Byrd Man

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

The Pickett County War:
Part I

Pickett County, South Carolina

Scott Andrews rolled through the deserted streets of Pickett in his unmarked car. Scott had left the sheriff's department a little past three after shift change came in for relief. It'd been a quiet shift during a quiet day. Hell even the night was quiet, but that was normal for the small town this time of night. Even the Grab N' Go, open twenty-four hours a day, only had just the cashier's lone car in its parking lot. He followed the highway through the heart of town, pulling off and cruising through Nelson.

He saw cars rolling through the neighborhood's narrow streets, people standing on porches and in frontyards still partying on a Saturday night. Of course they were still up in the Jungle. Their kind seemed to be nocturnal. There was a bit of a stiffening among the black citizens of Pickett when they made Scott's car as a cop. He smiled in the dark. Goddamn right. You may not respect much, but you will fucking respect that badge.

Scott pulled into the gravel parking lot of Club 65 at fifteen minutes after three. He saw Wendell and Lisa's cars in the parking lot along with that familiar old red pick-up truck. Club 65 closed at midnight on Saturdays because of the sabbath. That day still had power over the people here even if they were a lawless and godless sort. Pickett may be Pickett, but the South was still the South. And in the South, Sunday was sacred.

He spat tobacco juice on the ground as he got out and sauntered towards the club. It wasn't much to look at. A concrete building with a plain roof and a cheap sign that announced what it was. He walked through the door into the bar. Wendell stood behind the bar, cleaning glasses while Lisa wiped down tables and put overturned chairs on them. The one table she did not touch was the one Billy sat at.

The sight of Billy made Scott smile. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt with workboots. A pair of reading glasses rested on a crooked nose that had been broken a long time ago. In his lap was a biography on Napoleon. He was on the heavy side and had snowy white hair. To anyone not in the know, Billy Brown looked like just another Southern cracker. With the reading glasses he looked like an old Southern cracker.

"Take a seat," Billy said with a broad smile.

Scott gave Wendell and Lisa polite nods before he sat across the table from Billy. Billy closed his book and placed it on the table. He carefully took his reading glasses off and folded them before tucking them into a breast pocket on his shirt.

"Just getting to the good part," Billy said with a soft chuckle. "Peace between Napoleon and Alexander I has broken down and Napoleon is marching into Russia."

"Oh, yeah?" John asked to be polite.

"Yep."

The soft smile from Billy started to fade away. He leaned back in his chair and considered Scott for a moment. His small, brown eyes had a way to cut through the bullshit and get to the heart of a man's soul. He had an eye for human weakness that Scott had only seen matched by cops in the interrogation room.

"That guy I told you to pop last week. That traffic stop bullshit."

Scott raised an eyebrow at that. While on the outside he looked curious, inside he was a bundle of nerves. He'd botched the thing up to hell and back. It was supposed to be simple. He'd been following the guy all day and he was moving in and... fucking Sherry had come up on him as backup before he had a chance to--

"Yeah," Scott said softly. "I remember."

"I know you did," Billy said with his face of stone. "You are goddamn right you remember fucking up. This guy, this Howard Beggs guy is in the fucking wind and I can't find no hide nor hair of 'em. So, Major, I want you to use all the power of your sheriff's department to find him. Find him and take care of him."

Billy didn't say what he meant. He did not have to. He also didn't mention pay. Scott also knew why. He still owed Billy for the last job. The old man laughed again, his harsh mood seemingly gone as quickly as it had arrived.

"I been reading history for nearly fifty years, Scott. You know what I find the most interesting? Kings, emperors, monarchs. What is it that makes an entire country of people fear one man, believe that that one man has been declared by God to be the ruler of these people? What keeps them in line?"

Billy's hard little eyes cut through Scott again. Unblinking and unyielding.

"Fear. One man can make an entire population fear him just by reputation alone. It's a hell of a thing. It's so powerful that the best rulers, they don't even need to make a threat. The implications are more than enough."

Scott swallowed hard as he and Billy sat in silence. Wendell and Lisa had stopped their cleaning up and instead looked on. And Scott knew the looks on their faces, that look of being unsure of what to say and afraid to say something less you drew the old man's ire, he knew he had to have that look on his face.

"Have a good night, Scott," Billy said warmly. "And good luck out there."

---

At five in the morning they came for John.

A loud pounding from somewhere across the trailer woke John up from his slumber. He looked around his small bedroom for its source. Another round of pounding. John reached down underneath his mattress and pulled a .40 Smith & Wesson from between the mattress and the box spring. He got out of bed clad in only his boxers and shuffled out of the bedroom.

“Open up,” a voice said from outside. “Pickett County Sheriff’s!”

John grunted. Fucking cops. They always pulled chicken shit like this, thinking they were clever to after you this late at night. He tucked the gun into a cabinet in his kitchenette before padding through the small trailer towards the front door. Clint Land stood on the porch with a pump-action shotgun in his hands. Behind him was sheriff Gene Parker in a suit and tie and chewing a toothpick and looking as smug as hell. His fat, ruddy face was coronary red even in the dim porch lighting. Somewhere nearby a dog barked in the night.

Land said, “Against the wall, shirtbird. Spread ‘em.”

John quietly complied. He leaned against the sheet metal of the trailer’s exterior and let Land pat him down. Fucking fool, trying to pat down a naked man. But that was Land in a nutshell. He used to be a big deal back when he was in school and thought that meant he could do anything. He left home for a few years and saw the world for what it was and came running back home with his tail between his legs. His pride wounded, he took the authority that came with a badge and gun and tried to overcompensate for the fact that he would never be anything but a hasbeen.

“He’s clean.”

“Goddamn right,” said John. "Frisking a man in his boxers, the fuck is wrong with you?"

Parker spat. “Clint, go sit in the car while John and I talk.”

Land slowly acknowledge and went towards the sheriff's car that had boxed in John's beat up pickup truck. Parker wiped sweat from his head. Even though it was still the middle of the night it was still plenty humid enough to make a man work up a sweat simply by just being outside.

"For the past month I've had Danny and Mark looking into you. They've tailed you to that property out on Trask Road where you're growing that pot. They took photos of you coming and going, photos of what's on the land, and got you meeting with Jeff Silvers and at least two more known drug dealers from Pickett, and one from down around Columbia. Intercounty trafficking sounds like a SLED crime to me."

"So why ain't I already in county lock-up," John spat. "If you're gonna arrest me arrest me, you cocksucker."

Parker laughed. He grinned. He moved quickly, far quicker than John thought a man his size could move. He sucker punched John hard in the chest. He fell to the ground and gasped for breath. Parker patiently waited for him to recover. A few minutes later, John was back on his feet and rubbing his sore chest.

"You and I should meet up when you don't have a man with a shotgun watching your back."

"I'd still wipe the floor with you, son," said Parker. "You may be a Norman, but you ain't nothing like your daddy."

John was about to hurl off another insult when Parker held a hand up. The sheriff reached into his suit coat and brought something out. It was a mugshot of a man with long, stringy blond hair that was either dirty blonde hair, or blonde with actual dirt in it. John couldn't tell. The man also had a blond goatee. His face, which was bony and looked emaciated, was marked by sores on the cheeks and around the mouth. His blue eyes were set back in the sockets and looked out at the camera with a wide stare that bordered on insane. Accompanying the photo was a three-page arrest record with Pickett County Sheriff's Department letterhead on it.

"Tweaker," John said with a rasp. "Don't fucking know who he is."

"Howard Beggs," Parker grunted. "He got run in last week for possession of meth. Made bail and then disappeared off the face of the earth. Find him and call me, I'll get some of my deputies to pick him up."

"I ain't a fucking bounty hunter."

"I know, Johnny," Parker said with a wide smile. "But you can find him or you can go to jail."

"Why me?" asked John. Parker handed him the mugshot and rapsheet. He looked down at it before looking back up at Parker. "You got deputies, you got detectives who can knock on doors and beat bushes. Tax dollars don't go as far as they used to, Gene?"

"He's important," Parker said petulantly. "And because I fucking say so. And you need to stop asking questions before I change my mind and have Clint bash in the fucking head with his shotgun. Is that reason enough?"

John shrugged. He was getting annoyed and tired of Parker's schitck, but what the hell could he do?

"I had Mark and Danny going through his usual haunts and friends. Nothing. Plus, where Beggs is concerned, I can't use my men." Parker lowered his voice and leaned forward. "People tend to clam up when a man with a badge starts asking questions. But you're a Norman..."

"Well well well. The plot thins."

Parker furrowed his brow before shaking his head. "Call it whatever you want, son. I just need a man with a certain reputation. All I am offering is a simple choice: Do this, or you can go to jail."

John looked at the file Parker had given him and sighed. The fat man grinned wide. John tucked the folder under his arm and shook his head.

"Fuck it. I'll see what I can do."

Young Justice Renegades: A Team Worth Dying For

"You don't have to do this."

I looked down at the bloody, bruised man. This son of a bitch was responsible for the death of six people directly, another four indirectly. A lot of blood spilled on carpets, a lot of tear stained clothing. He'd left a trail of chaos and debris across this city that was going to require a lot of custodial work. And that made my blood boil.

"I know I don't have to do this," I said as I pointed the gun at his face. "I want to do this. Some messes... are worth making."

His last sob for mercy was cut short by the two quick pops of my revolver.

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Are you all still accepting applications for this RP?

@Abefroeman

the sausage king of chicago

Young Justice Renegades: A Team Worth Dying For

Clean up on aisle dead

Young Justice Renegades: A Team Worth Dying For

"Sawdust with just a touch of vinegar."

I looked down at the body on the pavement. His closed eyes and the two neat bullet holes on his forehead could have almost fooled you he died peacefully. But the bloody pulp that was the back of his head told the truth. I knew an execution style murder when I saw one. And in my life I'd seen plenty.

"What was that?" the police captain asked.

"Best thing to get blood out of any surface," I said without looking up. The sawdust soaks up the liquid and the vinegar discolors the stains."

"They said you were a former cop," he said to me. "A homicide cop. One of the best. What happened?"

Now I finally looked up, letting him see my cold blue eyes.

"I made a mess. Too big to clean up."

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

Part I:
Punchdrunk

EXTRACT: Gotham Globe, 06/17/46

DISTRICT ATTORNEY'S OFFICE LAUNCH PROBE INTO SOUTHSIDE BOXING​

After much speculation the Gotham City District Attorney's office announced today that it will be launching a sweeping investigation into the city's boxing and prizefighting scene. Their explicit target: Connections between organized crime and the boxing community. District Attorney Joseph Porter held a press conference for reporters today, laying out the details of the upcoming investigation.

"For far too long the professional fighting scene in this city has been controlled by bookmakers," said Porter. "Fans of the sport, people who pay to see honest and fair fights, are instead often treated to fixed contests that the gamblers control. This inquiry is the first step in a battle to wrestle control of the sport from the criminal elements of this city."

Porter himself will serve as the lead counsel on the investigation. Heading up the team of investigators will be the always colorful GCPD Captain John "Two-Gun Jack" Grogan, commanding officer of the GCPD's Major Case Squad. Captain Grogan's six man task force will provide the brunt of the investigative force as their operational mandate lies within organized crime.

"Ain't nobody [sic] better at policing organized hoods than me and my boys," Grogan said during the press conference. "If there's anything worth finding, we'll find it."

While forthcoming with details of the probe, District Attorney Porter remained mum on his political future. He is among a small handful of candidates who have been rumored to seek the US Senate seat recently opened by the sudden death of long-time senator Charles Henderson. When asked if this is a stepping stone to a possible campaign run, Porter discouraged any such talk and only offered a “no comment” on the subject.

---

06/19/1946
West Gotham
1:13 AM

Slam Bradley rode shotgun in the car. Captain Grogan sped through the city at "Fuck-Traffic-Laws-I'm-A-Cop" speed. Slam smoked and saw the sights. Winos blasted on cut-rate hooch wagged their wieners at the passing car. Hookers peddled their stuff by the curb. Slam cracked the window and blew smoke.

He smiled. He felt alive. He felt jazzed. Grogan's squad worked the streets. They ran the streets. They were the landlords out here, and everybody paid their rent. The cost for not paying up was a quick and brutal eviction from this world. Two-Gun Jack was a hick from somewhere out west -- Oklahoma or Texas or something -- and he had that southern twang prairie accent. The hump wore two six-shooters on both hips. The hump wore shit-kicker boots and a white stetson with a goddamn bolo tie. He chewed tobacco and thought he was Jonah Hex reincarnated. He looked like a clown on the surface. Beneath it he was all killer.

Grogan spat tobacco juice in a coffee cup. He wiped his mouth and said, "Samuel, how you been liking these past few months."

Slam beamed. "Fantastic. Anything to get me out of Vice."

Vice straight bored him. It was either hooker rousts or gambling busts. He was too well known around Gotham to work undercover, so it was roust duty. Pop prosties and bust bookies. It was straight shit-work. His brain was wired for the street. He needed to be out here in the thick of it. This was his element. Grogan picked him because he was big and intimidating. The captain promised muscle work and he made good on the promise. Anybody he wanted worked over, Slam worked over. Fist work, brass knuckles work, rubber hose work, followed by dental and surgical work.

Slam flicked his cigarette out a window. The butt hit a passing wino in the forehead. The wino flipped it away and shook his fist at the car. Slam laughed. Gorgan roared.

Grogan wiped his eyes and said, "And what do you make of our current assignment?"

Slam made the jack-off sign. "Prizefighting has been corrupt since the days of gladiators. And now they want to get a hard-on for it?”

Slam knew firsthand how corrupt the shit was. Corruption got him a pass on the war. He threw a fight back in ‘40 and got a judge paid a few grand. Said judge remembered the favor when Slam’s draft number came up. Said judge helped him get a job on the PD and deemed “essential personnel.” No war for Shirker Slam. He parlayed his status as a local celebrity to get plum patrol beats. Southpaw Slam volunteered to box in late-night smokers for the GCPD brass and city hall bigwigs. The fights got him political clout. Smart Slam leverages clout for internal juice in the PD. He went from harness bull to gold shield detective rápidamente.

They had two ex-boxers under lock and key who weren’t as slick as Shrewd Slam. Said pugilists were working with the DA to present testimony to the county grand jury. They were, to wit: heavyweight Robert "Scotty" Lees and light heavyweight Manuel "Goodnight" Garcia. Slam went six rounds with Lees back in ‘38. Even back then he was a fucking stumblebum. Years of too many pops to the dome meant Scotty couldn't remember who he was half the time. Goodnight Garcia played up a faux swish persona, but he had a taste for young stuff. Said taste had gotten him in the jackpot. Testifying would quash a 'stach rape beef.

Grogan said, "The good District Attorney wants his pound of flesh, more so for a launchpad than anything else. So we do our job and give it to him. But I suspect the investigation will be coming to an abrupt end shortly."

They hit county territory. Upper-middle class homes became the main view. Slam chained three cigs while Grogan spat tobacco and the radio squawked Bing Crosby. The radio crackled as Jack Benny pitched toothpaste. Grogan pulled up to a three-story home sprawled over four lots. It ate up half a block. Feature: A bronze R.T. plaque on the mailbox.

They got out. Grogan led, Slam followed. They walked around the house and to the backyard. Floodlights on: A pool, patio, pool house. A fat man with gray hair did laps in the water. Slam checked his watch. Two in the morning. The fat man flopped out the pool. Butt ass naked. He dried his hair on a towel and walked over to them. Still sans clothing.

Grogan shook hands with the man and said, "Congressman."

"Captain Grogan."

Grogan looked to Slam. "Congressman, this is Detective Samuel Bradley. Samuel, this is Congressman Rupert Thorne."

They shook hands. Slam kept his eyes from drifting downward. Thorne guided them to the patio. He flopped on a chair. They followed suit. Thorne sprawled and smiled at Slam.

"I need no introduction, Slam,” said Thorne. “I saw you fight Mike Moldando years ago. I think you won that one.”

“TKO, sir,” said Slam.

Thorne smiled. “A win is a win, right? Captain Grogan has been telling me an awful lot about you, son. He says you have potential."

Two-Gun Jack spat juice in his coffee cup. He winked at Slam, "Slam here was originally recruited because he looked every bit the part of the mean sum bitch he actually is. Turns out he's smarter than he looks. I think he's ready."

Thorne reached for a wooden box on the table. He pulled out a fat cigar and lit it. A look passed between the two older men. Grogan nodded. His nod meant GO.

Thorne said, "Slam, do you believe that certain aspects of crime, vices like gambling and prostitution and drugs, are unavoidable and should be allowed to exist in a contained form?"

Slam shrugged. "Yeah. We can't stop people from doing what they want to do. As long as nobody gets hurt, it's fine with me."

Thorne and Two-Gun Jack traded looks. Grogan took off his stetson and placed it on the table. He leaned forward. Slam caught whiffs of tobacco. Grogan's tie was tobacco spritzed. His teeth were brown with tobacco juice.

Grogan said, "The three of us are riding the same wavelength. People like the DA see it like we do, but they're worse. They act like they want to change things but what they really want to do is make just enough change to fuck over the rest of us and get themselves elected to a higher office."

"Crabs in a bucket," said Thorne. "Nobody wins."

Slam picked up brainwaves. He rode a hunch into speculation. DA Porter, "higher office." He implied: The boxing probe. His implication confirmed by the congressman.

Thorne looked straight at Slam and said, "This little fact finding mission Porter is carrying out has the potential to damage a lot of important people who share our common outlook on this city. These people are your gateway to a whole new world, son. If you hitch yourself up to the captain and I, you'll be police commissioner within ten or fifteen years. After that? Who knows. But before that destination can manifest, the journey must begin. If you share our common interest, Slam, then we expect you to step up and see that this investigation ends before it can go before a grand jury. Do this, Slam, and you'll be one of us."

Slam scratched his neck. "How?"

Thorne opened up the wooden box. He laid a stack of bills down on the table. C-notes tied together in two thousand dollar bundles. Ten thousand dollars in cold, hard cash.

Grogan spat tobacco into his cup and said, "Be creative."

*****

06/22/46
The Gotham Arms

Scotty Lees dug into his nose and stared up at the ceiling. He sat on the bed while the radio played late night big band music. Slam sat on the other bed and chained-smoked. Night work, guarding Scotty from anybody who would do him harm. Ten grand stashed in the truck of his car assured he would be the one doing the harm. Thorne laid out the details. Goodnight Garcia would play ball once Scotty was dealt with. He'd spout qué? No hablo inglés to the DA until he was blue in the face. Slam's eyes fell on Scotty. Robert "Scotty" Lees: a pale as fuck heavyweight with bright red hair. The Glasgow Gouger had a record of 22-5-32. He had mush for brains and brayed like a donkey.

A radio commercial featured a talking rabbit shilling cars. Scotty hee-hawed and ate boogers. Slam stubbed his fifth cigarette out and stood. He peaked into the room next door. There's Goodbye Garcia sleeping his ass off. His bodyguard Officer Tommy Burke was ditto. They snored in sync. Slam closed the door softly and turned off the radio.

Lees said, "Aww... why'd you stop it?"

"We need to talk, Scotty. Answer a few questions for me."

"I can try, Slammy."

"What year is it, Scotty?"

Scotty made a face. It looked like somebody asked him to do advanced trig.

"I... 1943?"

"What did you have for dinner tonight?"

"I... I don't remember."

"Who won when you boxed Chili Rodriguez?"

His eyes lit up. He said, "I did. It was by majority decision. Chili had a hell of a left cross, but I got underneath it and managed to go the distance with him. Nobody can beat me when I get my jabs working."

"Quick, Scotty, what's twenty-four times twelve?"

His eyes stayed bright. "Two hundred and eighty-eighty. See, some stuff I don't know good... but I can ‘member names and numbers. It's why I used to run bets for Frankie Momo and Mr. Thorne."

Slam cursed. He shook his head and adjusted his necktie. He sighed and cracked his knuckles.

"Come here, Scotty. I need to show you something."

Scotty stood and walked over. Slam guided him to the window. Sixth story looking down. Slam pushed him hard against the wall. He banged Scotty's forehead into the plaster. His eyes went cross. He went loopy. He babbled incoherently. Slam shoved him hard into the window. Scotty broke glass. He fell out the window screaming. Two seconds and then a loud crash. Slam looked out. Scotty's broken body resting on top of a parked car.

*****​

Max polished off a bottle of gin on the way to the crime scene. He swilled Listerine to help cover up the smell. He chewed gum to hide his booze breath. Rolling to the southside of the city in an unmarked. His notebook resting in the passenger seat.

Second straight month working the graveyard shift. Nights tapped him out. The work tapped him out. His career was tapped out at sergeant. Five straight lieutenant's exams, five straight times scoring at the top of the list, five straight times he was passed over. He had a reputation as a lush and someone with a hard-on for the rules. They could handle promoting a drunk to LT, but not a tight ass. So here he was. He worked the midnight to eight shift and paid a sitter to watch Mary while she slept. The late nights meant grief from his ex-wife. She'd left him before the war and never looked back. She was talking through a lawyer conduit, threatening to challenge him for full custody of Mary. Just one more problem on the pile.

The current call he was on came into the homicide pen twenty minutes earlier. He and Fields played rock paper scissors to decide who went. Max pulled scissors, Fields pulled rock. Max flipped him off and got his gear. He drove at a steady pace and no lights. It was a code 7, probable jumper. No rush on a suicide. He hit the brakes when he saw police lights.

Three prowl cars parked in a semi-circle around the Gotham Arms. Lights and crime scene rope. Max got his notebook and walked towards the tape. He flashed his badge to the uniform on sentry duty and identified himself: Sergeant Eckhardt, Homicide.

Max stepped on the scene and went to work with the layout and details. The DB: sprawled out on top of a car. A broken window six stories up. The body a white man, his pale skin cut up and bloody from the impact with the car. Someone loomed close by. Max turned. A big man with black hair eye-balled him. He had a good five inches on Max.

"You the homicide dick?"

Max said, "Yeah." They shook hands. "Sergeant Max Eckhardt."

"Detective Sam Bradley. I'm with Major Cases."

“I thought you looked familiar. I think--”

Bradley shook his head and looked down at Max.

"I did this..."

Max looked at Bradley and raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

Bradley's hands shook. He swallowed loudly. "I was supposed to be protecting him and... I... he... just jumped."

Max frowned. He opened his notebook and got out a pencil.

"So tell me what happened."

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

PART I

“There was nothing wrong with Southern California that a rise in the ocean level wouldn’t cure.”
― Ross Macdonald

---

ACCESSING GOLDEN STATE BUREAU OF INVESTIGATIONS (GSBI) CASE FOLDER #050520551321

......

ACCESSING ADDENDUM FILE #090220550025: AUDIO, VISUAL, AND MEMORY INFORMATION AUDIT (MIA) OF DI KIMBERLY MORGAN GATES, BADGE #1988

WRITTEN TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS:

......

ASA Tompkins: It is currently September 2nd, 2055 at 12:25 AM. Speaking is Assistant State's Attorney Paul Tompkins. Present are myself, GSBI SAC Gilberto Hernandez, and our interview subject. Kim, state your full name and rank for the record, please.

DI Gates: Kimberly Morgan Gates, Inspector Detective with the GSBI.

Tompkins: And you affirm you give this statement to us on your own freewill?

Gates: I do.

Tompkins: And you consent to undergo MIA readings concurrent to your statement?

Gates: Do I have a choice?

SAC Hernandez: *clears throat*

*Five seconds of silence follow*

Gates: Guess that answers that. So, yes I consent to undergo MIA readings concurrent to my statement. Furthermore, I swear the following statement I give is the truth as I believe it to be, as any MIA readings will confirm. There. Everyone’s asses are now covered.

Hernandez: I'll fire up the MIA.

Tompkins: Alright, Kim. Just walk us through the whole case from start to finish.

---

Los Angeles
May 5th, 2055
3:45 AM

The chirping of my terminal woke me up. My eyes fluttered in the darkness and I groaned as I rolled over to the screen resting on my nightstand. The display flashed an incoming call from a number I didn’t recognize and one not in my contacts. The area code was a Simi Valley address. Simi Valley was an LAPD stronghold dating back to the days of Darryl Gates. Back in my time in the LAPD I was among the small minority that actually lived in the city I was sworn to protect. The lateness of the call and the area code gave me enough confidence to accept the call.

“This is Gates,” I mumbled.

“Inspector Gates, this is Detective Rick Jackson with LAPD's OCU.”

I was glad that Jackson didn’t opt for video calling me since I rolled my eyes at the mention of the Organized Crime Unit. At least three of four times a week I received requests for further info from half of the OC squads across Golden State. Everyone knew cybercrime was a huge part of how these guys operated these days, but more often than not their requests were just shots in the dark that often lead to little or no information on the suspected criminals they were chasing. Just another way these guys could use me to make it look like they were doing work.

“You realize cybercrime is really a nine to five type job, yes? No need to call in the middle of the night about someone phishing for credit card---”

“It’s about a murder,” said Jackson. I watched the soundwaves of Jackson's voice flow up and down across the terminal as he spoke. “Gangland style execution tonight in Los Feliz. Biometrics list the victim as one Spencer Duckworth. He’s got a rapsheet a mile long.”

The news took me back. It was a name I hadn’t heard in years. That was the real surprise, not the murder part. I knew eventually I'd get a call from some other cop about Duck's incarceration or untimely demise.

“I know Duckworth,” I said softly. “He is -- was, I guess -- my CI.”

“We know. He also had you listed as his next of kin of all things. I figured with you being a fellow cop I don’t actually have to worry about doing the notification in person. Saves me a trip and--”

“Are you still at the crime scene?” I asked. I was already throwing back the covers and wide awake.

“Yeah, and I see where you’re going but that’s not necessary, Inspector. I’ll send you all the information we get from the scene if you want to take a look.”

“I wanna see it with my own two eyes,” I said. I padded across the carpet of my bedroom towards my closet.

“Murder is LAPD business, Inspector.” I could hear the agitation in Jackson’s voice. I half expected him to call me lady instead of inspector. “If we find something related to your field we’ll ask. Not a lot we can gain by having a Statie computer cop take a look at the crime scene.”

“How about a Statie computer cop who was former Robbery Homicide?” I asked with just a hint of humor in my voice. “Now please send me the address of the crime scene or I may be forced to call Captain Bala at home. I know he also works nine to five, wonder how he’d feel about a Statie calling him in the middle of the night requesting access to his crime scene because his detective wouldn’t allow it?”

---

I used the commandeer function on my app to get a Ryde from my apartment in Crenshaw up to Los Feliz. My status as non-emergency law enforcement meant I had to abide by Executive Order 28 and use ride shares and public transportation wherever I needed to go. But thankfully the state picked up the tab for me.

The car buzzed up Western Avenue in the light early morning traffic. I sat alone in the backseat and absent-mindedly watched the car pilot itself into the right lane before taking a right turn at the next intersection. The monitor mounted to the backseat ran ads and news updates. The commandeer function meant you get the basic package from Ryde. I could have paid out of pocket to have an ad-free trip, but at this point it was all white noise to me. As was the news. More updates on the ongoing Belt famine, Nevada’s formal request of annexation into the GS, and lighter news on some new content coming to YouSee. Everything had happened, but yet nothing had happened.

My thoughts were on Duck and the last time I saw him. One of my first cases with the GSBI. San Francisco PD needed help tracking down a group of Onionheads working for some human traffickers. We’d met at an 80’s themed diner in Silver Lake for breakfast. He’d given me the information I needed to track their routing and I’d given him one get out of jail free card, good to cash in on anything up to a Class C Felony. We chatted a little after the transaction was done. His birthday was coming up at that point. About to be twenty-two and still living on the wrong side of the law.

“You were just a kid when I first busted you,” I said as I put my handheld against the payment terminal on the table.

“Something like that,” he said with a chuckle. “I knew I’d fucked up when I saw that GSBI badge. It wasn’t some LAPD redneck that had busted my ass.”

“A sixteen year old with enough stolen credit card money to ride around South LA in a custom Model 10? You’re lucky I got you before the LAPD did,” I said with a wry smile. “You’d be in LSP until 2100 if anyone other than me had gotten you.”

“Guess you got an eye for talent,” Duck laughed. "Know a good snitch when you see one."

I took a sip of my coffee. Duck, never a coffee drinker, had a glass of retro New Coke with breakfast.

“You know I have connections with a lot of cybersecurity people,” I said after a short silence. “They’re always on the lookout for someone smart they can make into a white hat. There’s a lot of money to be made doing work for these tech companies. And it’s all legal.”

“Then I wouldn’t be your snitch anymore,” he said. “You’d lose one of your best assets.”

I nodded and shrugged. “It’s a sacrifice I’d be willing to make.”

He smiled and looked down at the table, settling into something like a deep thought. He looked back up at me after a few long moments.

“What they do is legal,” he said, “but I’m not sure how much more moral it is than what I do. At least I’m honest about my shit. Yes, I scam people out of their information, but I’m not using that for anything other than to make my pockets fat. What do they do? They take all that information -- credit card, bio readings, data history -- and make money off of it. We’re both criminals, Detective, the only difference is nobody’s gonna pass legislation making my shit legal.”

“I respect the principal,” I said before adding. “But you know your luck can’t run forever, right? Eventually you’re going to get arrested for something I can’t help with… or worse.”

“Tell you what,” he said with a smirk. “We’ll make a deal. If I make it to thirty without getting arrested or washed, I’ll hang up my black hat and put on my tie and collared shirt for you. I’ll become some corporate motherfucker at a cubicle all day.”

---

Los Feliz
4:30 AM

I stepped out of the Ryde and completed the transaction on my handheld before the automated car disappeared into the night. The address was the site of a public housing zone. Low-rise apartments that stretched out across the entire five block radius. Everyone living here were either on UBI or some form of GSER. Los Feliz had once been a “bad neighborhood” at the end of the 20th century, but gentrification had turned it into a clean, crime-free, and expensive neighborhood in the early 2000’s. But the cycle had revolved back around so that the affluent, wealthier, and by and large whiter citizens of Los Feliz moved on to the next hotspot twenty years ago. What was left behind here were the people who couldn’t afford to move, or simply didn’t want to.

A trio of LAPD squadcars down the block were parked in a semi-circle in an open space that served as the neighborhoods courtyard. The blue LED lights of the cars cast the entire courtyard in a bright blue glow. A drone with LAPD markings flew overhead, hovering slightly to monitor me before moving on. A uniformed officer keeping watch in front of the cars eyeballed me as I approached. I held my badge up in my right hand, my left hand up in the air for a bioscan.

“Who called the Staties?” He asked as he scanned my palm with a handheld.

“Detective Jackson apparently needs some help.”

I walked past the cop and on to the crime scene. Smaller drones hovered over the area, taking photos and video of the activity onsite. A few crime scene techs were directing the drones with their handhelds. A blue tarp rested over something in the middle of it all. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the tarp. This was far from the first time I’d visited a crime scene where someone I knew was the victim. And like in the past, the body held a strange gravity over me. Maybe it was the old murder cop inside of me yearning to break free?

“You must be Gates,” a gruff voice said from my left.

Rick Jackson looked every bit like the caveman cop I assumed he was. Graying hair with a ruddy face, fat body, and a gun on his hip like the Santos Bill had never existed. He wore a polo shirt with the LAPD logo on the left breast pocket. His khaki pants were too baggy and drooped down around his hips, a side effect of Jackson not realizing his stomach had expanded. He was still buying pants with a smaller waistline, forced to wear them beneath his natural waistline underneath the gut. The heavy gun meant he had to constantly keep pulling up his pants.

“Inspector Gates,” I corrected. “I’d like to see the body.”

Jackson led me towards the tarp. The ground we walked on was muddy. This being LA, I couldn’t remember the last time it had actually rained naturally.

“We think it was a pretty straight forward execution,” said Jackson. “Victim’s listed address was at this apartment complex. Despite his criminal history, he was on UBI.”

“He made his money as a scammer,” I said. “But you can still get UBI with a criminal record. I’m sure people argue they need it more than most.”

Jackson grunted in response, his way of avoiding a political debate in the middle of an active crime scene. He pulled a pair of black vinyl gloves from his back pocket and slipped them on. I stood back and let him pull back the tarp.

Duck’s body was on its stomach, his head turned to the right. I could see the blank, lifeless eyes looking at nothing in particular. Under his left eye was the exit wound, a bloody hole that still had traces of gore and brain matter around the edge. His face was frozen in a look of mild inconvenience, like getting killed was just a bother more than anything.

“Stippling on the entry wound indicates the barrel of the gun was right against his head. We found a .45 casing, but no bullet yet.”

“Check the ground,” I said after looking away from Duck’s body. “The muddy ground? Bullet probably went through Duckworth, into the ground, and nicked an irrigation pipe buried down there.”

Jackson’s face flashed with confusion, until he looked at the mud and something clicked.

“Someone do a scan,” he ordered one of the techs. “Metalurgic, within a ten foot radius of the body and no deeper than two feet.”

“I assume his brain was too shredded for a MIA reading?” I asked Jackson as he stepped away.

“Even if it wasn’t we were too late,” said Jackson. “Patrol didn’t arrive until forty-five minutes after the call. The brain was long dead at that point.”

Jackson continued on about the chain of events after the discovery, the process of how patrol calls the Hollywood Homicide and how homicide, seeing Duck was a figure with organized crime ties, gladly called OCU and their one man on-call tonight, Jackson to handle the case. LAPD is at its most efficient when it comes to passing the buck. While Jackson went on about this, I was barely listening. Instead my eyes looked around the courtyard for some sign of a camera. There were very few places you could go in Golden State that weren’t being surveilled. Something or someone was always watching.
“No cameras?” I asked Jackson.

“Used to be,” he said. “Entire courtyard was wired up by the security company who protects the place. But someone cut the cords about four months ago and the company never fixed them. According to them the courtyard was a low-risk environment. Not worth the extra money to fix it up.”

“Everyone has handhelds, Detective,” I said. “It’s the law. Someone somewhere in the apartment complex has to have some sort of video around the time of the shooting.”

Jackson bristled and hitched his sagging pants up. “Are you telling me how to do my job?”

“No,” I said. “Just suggesting it.”

Jackson whistled at the patrol officer keeping guard at the front of the crime scene.

“Start knocking on doors,” he said. “Get everyone’s device and see what you find. You take the apartments on the top floor, I'll take the ones on the ground.”

I looked back at Duck’s body and thought back to our last conversation a few years ago and his promise to get out by thirty. I knew then it was probably the closest Duck would ever come to retiring from the life voluntarily, and even then it was some half-assed measure to placate me. I’d know plenty of criminals like Duck over the years. Be it hackers, stick-up men, or drug dealers. They never get out of the criminal life until they’re forced.

“Twenty-seven,” I said softly to myself. “You almost made it.”

Pax Narcotica: A Narco Cartel RP

Pax Narcotica:
A Narco Cartel RP

“The Americans take a product that literally grows on trees and turn it into a valuable commodity. Without
them, cocaine and marijuana would be like oranges, and instead of making billions smuggling it, I’d be making pennies doing stoop labor in some California field, picking it.”
-- Don Winslow

A masked Mexican soldier patrols the streets of Veracruz, on October 10, 2011.

TL;DR Summary:

• Mexico in the late 2000's to early 2010's
• Be it cop, sicario, or kingpin you're involved the Mexican Drug war.
• GM has final say on all character/cartel choices.
• No US faction will be playable.

In Character Info

Mexico, the land of pyramids and palaces, deserts and jungles, mountains and beaches, markets and gardens, boulevards and cobblestone streets, broad plazas and hidden courtyards, is now known as a slaughter ground. The Mexican Drug War is in full force and you're in the middle of it. Bodies and bodies fall day after day in the wars between the narcotraficantes who have formed their own shadow governments across the nation of Mexico. Now these quasi-kingdoms fight and die for the right to fuel the United States' massive drug problem and all the cash that comes with it. Armies pledged to one faction or the other roam the land and fight each other, the Mexican police and army forces, and even the United States in complex, bloody wars that every aspect of society it touches. Join the fight on whatever side you'd like and try to take the crown for yourself. But be careful. People don't run the cartel; the cartel runs people

Out of Character Info:

So essentially this will be an RP set in Mexico during the ongoing drug wars. My wish is to run it as a hybrid of a NRP and a conventional game. There's a focus on the cartels and the factions, but there's also a focus on the individuals within those factions and the toll the war takes on everyone. You've got the option of taking over a faction, but also just being a single character. I just want to let everyone tell good stories.

Faction Sheet

Faction Name:
Territory:
Allies:
Faction History:
Important Characters:

Individual Character Sheet

Name:
Location:
Allegiance:
Personality:
History:

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

Gotham City
Diamond District
11:20 PM

Got a joke for you.

A lock is like a woman.

It's expensive?

No, that's not it.

A lock is like a woman.

It's what stands between you and money?

No, still not it.

A lock is like a woman.

It requires just the right touch.

--CLICK!--

There it is. And there it goes. The deadbolt lock was free. With it gone there was just a single lock on the doorknob that I could have opened with a strong look. I popped it free quicker than a high school boy pops off his girl's bra. And just like the proverbial teen necking in the backseat of a car I was in the promised land.

Through the door and down a dark corridor was Zinkman & Sons Diamond Exchange, one of the top diamond emporiums in Gotham and by extension the entire east coast. I am Ahab and this is my white whale, I am Javert and this is my Jean Valjean, I am the Trix Rabbit and these are my Trix. I'm at the finish line after sixteen months of prep, recon, and manipulation. I bribed bureaucrats at City Hall for copies of the building's blueprints. A hacker I know who owes me more than a few favors broke into the security company's mainframe to pull out their security schematics on the place. I dated Issac Zinkman's youngest daughter for six months just to get a feel for the family and learn any trade secrets. We broke up two weeks ago. Oh, Cinnamon. You had the face of a horse, but the body... of a horse. And now that I think about it, was Cinnamon your real name? I thought it was your nickname... and there was that strange way you laughed at my jokes, like a neigh or something...

....

Did... did I date a horse for six months?

Before any more thoughts of my potential bestiality could fill my head something hard and firm found itself resting on the back of my neck.

"Don't move," a voice said from beside my ear. "You're coming with me."

"Or what?" I whispered back.

"Or--"

Something sharp and painful coursed through my body. My feet fell out from under me and I slammed to the floor writhing in pain. The electricity was still working its way through me when a black sack was pulled over my head. Just for good measure a sharp kick to the face bloomed more pain through my body and knocked me unconscious.

---

Gotham Heights
1:12 AM

When the bag came off my face I was relieved to see that I was not in a police station. That relief quickly vanished when I saw where I was. It was a large, open-ended room with high ceilings and ivory furniture that matched the ivory carpet, that matched the ivory walls. Pretty much me in my black burglar outfit now stained with my own blood stood out in the room like a sore thumb. Even the two muscular thugs flanking both my sides were dressed in ivory shirts, slacks, and shoes.

"Did I die and wake up in the 70's?" I mumbled to myself.

"If only kid."

In the middle of the room, in a big chintz chair the color of -- what other color but Ivory -- was Rupert Roth. I didn't know Roth personally -- I wasn't big time enough to -- but I knew him based on the stories I'd heard about his underworld exploits. He looked like an extra from a bad disco movie. He wore an ivory shirt with half of it unbuttoned, a large gold necklace and medallion caught in the steely gray fur on his chest. He had on a pair of ivory pants that would have looked embarrassing on a man half his age, but made Roth look clownish.

Rupert Roth was the last great Jewish gangster in America. Now days most people associate the mob with the Italians, and it is a fair association to make given the sheer numbers involved. But back in the day Jews were the top dogs in the underworld. Guys like Arnold Rothstein, Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lanksy handled their business like CEOs and quietly made millions. Murder and violence were involved, sure, but not like it was with the Italians. More importantly, they got out of crime and went legit. Roth had followed that model very well. A gambling empire amassed in the late 60's went major league in the 70's and he removed himself from crime altogether by the time the FBI started hitting the Gotham mobs hard. Now the only organizations Roth belong to were the Chamber of Commerce and the Rotary Club. But there was still that edge. He still had the juice that made him very dangerous, and had me scared shitless to be dragged into his living room in the middle of the night.

"Johnny Lamonica," he said after a moment of silence. "I've heard of you."

"Good things, I hope."

Roth waved his hand in a so-so manner.

"I hear that you're smart, I hear that you're a good thief, I hear that outside of some trouble as a kid, you ain't never been pinched."

"And that I like long walks in the moonlight and a good '62 Bordeaux?"

"I'm questioning your smarts, Johnny," Roth said, ignoring my joke. "First off I've had a tail on you for a solid week and you didn't see him, and then your here with me making stupid jokes."

"Sorry," I said with a shrug. "It's a defense mechanism, I guess. Why have you been following me?"

"Issac Zinkman is a close and personal friend of mine. We go to the same temple, we sit on the same charity boards. He knows who I am and about my past. So, he comes to me asking about this guy dating his little girl Cindy--"

"Cindy," I said with a sigh of relief. "That's right, Cinnamon was her nickname... thank god."

Roth looked at me with contempt and with a slight nod of his head the muscled gorillas on my right slapped me across the face. My face which was already operating at a dull painful throb exploded in pain. My ears rang and I had to bite my tongue to keep from crying out. Roth stared at me long enough to make sure he'd gotten his point across before starting back.

"So Issac has this funny feeling about the guy his little girl is dating, especially after they broke up two weeks ago. So he comes to me and says 'Rothy, this putz made my little girl cry. Find out what he's got to hide and then fucking burn him.' And what do I find out, but the fact that this son of a bitch is an ace burglar, a burglar with a rep across town as reliable and smart, two things that are almost impossible to find when it comes to crooks. Not only is this guy a burglar, but he's planning on robbing my dear friend blind. You, my friend, are in for a world of hurt."

"Unless," I said cautiously, mindful of the two looming thugs on either side of me. "If you were going to hurt me, you would have done it right away with no spiel, or you would have turned me in to the cops. You did neither, so I'm waiting for the part where you give me options."

Something passed across Roth's face. It could have been a smile. It may have been a snarl, or it may have been gas. It was probably something of a mix between the three.

"Smart," he said. "Just like they said. Option 1. I inform Issac that you not only broke his little girl's heart, but also that you were in the middle of stealing his entire life's work when I caught you. Knowing my friend like I do he will kindly ask me to feed your own balls."

"A cannibalistic eunuch. Not the way I wanna go out."

"Option 2. You're a thief. Steal something for me and we will call it quits."

"Steal what, and from where?"

That look again. I was now certain that pained grimace had to be Roth's version of a smile.

"The where is easy. GCPD headquarters. The what? Now, that's gonna take some explaining..."

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

Ready or Not:
Finale

Then
Kenya

Bruce Wayne stood over the frightened man with a large knife in his hands. The beaten and bruised man was on his knees in the tall grass. Tears rolled down his face and mixed with the blood dripping from his mouth. He sobbed and begged for mercy in Swahili. Kraven stood behind Bruce and watched his protegee with crossed arms.

"Do it," Kraven said. "This is the last lesson, richboy. You have successfully captured your quarry. Now, finish your kill."

"No," Bruce said, looking at his master. "He's a poacher. He needs to be brought to justice."

"You have hunted down this cheater and made him feel like the beasts he hunts. Now like those animals, he will have his throat slit. You want justice? This is justice, richboy. This is not man's law. This is the law of the wild. Fair and cruel, richboy, this is justice."

"No," Bruce said again. He let the knife fall to the ground. "Not like this. We may hunt animals, but we are not animals. I'm sorry, Sergi. I made a mistake."

Bruce turned around and walked through the grasslands while Kraven watched. "YOU THINK YOU ARE BETTER THAN ME?!" He yelled as Bruce walked away. "YOU ARE NOT! NOBODY IS BETTER THAN ME! I AM KRAVEN THE HUNTER! RUN AWAY, RICHBOY! RUN AWAY!"

---

Now
The Bowery
3:00 AM

Kraven the Hunter carefully crept down the alley. Each step was careful and precise. His shoulder was bloody and burning from the trap Wayne had sprung on him earlier. Since then Kraven had made sure not to make any move without carefully weighing the consequences of it. Wayne was trying to make him his prey, but Kraven knew better. He could not be snared and he could not be defeated. He was the best and no one would ever come close to him.

"Run away, richboy," Kraven muttered under his breath as he spotted an object on the ground. "Run away."

Kraven approached the object and squatted down beside it. A metal cable lay on the ground, knotted together like a noose. It was a hastily made snare trap, Kraven observed, but it had been made rather well considering the circumstances. Kraven eyed the trap and found the trigger in the middle of the noose. He stood and walked a safe distance away from the trap. Taking a dart from his belt, Kraven tossed it at the snare and hit the trigger. The noose closed and zipped upwards towards a fire escape ladder.

"You see?" He shouted in joy. "Nobody is better than me! I am Kraven the Hunter. Who are you, compared to me?!"

Kraven watched the cable go up and smiled at his cleverness... but then stopped when he noticed the trap's counterweight, a large tool chest, was falling down to the ground towards him. He rolled to his right just as the heavy box crashed into the ground. The heavy chest exploded in a shower of metal and tools.

Kraven rolled to his right and looked up just as a large steel toed work boot crashed into his face and knocked him hard onto his back. Kraven felt blood in his mouth and at least two teeth rattling around free from the gum. He dribbled out blood and enamel as he looked up.

"Who am I?" Bruce Wayne asked as he stood over Kraven. He was dressed in the clothes he had found at the hardware store. "I'm Batman."

---

Both Kraven and Bruce crashed through a brick wall as brick dust and concrete power flew through the air. The two men tumbled across the floor of the rundown building. They came to a stop just feet apart from each other. Both men started to pick themselves up. Kraven moved for the large knife on his hip but Bruce's powerful leg swooped in and kicked the knife from Kraven's hand. The blade clattered away and Bruce drove his shoulder into Kraven's body. He picked the Russian up off his feet and slammed him into the wall of the building. The Russian desperately tried to find any opening to get leverage on the other man, but was unable to find any purchase. Bruce punched Kraven hard in the sternum while the hunter wrapped his hands around Wayne's head.

"I will not be defeated," Kraven said through a bloody mouth. He worked his thumbs into Bruce's eye sockets and started to create pressure. "You want to be bat? Now, you will be blind as one."

Bruce yelled in pain as Kraven drove his thumbs into Bruce's eyes. Bruce reached out blindly and slammed the back of Kraven's head into the wall. The attack caused the hunter to pull back from his eye-gouge. With his free hand, Bruce punched Kraven hard in the jaw and jumped back. Kraven fell to the ground as Bruce wiped trickling blood from his tear duct.

"Surrender," Bruce spat.

"Never," Kraven countered. "A hunter never gives up. To give up is to die. For the hunter, there is only the hunt and death. This, you never understood. You could be a great hunter. Instead you would rather dress up like fool and cry for mommy and daddy. You are useless."

"And you're vain," Bruce said with a hint of a smile as he breathed heavily. "That's what made this so easy. For years they've called you the world's greatest hunter. You've believed in your own legend, Kraven. You've become complacent - cocky. I threw you off your game so much tonight it's pathetic."

"Lies! I am the greatest!"

"Really? Look around. You're here in a unfamiliar environment with a foe you underestimated. He's taken the upper hand, stripped you of all your weapons. He did this because he knows you better than you know yourself. Tell me, what's the first rule of the hunt?"

Kraven roared and charged towards Bruce. Wayne crouched, ready for Kraven's strike. The hunter slashed wide from up top a move Bruce was ready for and easily countered. He grabbed Kraven's wrist and twisted it until he heard a loud pop issue from the arm. The twisted wrist hurt, but Kraven fought on. He kicked his leg up, Bruce dropped low and swept his leg at Kraven's one standing leg.

The hunter fell backwards and landed hard against the floor. Bruce pounced and landed on Kraven with a strike. He broke two of Kraven's ribs with one punch, his left collar bone with another. Kraven fought off the pain and tried to throw his pupil off of him. Bruce responded with a punch to Kraven's right kneecap. The knee buckled and made a crunching sound and Kraven screamed in pain.

"You're beaten," Bruce said as he loomed over Kraven with a fist at the ready to inflict more punishment.

"This... cannot be," he said, his voice filled with frustration as well as pain. "I am Sergei Kravinoff, Kraven the Hunter. The world's best."

"There's this saying a man told me once. It's something to say when things don't go your way. It goes, ,'Иногда вы едите медведя, а иногда медведь ест вас.'" he said in perfect Russian.

"'Sometimes, you eat bear,'" Kraven mumbled under his breath, the ghost of a smile on his face.

Bruce reared back for a final knockout blow to the beaten Hunter.

"'Sometimes, the bear eats you.'"
​

-30-