Our freedom of speech is freedom or death
We gotta fight the powers that be
Lemme hear you say
Fight the power
Fight the power
We gotta fight the powers that be
Lee Brandt hummed the old-time ballad to himself as he powered forward, his lean greyhound body leaned forwards. But tonight he wasn't Lee Brandt. He was Clarion, and the only things that mattered were the hiss of his wheels, the smell of the paint, the cool of the night air.
He was a Sprayer.
It was a simple word, true, but he reveled in it. It had come to mean so much. Freedom. Excitement. For the first time, Lee Brandt felt like he was a part of something, not just an observer, no longer that guy at the party who just watches everyone else have fun. He was nervous and scared and elated all at once.
Totally radical.
His long legs pushed him forwards on the skates, nearly eighty years old but well-maintained. He was new at this, he had needed help decoding the invitation. But he felt honored to be included, like a gathering of legends. The Round Table, or the Foo Fighters. Something like that.
This was the place. He had a cautious look around, but his own enthusiasm for the project overrode his caution, and she skated right in through the door on hissing wheels. "Whassup, dudes," he whispered as he skated backwards around the group in a slow circle.
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teapotshark said
"I hope Satan likes meth."Someone put that in a quote book.
That is a great line.
Sturmgewehr said
"Sheehan?" Answered Max surprised. After hearing his question Max felt a little surprised at his sudden interest on what happened to his dealer last night. "Does it even matter what happened to him? What's important is that I got him out of there before something bad happened. Trust me, I had no idea what he was doing there. All dealers, not just those working for me, know very well that you never sell drugs in public places and in the eyes of everyone. But if you really wanna know I guess I can trust you enough to tell you." Said Max as he paused for a few seconds. "Let's just say I sent him on a permanent vacation. And the only place he's ever gonna sell drugs in anymore is hell. I hope Satan likes meth." Finished Max as he waited for Sheehan's reply.
"Okay, first off, thank you very much for taking care of that guy. I deeply appreciate it, I don't like that kind of thing going on in the bar." Sheehan sighed. "Guess that means I owe you one, Max. So to make it even, here's a little tip for you. A guy came up from Branson asking about him. He said his name was Gabi Cohen. An Israeli. He was rolling heavy, too- had a couple of one-percenters with him. Wearing kuttes from an outfit called Manhunter Motorcycle Club."
Sheehan thought for a second. "Look, Max, I know a guy like you doesn't need my advice, but here's my theory. Maybe your boy picked up something on the side and wanted to see how it would sell. Maybe from this guy Cohen, dollars for donuts he's mobbed up. And then maybe he came here to try and sell it, because we have a bit of a reputation for being fast and loose up here at Fiddler's Green." Sheehan was nervous, his hands shaking. Maybe a drink would calm him down a little. Good thing he happened to be at a bar. He groped down in the well, came up with a bottle of cheap gin. It'd do. "Just conjecture, but it makes sense. At any rate, watch your ass, okay? Just in case. I'll see what I can find out about Cohen and the bikers and get back to you." Sheehan downed a warm shot of gin, winced at the piney taste as he realized just what an awful idea he was acting on. "Right, the well's for mixers," he muttered to himself.
London is burning! Milan is in ruins! New York has been thrown into anarchy! What hope is there for humanity?
Really, it was just a bad day for the human race.
No one would ever be able to say what caused the accident at the CERN facility in the hills of southern Switzerland, for there was no survivors. Perhaps it was as simple as a coffee mug carelessly set down on the wrong button. There's no way to be certain.
All that is known for sure is that shortly past noon, just before news of the carnage in London went out over the BBC for the five desperate moments before Broadcasting House was obliterated, a blinding white flash overtook the city of Lugano. Those who looked skyward perhaps saw the massive form rising above the hills and heading south faster than the eye could see. Firefighters responding found only a smooth crater where once a particle accelerator had been.
Mere minutes later, a massive shadow passed over the Porta Nuova district of Milan, accompanied by a shockwave that shattered windows and knocked pedestrians to their feet. As they began to pick themselves up and wonder what happened, a massive bulk slammed into the Palazzo Lombardia, shearing off the top six floors of the building to fall to the streets below.
It was then that anyone got their first clear look at the creature. It was gigantic, with bulging eyes and a long, prehensile neck, brown and gray feathers the length of buses. It spread its massive wings atop what remained of the skyscraper, putting a battleship in the mind of everyone who looked at it.
And then the attack truly started.
Thousands attempted to flood out of their offices in a panic, only to be trampled or crushed under falling rubble as the second-tallest building in Italy crumbled under the weight of the massive vulture, filling the streets with a cloud of flying debris. The creature hopped lightly through the district, buildings ripped apart by the passage of its capricious talons. Commuter trains full of helpless people were crushed like empty tin cans as the monster waded through Milano Centrale, one of Europe's busiest rail stations. Occasionally, the long neck of the creature would dip down, the toothy beak closing on some cowering pocket of people. It was hard not to see a malevolent grin on its face throughout the duration.
It was barely ten minutes later that the creature lifting off in a flapping of wings that flattened small buildings with hurricane-force winds. But the damage had been done. Responders would eventually find nearly eleven thousand to be dead and wounded in what remained of downtown.
The creature headed south, unseen on radar and easily outrunning Tornados scrambled from Ghedi Air Base. It was last seen passing over the seaside town of Bogliasco, the wind of its passage strong enough to uproot trees and overturn automobiles, south into the Ligurian Sea.
No one would ever be able to say what caused the accident at the CERN facility in the hills of southern Switzerland, for there was no survivors. Perhaps it was as simple as a coffee mug carelessly set down on the wrong button. There's no way to be certain.
All that is known for sure is that shortly past noon, just before news of the carnage in London went out over the BBC for the five desperate moments before Broadcasting House was obliterated, a blinding white flash overtook the city of Lugano. Those who looked skyward perhaps saw the massive form rising above the hills and heading south faster than the eye could see. Firefighters responding found only a smooth crater where once a particle accelerator had been.
Mere minutes later, a massive shadow passed over the Porta Nuova district of Milan, accompanied by a shockwave that shattered windows and knocked pedestrians to their feet. As they began to pick themselves up and wonder what happened, a massive bulk slammed into the Palazzo Lombardia, shearing off the top six floors of the building to fall to the streets below.
It was then that anyone got their first clear look at the creature. It was gigantic, with bulging eyes and a long, prehensile neck, brown and gray feathers the length of buses. It spread its massive wings atop what remained of the skyscraper, putting a battleship in the mind of everyone who looked at it.
And then the attack truly started.
Thousands attempted to flood out of their offices in a panic, only to be trampled or crushed under falling rubble as the second-tallest building in Italy crumbled under the weight of the massive vulture, filling the streets with a cloud of flying debris. The creature hopped lightly through the district, buildings ripped apart by the passage of its capricious talons. Commuter trains full of helpless people were crushed like empty tin cans as the monster waded through Milano Centrale, one of Europe's busiest rail stations. Occasionally, the long neck of the creature would dip down, the toothy beak closing on some cowering pocket of people. It was hard not to see a malevolent grin on its face throughout the duration.
It was barely ten minutes later that the creature lifting off in a flapping of wings that flattened small buildings with hurricane-force winds. But the damage had been done. Responders would eventually find nearly eleven thousand to be dead and wounded in what remained of downtown.
The creature headed south, unseen on radar and easily outrunning Tornados scrambled from Ghedi Air Base. It was last seen passing over the seaside town of Bogliasco, the wind of its passage strong enough to uproot trees and overturn automobiles, south into the Ligurian Sea.
Nate turned at the jab at his shoulder, ears burning. "Alright, alright, sorry," he mumbled to Helen. She was kinda cute, in a hardbitten don't-you-fucking-dare sort of way, though for some reason Nate was relatively sure she was into girls. Maybe Steve or Harper or someone told him that. "I'll see you tonight," he said to Cara before slinking off in embarrassment, regaining his seat.
Nate reflected on the whole thing. He wasn't much of a partygoer, true, but something about this seemed a bit out of kilter. Cara wasn't the type for spontaneous parties, until a moment ago he had never heard more than two words out of her. It was a bit strange- and that's why he was so interested. The big gloomy house on Edgewood was just gravy, as well. He remembered all sorts of childish rumors about that place when it was sitting vacant back before the Pennys moved in. That it was haunted. That a serial killer had operated out of there. That it was a drug lab. The usual sort of thing. Checking it out might solve one of the low-level mysteries that had flitted through his head for years.
Besides, his dad would be thrilled if he actually went out to a party. The old man was always telling him to get homecoming tickets, go the home games, something, anything. This might get him off his back for a while.
He nodded to himself. Yeah, might as well go.
Nate reflected on the whole thing. He wasn't much of a partygoer, true, but something about this seemed a bit out of kilter. Cara wasn't the type for spontaneous parties, until a moment ago he had never heard more than two words out of her. It was a bit strange- and that's why he was so interested. The big gloomy house on Edgewood was just gravy, as well. He remembered all sorts of childish rumors about that place when it was sitting vacant back before the Pennys moved in. That it was haunted. That a serial killer had operated out of there. That it was a drug lab. The usual sort of thing. Checking it out might solve one of the low-level mysteries that had flitted through his head for years.
Besides, his dad would be thrilled if he actually went out to a party. The old man was always telling him to get homecoming tickets, go the home games, something, anything. This might get him off his back for a while.
He nodded to himself. Yeah, might as well go.
REDACTED
Last Night
"There's a saying, Beth," Sheehan said as he sheepishly stopped pouring Max' usual drink. "Don't shit where you eat. Think he wants to come in here and relax, just to watch some fuckup fucking up?" He dabbed at the spilled beer. "Honey, you wanna maybe be a little more careful there? Less cleaning I gotta do, the better," he said as he took a discreet pull from the whiskey and coke he kept under the bar, set carefully on a coaster between the Louisville Slugger and the Charter Arms Bulldog.
Today
The bar always seemed so strange at noon. Light and airy, as opposed to dark and closed off.
Of course, there were chores that had to be done that he just hadn't felt like doing. Receipts to reconcile. Cash to take to the bank. Product to be stocked. And it was a Friday, of course, good crowd tonight, good tips. Not to mention the gambling ought to be good. He had cranked up the radio as he worked.
Sheehan looked up at the sound of the front door swinging open, squinting into the bright sunlight pouring in. "Oh, hey," he called. "Uh, we don't open until five, I'm afraid."
"Not here to drink," said the first and smallest of the men with a noticeable accent. They stepped into the bar, ignoring Sheehan's stricken expression. It was easier to see them when the door swung shut. Less glare. Three men. Sheehan looked them over. Two big guys, bearded and long-haired, wearing sunglasses and denim vests. The patches over their breast pockets declared them to be members of Manhunter MC. With a small note of alarm, Sheehan noted the proudly displayed "1%" under the club rockers.
But the bikers didn't do any talking. It was the smaller man, thin and dried-up, who did that. With his olive complexion, the thin white knife scars on his face were that much more noticeable. He smiled in a friendly manner. "You the manager here?"
"Yeah," Sheehan answered guardedly. "Kelly. What can I do for you?"
"Name's Gabi Cohen," the newcomer answered, passing a nicely embossed business card across to Sheehan. He looked down at it. Gabriel Cohen, CEO, Adloyada Kosher Winery, Branson, Missouri. Underneath was something in an alphabet Sheehan didn't recognize. Possibly the same thing written in another language. Hebrew, maybe? "I've got an interesting opportunity for you. The very first batch from my winery could be stocked at your bar," the stranger said excitedly.
"Well, that sounds interesting, Mr. Cohen, but I can't say I get too many requests for kosher wine. Are you new here in town?"
"I came over from Israel just last year."
"Not much call for that in Northland. Maybe try down around the Country Club district."
"Thanks for the advice," Cohen said politely. "Though I had a young fellow in here last night scouting this place out. He seemed sure my product would sell just fine here, and he knows the scene in Kansas City quite well." Cohen shrugged. "Speaking of which, I haven't seen this young man since last night. Fellow by the name of Lenny. That ring any bells?"
"No, can't say it does," Sheehan replied, heart pounding in his chest. This story was sounding too familiar for his comfort. "Sorry."
"Quite alright. If you see him, have him give me a call," Cohen said with a smile. "Think over my offer. I'm in town for a few days." Cohen nodded politely to Sheehan then spun around and left, bikers close behind.
Sheehan wiped his sweaty palms on his pant legs, then dug for his phone. He was pretty sure he had a number for Lowrey, or at least a burner he used. He bit his lip as he waited through the ring tone.
"Max? It's Sheehan. Uh, what exactly did you do to that guy last night?"
"There's a saying, Beth," Sheehan said as he sheepishly stopped pouring Max' usual drink. "Don't shit where you eat. Think he wants to come in here and relax, just to watch some fuckup fucking up?" He dabbed at the spilled beer. "Honey, you wanna maybe be a little more careful there? Less cleaning I gotta do, the better," he said as he took a discreet pull from the whiskey and coke he kept under the bar, set carefully on a coaster between the Louisville Slugger and the Charter Arms Bulldog.
Today
The bar always seemed so strange at noon. Light and airy, as opposed to dark and closed off.
Of course, there were chores that had to be done that he just hadn't felt like doing. Receipts to reconcile. Cash to take to the bank. Product to be stocked. And it was a Friday, of course, good crowd tonight, good tips. Not to mention the gambling ought to be good. He had cranked up the radio as he worked.
Sheehan looked up at the sound of the front door swinging open, squinting into the bright sunlight pouring in. "Oh, hey," he called. "Uh, we don't open until five, I'm afraid."
"Not here to drink," said the first and smallest of the men with a noticeable accent. They stepped into the bar, ignoring Sheehan's stricken expression. It was easier to see them when the door swung shut. Less glare. Three men. Sheehan looked them over. Two big guys, bearded and long-haired, wearing sunglasses and denim vests. The patches over their breast pockets declared them to be members of Manhunter MC. With a small note of alarm, Sheehan noted the proudly displayed "1%" under the club rockers.
But the bikers didn't do any talking. It was the smaller man, thin and dried-up, who did that. With his olive complexion, the thin white knife scars on his face were that much more noticeable. He smiled in a friendly manner. "You the manager here?"
"Yeah," Sheehan answered guardedly. "Kelly. What can I do for you?"
"Name's Gabi Cohen," the newcomer answered, passing a nicely embossed business card across to Sheehan. He looked down at it. Gabriel Cohen, CEO, Adloyada Kosher Winery, Branson, Missouri. Underneath was something in an alphabet Sheehan didn't recognize. Possibly the same thing written in another language. Hebrew, maybe? "I've got an interesting opportunity for you. The very first batch from my winery could be stocked at your bar," the stranger said excitedly.
"Well, that sounds interesting, Mr. Cohen, but I can't say I get too many requests for kosher wine. Are you new here in town?"
"I came over from Israel just last year."
"Not much call for that in Northland. Maybe try down around the Country Club district."
"Thanks for the advice," Cohen said politely. "Though I had a young fellow in here last night scouting this place out. He seemed sure my product would sell just fine here, and he knows the scene in Kansas City quite well." Cohen shrugged. "Speaking of which, I haven't seen this young man since last night. Fellow by the name of Lenny. That ring any bells?"
"No, can't say it does," Sheehan replied, heart pounding in his chest. This story was sounding too familiar for his comfort. "Sorry."
"Quite alright. If you see him, have him give me a call," Cohen said with a smile. "Think over my offer. I'm in town for a few days." Cohen nodded politely to Sheehan then spun around and left, bikers close behind.
Sheehan wiped his sweaty palms on his pant legs, then dug for his phone. He was pretty sure he had a number for Lowrey, or at least a burner he used. He bit his lip as he waited through the ring tone.
"Max? It's Sheehan. Uh, what exactly did you do to that guy last night?"
Yikes. Max plays for keeps.
I like it. If that works for sturmgewehr, let's do it.
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