November 13, 2014. Mendel, Louisiana
10:30 PM
It’s a cold evening in Mendel, a rare occurrence considering its southern location. It is fifty-eight degrees, and a chilling wind blows through the alleys like the tails of ghosts. The moon hangs high in the sky as restaurants begin to empty and bars begin to fill. The streets are still crowded, but the crowds are beginning to thin as most of the city lights go off. The sky is cloudy, and there is the scent of rain in the air. In some parts of the city, it is beginning to lightly drizzle.
The Vanguard
Whisper looked down over the city from the long, high glass windows of Club 76 and sighed. The city was beginning to wind down for the day, and it looked rather quiet , but all she could see were crimes. Two blocks away from the gargantuan Archimedes building, a man was being mugged, and not far from there, a man with a heavy black trenchcoat was vending his illicit wares to two teenaged boys with their pants resting on their upper thighs. She clenched her fists, and for a moment a thin wispy smoke emanated from them, as if they were about to turn to smoke. She resisted the urge, and turned away from the windows that made up one of the walls of the rectangular restaurant towards the marble-topped bar counter, where a seat was left open. She sat down next to Emilio, who was drinking a Dos Equis and watching a wood-paneled television set into the wall. The World Series was on, and the Royals were losing.
“Dammit Perez.” Emilio mumbled, to no one in particular “You’ve gotta make that throw.” As Whisper took her seat at the bar, the bartender, who was dressed in an Oxford shirt and vest like a waiter, turned back to the bar and got her drink. She came to the bar almost every day, and almost every day she got the same drink. In less than forty-five seconds there was a drink in her hand and a tip in the bartender’s pocket.
Whisper remarked to herself that the bar was rather quiet tonight. Club 76 was a classier place, with nice tables, clean floors, and occasionally live music, but no bar is safe from alcoholics for long. The small stage in the corner was crowded around the edges where spectators listened to a hipster-looking guitarist. He played a black Yamaha, and a white sticker on it read “This Machine Kills Fascists”. As usual, the bar counter was dominated by the Vanguard, some of whom were wearing their jackets and some who were not. There was a new girl at the edge of the counter, the only one dumb or courageous enough to sit in a spot normally reserved for the Vanguard. She was an attractive blonde girl wearing a white sweater and black designer jeans. A beret sat lopsided on her head, and she twirled the straw of her drink disinterestedly with one finger. She looked generally depressed.
Whisper shrugged her shoulders and turned back towards the bar before scanning the other end of the counter; an eighteen-year-old’s angst was not of her concern. Whisper took a drink, and sat the wine glass down on the marble counter gently. She was hungry, but ordering food would require more talking than she was used to. She nudged Emilio in the arm with her elbow and made a beckoning motion with her head towards the bartender. Emilio had grown quite adept at deciphering Whisper’s motions, and so he flagged the bartender down and put in an order of mozzarella sticks. Whisper nodded to his approvingly and he returned the gesture before looking back at the television. The Royals were still losing.
“Dammit.” Emilio growled.
The Skulls
The Jolly Roger is a dive bar that sits on the corner of Radium street and Haber Street. It is a small, dirty place, with floors that look like they were last dusted in 1994 and tables covered in scratches and stains. It is not, generally speaking, a family-friendly establishment. The majority of its inhabitants are tough-musclebound goons clad in leather, many of them Skulls.
Skeleton sat at the bar, a beer in his hand and his eyes fixed on one of the many sports televisions. He was watching a rather brutal UFC match, not even flinching as a grown adult’s lip split open from a punch, spraying blood rather violently across the octagon. The bar at The Jolly Rogers only had four seats, one for each Enforcer of the gang, but tonight it would gain a fifth. Skeleton turned around and looked at Matt; he wasn’t the toughest-looking kid he had ever seen, but Grease loved him to death and advertised him as the next-best thing next to Christ. The bar was alive with sound. Several tables of goons chatted, and the pool table exploded with sound as balls ricocheted all around at missile-like speed. In the corner, a few younger members shared a joint. The place was anarchy, but Skeleton didn’t care. In his mind, it was controlled anarchy, and he loved it.
After admiring his men for a few moments, Skeleton rose and, clearing his throat, silenced the entire bar with minimal effort. As the place fell deathly silent, Skeleton turned to Matt and gestured for him to rise.
“Tonight,brothers,” he began “ we are here to welcome a new member into the Skulls Big Four; Matt Detmer.” Several people began to clap, and some made loud whooping noises with their hands cupped around their lips like megaphones. Skeleton waited for silence, and not receiving it, cleared his throat once more. Everyone shut up almost instantly. Damian rose from his seat between Kylie and Caden and walked over to Matt. He clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“You got any words you wanna say, Matt?” Damian said “Anyone fuckers wanna gloat at or anything like that?” Skeleton huffed semi-audibly and crossed his arms across his chest. Of course Damian would steal the show. Skeleton glared at his old friend and sat back down, allowing him to take over. Skeleton didn’t care enough to do anything about it.
Somewhere on the other side of the city, police cars formed a perimeter around the gory murder of John Frost. From high up above, Tara watched the scene. She was a short, skinny girl with green-and-brown hair, neither color being natural. She sighed loudly as she realized the consequences of this murder, and looked straight down from the top of the apartment building. If Skeleton found out about this, he'd flip out, but not telling him would be worse in the long run. The only thing to do was to deal with his anger and tell him. Tara walked over to the building's rusty fire escape and began to make her way down to the ground. She had to tell Skeleton, whether he liked it or not.
City of Gold Act I: A Death in West Mendel
10:30 PM
It’s a cold evening in Mendel, a rare occurrence considering its southern location. It is fifty-eight degrees, and a chilling wind blows through the alleys like the tails of ghosts. The moon hangs high in the sky as restaurants begin to empty and bars begin to fill. The streets are still crowded, but the crowds are beginning to thin as most of the city lights go off. The sky is cloudy, and there is the scent of rain in the air. In some parts of the city, it is beginning to lightly drizzle.
The Vanguard
Whisper looked down over the city from the long, high glass windows of Club 76 and sighed. The city was beginning to wind down for the day, and it looked rather quiet , but all she could see were crimes. Two blocks away from the gargantuan Archimedes building, a man was being mugged, and not far from there, a man with a heavy black trenchcoat was vending his illicit wares to two teenaged boys with their pants resting on their upper thighs. She clenched her fists, and for a moment a thin wispy smoke emanated from them, as if they were about to turn to smoke. She resisted the urge, and turned away from the windows that made up one of the walls of the rectangular restaurant towards the marble-topped bar counter, where a seat was left open. She sat down next to Emilio, who was drinking a Dos Equis and watching a wood-paneled television set into the wall. The World Series was on, and the Royals were losing.
“Dammit Perez.” Emilio mumbled, to no one in particular “You’ve gotta make that throw.” As Whisper took her seat at the bar, the bartender, who was dressed in an Oxford shirt and vest like a waiter, turned back to the bar and got her drink. She came to the bar almost every day, and almost every day she got the same drink. In less than forty-five seconds there was a drink in her hand and a tip in the bartender’s pocket.
Whisper remarked to herself that the bar was rather quiet tonight. Club 76 was a classier place, with nice tables, clean floors, and occasionally live music, but no bar is safe from alcoholics for long. The small stage in the corner was crowded around the edges where spectators listened to a hipster-looking guitarist. He played a black Yamaha, and a white sticker on it read “This Machine Kills Fascists”. As usual, the bar counter was dominated by the Vanguard, some of whom were wearing their jackets and some who were not. There was a new girl at the edge of the counter, the only one dumb or courageous enough to sit in a spot normally reserved for the Vanguard. She was an attractive blonde girl wearing a white sweater and black designer jeans. A beret sat lopsided on her head, and she twirled the straw of her drink disinterestedly with one finger. She looked generally depressed.
Whisper shrugged her shoulders and turned back towards the bar before scanning the other end of the counter; an eighteen-year-old’s angst was not of her concern. Whisper took a drink, and sat the wine glass down on the marble counter gently. She was hungry, but ordering food would require more talking than she was used to. She nudged Emilio in the arm with her elbow and made a beckoning motion with her head towards the bartender. Emilio had grown quite adept at deciphering Whisper’s motions, and so he flagged the bartender down and put in an order of mozzarella sticks. Whisper nodded to his approvingly and he returned the gesture before looking back at the television. The Royals were still losing.
“Dammit.” Emilio growled.
The Skulls
The Jolly Roger is a dive bar that sits on the corner of Radium street and Haber Street. It is a small, dirty place, with floors that look like they were last dusted in 1994 and tables covered in scratches and stains. It is not, generally speaking, a family-friendly establishment. The majority of its inhabitants are tough-musclebound goons clad in leather, many of them Skulls.
Skeleton sat at the bar, a beer in his hand and his eyes fixed on one of the many sports televisions. He was watching a rather brutal UFC match, not even flinching as a grown adult’s lip split open from a punch, spraying blood rather violently across the octagon. The bar at The Jolly Rogers only had four seats, one for each Enforcer of the gang, but tonight it would gain a fifth. Skeleton turned around and looked at Matt; he wasn’t the toughest-looking kid he had ever seen, but Grease loved him to death and advertised him as the next-best thing next to Christ. The bar was alive with sound. Several tables of goons chatted, and the pool table exploded with sound as balls ricocheted all around at missile-like speed. In the corner, a few younger members shared a joint. The place was anarchy, but Skeleton didn’t care. In his mind, it was controlled anarchy, and he loved it.
After admiring his men for a few moments, Skeleton rose and, clearing his throat, silenced the entire bar with minimal effort. As the place fell deathly silent, Skeleton turned to Matt and gestured for him to rise.
“Tonight,brothers,” he began “ we are here to welcome a new member into the Skulls Big Four; Matt Detmer.” Several people began to clap, and some made loud whooping noises with their hands cupped around their lips like megaphones. Skeleton waited for silence, and not receiving it, cleared his throat once more. Everyone shut up almost instantly. Damian rose from his seat between Kylie and Caden and walked over to Matt. He clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“You got any words you wanna say, Matt?” Damian said “Anyone fuckers wanna gloat at or anything like that?” Skeleton huffed semi-audibly and crossed his arms across his chest. Of course Damian would steal the show. Skeleton glared at his old friend and sat back down, allowing him to take over. Skeleton didn’t care enough to do anything about it.
Somewhere on the other side of the city, police cars formed a perimeter around the gory murder of John Frost. From high up above, Tara watched the scene. She was a short, skinny girl with green-and-brown hair, neither color being natural. She sighed loudly as she realized the consequences of this murder, and looked straight down from the top of the apartment building. If Skeleton found out about this, he'd flip out, but not telling him would be worse in the long run. The only thing to do was to deal with his anger and tell him. Tara walked over to the building's rusty fire escape and began to make her way down to the ground. She had to tell Skeleton, whether he liked it or not.
City of Gold Act I: A Death in West Mendel
