not only that, the son of a bitch seems to intimately know details of my business.”

“One who seeks to find allies in unlikely places,” Koning said in a measured voice. “I was told you were a good Catholic once, Joe.”

“I was an altar boy for six years,” said Sullivan, just a hint of a smile on his face. “They kicked me out when I went to juvie.” The smile faded and he frowned. “But that was a long time ago. And I’ve already punched my ticket to Hell in the eyes of the church. So what’s one more murder, even if it’s of a priest?”

When Koning moved, he moved swiftly, driving the briefcase in his hand into Mink’s midsection. The sudden jolt made him step backwards and gasp. He pulled the gun away from Koning’s neck as he reeled. Koning spun and smacked Mink across the face with the briefcase. His free hand snatched the gun from Mink’s grasp as he fell to the floor. Koning delivered a hard kick to Mink’s face before spinning around again to train the barrel of the pistol on Sullivan. The fat man raised his hands in defense.

“He broke my fucking nose,” Mink cried from the floor.

“Your man said some very rude things about my fellow priests,” Koning said to Sullivan. He laid the briefcase on the desk in front of Sullivan. He stepped back and lowered the gun just enough to put Sullivan at some sort of ease.

“Now may we discuss business?”

“What the fuck do you want?!” Sullivan yelled. “Do you know who the fuck I am? You just waltz in here and attack my sister’s boy and train a gun on me like I’m some common hood.”

“You are,” Koning said impassively. “You are very much a small-time criminal living in a second class neighborhood. South Boston and all the Catholics in this city are just white negros in the eyes of the people in power. The Boston PD knows that you run a gambling and loansharking racket out of this bar, but yet they do nothing to stop it. It’s because you’re not worth the effort, Joseph. You do your part in keeping your own people down. You're an outlaw, but you still serve the state's purpose to a fault.”

Koning saw Sullivan flushing. He couldn’t tell if it was out of anger or embarrassment.

“What the fuck do you want?” Sullivan asked again.

“A partnership,” said Koning.

He heard Mink starting to get up from behind him, but a heel kick to the man’s chest kept him on the floor.

“In the briefcase in front of you are the details on a man named Oguz Özil. He lives in Brockton and is a very prosperous import-export merchant. He is also a financier of international crime and terrorism. Open the briefcase.”

Sullivan complied. He frowned when he looked inside. Koning knew he might. In addition to the information on Özil were manila packets numbered 1 through 22, along with stacks of hundred dollar bills. Over twenty-five thousand US dollars. A small fortune to someone like Sullivan.

“What’s all this?”

“Özil is a problem that needs to disappear,” said Koning. “Do not tell me the details, it is better if I do not know. The cash is your fee in advance for a job done well and discreetly, Joseph. There is more money where that comes from. The packets? That’s for after you take care of our Turkish friend. It’s thorough intelligence on all twenty-two ward members on Boston’s city councils, their dirty secrets and their innermost desires.”

Sullivan furrowed his brow.

“But why?”

“It’s an election year, Joseph,” said Koning. “And with the money and information at your disposal, you can become something more than a common criminal: You can become a kingmaker. I’ll be in touch.”

Koning pocketed the gun and stepped over the prone Mink. He walked through the bar, ignoring the shock on the bartender’s face. Koning winked at the old drunk as he walked out into the warm summer night.