Byrd Man

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

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My Hider

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

Hub City, Michigan

Hub City was once the axle that American industry turned upon. It pumped out more cars than there were people alive. In the 40’s, the jeeps, cars, and tanks that rolled off the Hub assembly lines fueled the American war effort and helped stomp the Nazis and Imperial Japan into submission. For decades the city stood as a triumph of the blue collar American dream. A steady job, two car garage, a chicken in every pot, etc. etc.

And then the retreat began to happen. It happened slowly, at first. Business found other countries with looser labor laws and lower standards of pay. The old double edge sword of capitalism, the one that made American manufacturing so much cheaper than European manufacturing, sliced Hub City open. As industry fled so too did the upper and middle class. What got left behind were the poor and disadvantaged. Crime and murder spiked just in time for the advent of crack cocaine. Places like Hub became political talking points for both sides of the aisle, an example to they trotted out to prove whatever point they needed to. Industrial rot was the norm for almost two decades until the great corporate rebuild.

Ten years ago Mayor Myra Fermin rode into office with the plan to revitalize the city by splaying her wide open for corporations to take over the failing city services through public bids. After the dust settled, three private companies emerged with broad mandates:

Hephaestus: Building, infrastructure, and road construction
Wolverine Power & Water: Utilities
Michigan Transportation Trust: Mass transit

It was a libertarian's wet dream, a city where private companies provided the lion's share of services with minimal oversight by the municipal government. In theory the government would get the best services for the cheapest cost. Ten years on and the corporate rebuild left something to be desired. The three initial companies who ran services in Hub stayed that way because they were the only ones who ever placed bids. Public records show that any other company that did place a bid would always end up pulling out suddenly, leaving one of the main three to get the job. The stranglehold of monopoly set in. Continued requests for Mayor Fermin’s updated financial campaign contributions continue to be ignored.

More so, the overlap between the three companies make it a tangled mess. MTT supplies Hephaestus with the heavy machinery it needs, Wolverine gets the power trucks. Hephaestus maintains the roads and rails MTT's buses and trains operate on. And now, there are rumors of a fourth company entering the mix. Thornguard, with its track record of questionable actions in the name of American Imperialism, is bidding to take over emergency services for both Hub City and O’Neil County. I’m sure its bid for emergency service will be low, as low as anything possible for a privatized police, fire, and paramedic force. How much do you want to bet the cars will come from MTT and their facilities maintained by Hephaestus? With Thornguard as the fourth corner, private interest and profit are being used to govern a city of almost a million people. Citizens seen as commodities -- ones and zeros -- riding MTT trains, working in Hephaestus buildings, arrested by Thornguard cops. But I can’t help but wonder… this combination of interest, as murky as it seems to be, if something darker and more sinister lies beneath the surface?

My name is Vic Sage, and I’m asking you to question authority, question your reality, Question Everything.

---

Myra Fermin looked across the limousine at Calvin Zabo and, like always, found herself skeptical that this man was the monster people said he actually was. There was no doubt he was the criminal kingpin of Hub City, of course. Myra had been in politics too long to know ruthless and dangerous people came in all shapes and sizes. But she had seen in crime scene photos the damage Zabo left in his wake. The man was a walking abattoir of physical violence and destruction… and his gaunt face and thin frame hinted at none of that raw power.

“So, how are things, Madam Mayor?” asked Zabo.

Myra shot Zabo a dirty look as she lit up a cigarette. As a city owned vehicle there was technically no smoking in the limo. But who in the hell would tell her no?

“Just look at the news,” she said, blowing smoke. “The city is broke, our fucking water is brown, our murder count is expected to pass 250 at year’s end, and on top of everything else I got a blister on my foot that might be infected.”

A crooked smile appeared on Zabo’s face.

“Save it for your therapist,” said Zabo. "I was just trying to be polite. Like when someone asks how you're doing, they don't want you to really tell them how you're doing."

He reached into his suit coat and pulled out a white index card. “I got a list of names on this card. These men were all detained based on flimsy evidence and the actions of a vigilante and they need a few friendly favors.”

Myra took the card. Six men in total with names that weren’t American. Zabo’s words helped her connect the dots.

“Those guys that the faceless weirdo roughed up,” she said. “Those were your guys.”

Zabo spread his hands. “No, not really. But I speak for them in this case. And the people they work for want them released quickly and quietly.”

Myra frowned and stuck the smoldering cigarette into the corner of her mouth. “Then why come to me with this? I’m the fucking mayor, Zabo. I know you have more than your fair share of cops already paid for. Give them this information.”

“But I’m giving it to you,” Zabo said coolly. “Because sometimes who delivers a message is just as effective as the message itself.”

She scowled and exhaled smoke. “So I’m your goddamn errand girl, is that it?”

He shrugged. “Just a friendly reminder to the judges and lawyers just how far my reach extends.”

Myra looked back down at the list of names before looking back up at Zabo.

“These men were all arrested smuggling some serious weapons into the city. Two years ago, Zabo, I campaigned on stopping gun violence. Last year Hub was the most violent city in America per capita. If we were the size of Gotham we would clock almost three thousand murders a year. And you want me to help you set free the men who are contributing to that violence?”

Zabo’s face held no hint of warmth or understanding as he spoke. “That’s what the money’s for, Madam Mayor. It’s not the fucking voters who get you into office and keep you there. It’s my money.”

The car slowed to a stop near a curb. Zabo opened the door and started to get out.

“Never forget, Myra,” he said softly. “Who exactly you work for. And who exactly I work for, and how much power they carry. You wouldn’t be the first elected official they’ve seen succumb to ‘tragic circumstances’ and you wouldn’t be the last either. Work on the paper I gave you, and I’ll be in touch.”

---

Rucka Park Homes

Hector looked out the window on the courtyard below. He was nervous, anxious. Waiting for the other shoe to fall. Tucked into his waistband was a fully loaded Glock. It was so new Hector could smell the gun oil even now with it underneath his t-shirt. The gun was just one of almost one hundred brand new pistols, submachine guns, rifles, and fucking rocket launchers they had stashed in Clever’s mom’s house. Wherever El Beato had gotten all that fucking hardware, Hector was afraid to ask. But he was damn sure excited to use it.

“Get away from the window, fool.”

Hector looked over his shoulder as El Beato came in through the door. He wore grey sweatpants, a Hub City Warriors hoodie, and a red baseball cap with a flat brim. Around his neck were thick white gold chains.

“What are you out there looking at, anyway?”

Hector shrugged. “Just waiting… for shit to jump off.”

El Beato sucked his teeth. “It’s not jumping off until I say so. BMF ain’t crazy enough to walk up into the Rucka unless they got the goddamn Army behind them. They know this whole block is Spanish.”

Hector didn’t know what the initials BMF meant, exactly, but he knew that was the name of the black street gang Los Discípulos fought constantly over drug corners here in Hub City’s west side. It was mostly the occasional ass whooping or stray drive-by that missed their targets, but there were still bodies that got dropped. The body count at the moment was 4-1 in favor of BMF in the few years since Hector joined LD. But this crazy ass deal El Beato had pulled was going to change that.

“We gonna move on them later tonight,” said El Beato. “You know Popeye’s cousin, Tanya, with the big tits? Popeye said she's shacked up with one of them BMF fools. She knows, and now we know, where their stash house is. We raid that shit, take their stash, and scalp a few of them on the way out.”

El Beato started to rummage through a closet. When he emerged, he held a brand new AK-47 in his hands.

“Gonna go Jihad on those motherfuckers!”

What neither El Beato or Hector realized was that their conversation was being listened to. A hidden app on El Beato’s phone had been activated, turning the device’s microphone on for whoever was on the other end to listen as the two gang members planned the details of their raid on the BMF stronghold.

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

Hub City, Michigan

The American Dream is a lie.

I don't mean that in the quasi-socialist, Bruce Springsteen and John Mellencamp plight-of-the-working-class way.

I mean it never existed.

This nation wasn't founded with egalitarian ideals in mind. It wasn't founded for religious freedom. It wasn’t founded because of high taxes and low representation and all that other bullshit you’ve been spoon-fed in school. It was founded to be a kingdom for those with the wealth of kings and no land to rule. The New World would be theirs for the taking, a compact sealed in the blood of the Natives who had the audacity to call this land home before them. It was decided before the first shots were fired in Lexington and Concord, before the first treaties to the king, before the first chest of tea got chucked into the Boston Harbor, and even before the first anchor dropped off the New England coast.

The royalty of America? They used to have names like Bush, Kennedy, and Rockefeller. But they’ve been displaced by new names: Luthor, Polys, Musk, Bezos. The oil barons and slum lords have been replaced by the tech gods and “revolutionaries” who build their empires on the backs of minimum wage workers. They look like the bleeding edge, but make no mistake on where their loyalties lie. They are the oldest of the old guard, the powers that be, and the keepers of the status quo.

Over the past few years we’ve seen these men, because they are mostly men, command entire governments to do their bidding through political slush funds. Cops act as private armies and promote their interest. When the time comes that the cops can’t do enough, then the real private armies are broken out in the name of that oh so sacred American commandment: thou shall not destroy private property. The events of the last eighteen months have made it very clear how little regard for human life they have. We’re all just collateral damage in the ongoing crusade to expand profits and drive stock prices.

---

Hub City PD Deputy Commissioner Izzy O’Toole shook a cigarette out of the newly opened pack of Marlboro Lights. The wind of Lake Erie ripped down the alley O’Toole was standing in, sputtering the flame on his lighter out. O’Toole cursed and struck it up again. When he did, he saw a familiar figure looking at him from across the alley.

“Question: What did the pastor name his cigarette company?”



“Answer: Holy Smokes.”

O’Toole ignored the joke and instead blew a thick column of smoke into the air. The faceless man -- The Question -- kept his hands in his trench coat pockets. O’Toole had made his way up the police force through the detective bureau, and had become an expert at reading people. But this man was, pun intended maybe, a real blank when it came to anything. Not just facial cues, but also body language. He knew how to make himself an unreadable tome when it came to thoughts and intentions.

“Heard you got mixed up with some sort of gun runners the other night,” said O’Toole. “No deaths, but twelve arrested and six sent to the ICU.”

“I'm sorry it wasn't more.”

The Question reached into his trench coat. He pulled out a thick manila folder packed with papers.

“And the men I took down were more than just gun runners. They’re front line soldiers for the ‘Ndrangheta. They’re like if the American Mafia were run by Fortune 500 CEOs. They diversify their market share and dabble in everything from trafficking humans, to labor fraud, to loan sharking stockbrokers. They’re worth more than most country’s GDPs.”

He held up the thick folder and shook it.

“And they've found a nice toehold in Hub City. The guys I took down the other night I’d been tracking over the last six months. This is evidence, plenty to take them down and make them stay down.”

O’Toole took the hefty folder from The Question and tucked it under his arm.

“Jesus, it's as thick as a fucking brick,” said O’Toole. “You ever heard of a USB drive?”

“I’m not a fan of electronic data storage. For all the talk of the cloud and encryption, nothing is more hacker-proof than a piece of paper stored in a locked file cabinet.”

“I’ll see what I can do with this.”

The Question grunted. “If my theory is right, it’ll do very little.”

It was O’Toole’s turn to grunt in reply. The Question may have been nuttier than squirrel shit, but he was right about how justice in Hub City worked. If these gun smugglers were as connected as The Question claimed, a slick lawyer would waltz into the courtroom and get them a sweetheart bail. They’d jump it, of course, and disappear back to Europe never to be seen again.

“But there’s more in that folder than just info on ‘Ndrangheta, Deputy. There’s also evidence showing ties to gun running operations and ‘Ndrangheta arms dealers through Eastern Europe and the Middle East and a private military company once called Blackstar… since rebranded as Thornguard.”

That gave O’Toole pause. He raised an eyebrow at The Question.

“A PMC with shady ties isn’t anything new.”

“But a PMC with shady ties, the same PMC who now run day to day operations of Lemire State Penitentiary, a PMC whose shady business partners just so happens to be quietly opening shop here in Hub City. There are no coincidences, O’Toole. It’s all connected.”

O'Toole raised an eyebrow. “It’s not paranoia if they’re out to get you, right?”

“Just read the files, Deputy,” The Question said as he started down the alley. “Follow the money and question everything.”

---

There will come a time in our world where our governments will fail us, either by design or catastrophe. And on that day, the corporations will swoop in to fill the gap they left behind. A plan nearly fifty years in the making will come to fruition on that day. The decline and inevitable failure of our government institutions is a much bigger game than repealing laws and gerrymandering districts. It’s been a systematic neglect that's lasted for decades, all orchestrated to erode the power the government has and the peoples trust in it. They talked about the new world order in the 90’s like it was some abstract boogeyman, but it’s here. And it's always been here. You want to know what the new world order is? It’s not the Bilderberg Group, or Bohemian Grove, or the FreeMasons. The new world order is Disney and Apple, it’s Lexcorp and Amazon. The companies and products that have an iron hold on your day to day life. They’re weaving a net even now, linking commerce and politics with crime and corruption. It’s happening in front of our very eyes, slowly and surely and completely under the radar. And when the time comes and the net is dropped, we all end up entangled in its uncaring capitalistic snare. Long live our corporate overlords.

My name is Vic Sage, and I’m asking you to question authority, question your reality, Question Everything.

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

No plans. Only thing I ask is the character not be retconned

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>

Montoya's the only issue, brohan. The rest's awesome.

@Hound55

kinda figured

Sensation & Wonder: An Absolute Comics Roleplay [DC & Marvel One Universe Style Game]

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L

THE QUESTION

^{_{♦ VICTOR SAGE ♦ PODCASTER/JOURNALIST ♦ HUB CITY ♦}}

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

---

^{"I belong to the blank generation and I can take it or leave it each time"
-- Richard Hell}

Victor Sage is a former reporter for the Hub City Chronicle turned host of Crime & Punishment a wildly popular true crime podcast that examines cases of questionable conviction. But that's by day. By night? Well, that's the question isn't it?

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

---

I want to take some of the topics I started on in a Batman run (privacy rights, AI, forced prison labor, etc.) and transplant them to Q. I think he would work better for political topics.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:

---

Vic Sage -- Question.
Aristotle "Tot" Rodor -- Q's friend and ally (Deceased)
Al Kert -- Vic's podcast producer.
Izzy O'Toole -- Hub PD detective.
Myra Fermin -- Hub City mayor
Alexander Polys -- Tech billionaire
Calvin Zabo/Mr. Hyde -- Superpowered Hub city kingpin

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

A car filled with armed robbers hauled ass I-275. Their haul was pretty miniscule: less than two grand from the 24 hour check cashing place on W. Trade. But they didn't care, it was enough to get them by until their next score. And with them hitting a place in the middle of the night in a bad neighborhood, they would be long gone by the time the cops actually showed up.

But that's where I came in.

"Can't read my, can't read my, no he can't read my poker face!"​

I sang along with the radio as I sped down the interstate behind the robbers. I just so happened to be nearby when the news came over the scanner. My GTO is pushing 120 and humming along nicely without a hitch. God bless American cars. I pulled my .45 out the shoulder holster and aim with my left hand out the window while I kept the car steady with my right hand on the wheel.​

"P-p-p-poker face, p-p-poker face."​

BLAM!​

The gun kicked in my hands and the robbers' car starts spinning out of control as the bullet rips their back left tire to shreds. ​

The car slammed into the embankment and I zoom on past. I could already see the lights of the police car in the rearview mirror. They cops would have them surrounded in about thirty seconds after I left the scene.​

"Can't read my, can't read my, no he can't read my poker face!"

P O S T C A T A L O G:

---

TBA

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Sitka Federal District

Unter Tage
Sitka City

Yuri stepped into the Pearl of the Orient and made eye contact with Sammy. The squat Filipino man behind the counter gave Yuri a slow nod that contained a multitude of meanings without a single word needing to be uttered. Samuel Matteo Gonzalez, sole proprietor of the Pearl of the Orient, had been what the Sitka populous called a shtarker back in Manila. Rumor had it some very bad business a long time ago had him flee his home for Sitka’s cold embrace. In the time he had carved out quite a niche as restaurateur, occasional dabbler in bookmaking, and foremost knower of all the ins and outs of the Sitka criminal underworld.

He walked towards the counter as Sammy wiped the surface with a rag. Behind Sammy was a glass display case showing off the Pearl’s signature offering: The Shakoy. The braided doughnut was a staple of street food back in the Philippines, but Sammy’s secret recipe elevated the original dish to the point that it was one of the defining cuisines Sitka had to offer the world.

“If it isn’t my third favorite Russian,” Sammy said in Yiddish. He was fluent, but his accent coated every word like the cinnamon sugar that coated his doughnuts and made it sound strange in Yuri's ear. Jewish by way of the Southeast Pacific.

“Can I get two doughnuts, Sammy?” asked Yuri. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a roll of American greenbacks, all twenties, and peeled off six bills. “Also, how about a hundred and one bucks on Heshie Roth to win by KO tomorrow night.”

“It’s a fool’s bet,” Sammy said as he slipped the cash into his apron and passed Yuri a plate with two shakoys on them. “The Roth kid isn’t all he’s cracked up to be. Mitchell is going to wipe the floor with him. It's almost a crime for me to take your money... almost.”

Yuri focused on the doughnuts instead of arguing with Sammy. Part of him wanted to tell Sammy the inside scoop. But that bastard had taken him for a ride in the past on baseball and college football games, so Yuri figured he was due a string of bad luck. He bit into his first shakoy. The doughnuts held the perfect balance of crunchiness on the outer fried shell, and soft and tender in the dough beneath it.

Yuri let out a sigh of contentment after he swallowed his first bite. The shakoy doughnuts held a special place in his heart. It was one of the first things he’d eaten when he arrived in Sitka. A fresh off the boat teenager, skinny as hell and unsure of what to do next. He’d stumbled into the Pearl and Sammy, recognizing how hungry and lost the boy was, offered to front him two shakoys if he paid him back later. Yuri never forgot his kindness as well as the taste of his first doughnut.

“So you don’t just come in the middle of the night to drop some bet,” said Sammy. “What’s on your mind, kid?”

“Abe Titlebaum,” Yuri said after his third bite. “What does that name mean to you?”

What gave Sammy his knowledge when it came to his encyclopedia knowledge of shtakers, button-men, and kingpins wasn’t his own criminal past or his current occupation as a part-time bookie. No, it was the doughnuts. Everyone in Sitka flocked to the Pearl for the shakoys, cops and criminals and politicians alike all needed that sweet and soft crunch. The Pearl was neutral ground for even the most bitter blood feuds among gangsters. Everyone respected Sammy and he in turn respected them and learned everything there was to know. He could tell you who the pit boss at the North Star was schtupping on the side, how Charkov “The Siberian Strangler” Lebowitz liked his coffee, and he knew which current rebbe Black Hat controlled the Byzantine power structure that was the Hasidic criminal empire. In short there was not much Sammy didn’t know.

Yuri could tell Titlebaum meant a lot as soon as he saw the look on Sammy’s face. Very little made Sammy Gonzalez give pause. But the name Abe Titlebaum did just that. Sammy leaned forward on the counter. The knuckles on his big fists were tattooed with Tagalog characters Yuri couldn’t make out.

“He’s just not some shtarker. He’s old school. One of the original nakht mentshn that got kicked out of America and sent here. His pals like Siegel and Lanksy were well juiced enough they got to stay in the country, but not Ttilebaum. At least not back then. The guy may look like an old businessman, but that’s just a front. I’d ask why you’re asking, but I ain’t no schmuck. The perpetually broke Yuri Rudnitsky walks through my door flush with cash and asking about some gangster seemingly out of the blue. You going to work for him?”

“Something like that,” Yuri said, wiping bites of cinnamon sugar from his mouth. “He’s looking for muscle for something and David Kotel passed my name along.”

Sammy spat on the floor and cursed in Tagalog at the mention of the man.

“Don’t get me started on Kotel. A two-bit shylock who thinks he’s a boss...”

“You don’t owe him any money do you, Sammy?” asked Yuri.

“That’s not the point,” Sammy said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The point is Titlebaum is a very serious man and a very dangerous one. You don’t get to the top of the Stika criminal food chain and stay there without cutting a throat or fifty. He’s not some talent scout on the lookout for his heir. If he’s interested in you it’s because he can use you to either make money or hurt someone.”

Yuri finished his second doughnut and looked down at the plate that only held flakes of pastry and stray cinnamon sugar crystals.

“Let’s hope it’s just to make money.”

---

Goldrush Hills

The brakes on the unmarked police car squealed as Levy pulled up to 9815 Schalka Boulevard. The eight story Disraeli Hotel loomed above them in the early predawn darkness. A latke radio car was parked up front with its bubble lights on and flashing red and blue. Levy and Jake climbed out of the car and Levy’s eyes glanced up at the hotel. Most of the red neon lights outside the hotel’s front entrance were burned out, advertising it as the "D r li H t l." The sight of faded paint and dilapidated sign windows sent a wave of sadness through Levy’s heart.

The Disraeli, along with most of Goldrush Hills, had been where the upper middle class, mostly American Jews with some money, had flocked to during the early days of settlement. For the blue collar Levy family, Goldrush Hills and The Disraeli Hotel were destinations to aspire to. Its cutesy name, like all the first neighborhoods and streets of the district, was given to it by the American planners who laid out the grids and neighborhoods initially for the Jews that would come here to live.

“This used to be a nice neighborhood when I was a kid,” Jake said. “What the hell happened?”

“‘Nothing gold can stay’,” Levy said in American. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette and match. “Words to live by for a shamus as much as a poet.”

Those carefully laid plans of an orderly federal district soon went by the wayside as wave after wave of Jewish refugees appeared on the shores of Baranof Island. What was supposed to be a modest island settlement of half a million or so sprung up to a metropolis of over four million in a little over twenty year’s time. Rapid growth and expansion meant quaint little Goldrush Hills was left behind by the ex-Americans and given over to the fourth and fifth wave of poor immigrants. Urban decay and neglect followed rapidly in the wake of their flight.

Levy smoked as he and Jake approached the entrance to the Disraeli. Levy felt relief at the site of Moose Moskowitz’s beer belly as he stepped out of the hotel front entrance and hiked up his belt. Sergeant Michael “Moose” Moskowitz was around Levy’s age. The two men had started on the SPD at around the same time. Like Levy, Moose had been born and raised in America before his family relocated to Alaska. Unlike Levy, Moose had made a career out of being a patrolman. He still wore the potato brown khaki uniform that gave the patrolmen their latke nicknames, but these days he wore sergeant stripes on his shoulder. He technically outranked Levy, but in terms of investigation this would be Levy’s show. Which was why he was very glad to see Moose’s gut.

“How are ya fellas,” Moose asked in Yiddish that was tainted by his native Minnesotan accent. “The night manager is the one who found the body. I took a brief statement but figured you’d want him for further questioning. He’s in his office. I already called the coroner and sealed the scene.”

“Well,” said Levy. “I’m better now that you told me all that.”

Rule #1 to any and all homicide investigations: A victim can only be murdered once, a crime scene can be murdered many times over. The first officer on the scene has the duty to preserve the scene as they found it until detectives show up to investigate. They provided the foundation for the case the detectives would later build upon. And Levy had seen more than one of his cases go down the shitter thanks to the responding officer or coroner fucking up the scene.

One time, the latke who responded to a fatal stabbing in an Unter Tage back alley had taken the initiative to clean the blood from the scene as he waited for Levy to arrive. When Levy finally arrived, he found a dead body devoid of blood and wiped clean of any other vital clues thanks to this latke with shit for brains. His excuse when confronted by Levy? He always felt sick at the sight of blood so he had to clean it up, less he vomit all over the place. That was almost six years ago and Levy still carried that unsolved case in his ledger, and that latke was working a foot patrol so far west of here he could probably see Hawaii.

“Do you want the manager or the body?” asked Jake.

“The body,” Levy said without hesitation. “I always prefer the company of the dead to the living.”

---

Levy stood at the threshold of room 614 and looked inside. Minus the dead body, the contents of the room could be best described as a one-room bachelor flop. Levy noted the Murphy bed in the down position with ruffled and dirty sheets, the hot plate on the sink that allowed the hotel people to advertise the room as having a “kitchenette”, and the toilet facing the Murphy bed with barely six inches of space between them. Over the years Levy had sent plenty of men -- and in one case, a woman -- to the federal prison on McNeil Island for murder. He was sure those tiny little cells they would spend the rest of their lives in were less depressing than room 614 at the Hotel Disraeli.

Then there was the matter of the body.

A male body of what appeared to be average height was sprawled face down on the floor of the hotel room just beside the Murphy bed with the feet pointed towards the door. The body was clad in a soiled white undershirt, black trousers, and a pair of black dress shoes that were so worn Levy was almost certain he could see the soles of the body’s feet through the worn leather. A full head of gray hair covered the body’s head. No yarmulke on the back of the head, Levy noted. Not that his piety, or lack thereof, had anything to do with his present state.

He slipped on a pair of rubber gloves from his back pocket and took his first gingerly steps into the room. There had been a tape seal on the door before Levy opened it, so he knew Moose had done his job in upholding the crime scene’s virginity. Levy was careful not to step on anything on the carpet as he walked towards the body.

Along shelves mounted on the walls were personal items, the flotsam and jetsam of a person who Levy assumed lived a transitory life: A toiletry bag, a tin of chocolates, a carton of Bulgarian cigarettes, a small collection of paperback books, and a travel chess set. Though he knew better to assume the personal items belonged to the dead body on the floor. Levy’s twelve years as murder police taught him more than once just because someone died in a dwelling, it didn’t exactly mean it was theirs.

Levy felt his knees pop as he crouched over the dead body. This close up and he could make out the rash of red bumps and bruises up the body’s forearms. To your average yid, their natural assumption would be a bad case of acne or the singles. But Levy knew the sight of track marks right away. He was sure the toiletry kit on the nearby shelf would contain a burnt spoon, a lighter, and a syringe. And just like that something of a potential cause of death began to form in Levy’s mind. More of an assumption, really. He had to admit it was the half-ass schmuck in him wanting to not have to deal with the headaches and paperwork that came with a true homicide. If this was another junkie OD he and Jake could just bang out a quick incident report and call it a night… or day. He wasn't sure which was which anymore.

“Doesn’t look like I’ve missed much,” Jake said from the doorway.

Levy glanced back at his partner and saw him tucking a notebook back into the breast pocket of his jacket.

“I think I may have this one solved already, Jakey,” replied Levy. “The forearms are covered with track marks. Five will get you ten that I’ll find a crushed junkie works under the body.”

“Fool’s bet,” said Jake. “And I only bet money on sure things.”

“Then don’t bet on that little featherweight Jew to go the distance tomorrow night. My sister could kick Heshie Roth’s ass…”

“Your sister hunts wild bears in the Yukon,” said Jake. “She could kick almost any man’s ass.”

Levy nodded in agreement. There was little Levy feared, but Esther Levy was among those things.

“What did the night manager say,” asked Levy.

“He was pretty straight forward. He says the guy who rents the room was late on payments and he came in to start throwing his shit out when he found the body.”

Levy glanced towards the window of the hotel room. He could see the sky was beginning to lighten as night turned into day.

“Middle of the night eviction?” asked Levy. “Yeah.. that sounds about right. He get a name of the yid in question? The one he planned to evict?”

“Einstein. Albert Einstein.”

“Cute,” Levy murmured. “Too cute. Okay, now that I have a witness I want to turn the body over.”

Levy gently grabbed the body’s slim shoulders and began to turn. He began to curse in American the minute he saw the face of the dead body and the dried blood. On the dead man’s forehead was a neat little bullet hole. Small caliber so there had been no exit wound. The bullet had pinballed around the skull and shredded it into pulp before resting somewhere in the brainpan.

“Shit,” said Levy. Still holding the dead body -- victim, now -- he looked back at Jake. “Breakfast is on you, right? And you write the report?”

“You know,” Jake said with a small smirk. “Seeing Moose got me in a sudden craving for latkes so… yeah, breakfast is on me, partner.”

“Go get the manager,” said Levy. “See if he can ID the body and make sure this is the guy claiming to be Einstein dead on the floor.”

"Oh, geez," Moose Moskowitz said as his bulking frame appeared in the door beside Jake. He nodded at the dead man Levy still gingerly held on to. "That's quite a mess there, Ben..."

Levy looked at Jake and made a deadpan face. "With those powers of observation, Sergeant Moskowitz, how is it you never made detective?"

Into the Pines: An American Frontier Horror RPG

Cool. I think I'm going to work on an OOC thread and character sheet.

Here's a little something to give you an idea of the tone:

Into the Pines: An American Frontier Horror RPG

I'm in but do I have to actually write or

@Architect

Yes

Into the Pines: An American Frontier Horror RPG

“Death was the rule, life the exception. Life was at best a transitory dream, set in a universe that was entirely indifferent to his fate.”-- Daniel James Brown

Premise

The year is 1783 and the United States is hungry. The newly independent nation turns its eyes westward for expansion. Wealthy North Carolina judge Richard Henderson has brought famous trapper and frontiersman Josiah Burke into his employ to mount an expedition through the rugged Cumberland Gap and blaze a trail through to the other side of the Appalachian Mountains.

You are among the members of Burke’s party. You seek the adventure for your own reasons - be they fortune, fame, or the need to escape into the wilderness. With Burke at the helm you are preparing to mount up and venture into a land few have gone through, and even fewer have returned. You’ve heard rumors and whispers of the dangers that await you out there: Bears the size of houses, a cold so bitter it can put out a fire, savages who take scalps, and feral mountain men who eat anyone dumb enough to venture into the woods alone. You brush those stories off as gossip and conjecture and nothing more. But the truth is there is something there in the mountains, something black and wicked that beats in the very heart of the Appalachian mountains. And that something is waiting for you.

Concept

So essentially this is a group RPG that mixes history, survival, Southern folk stories, and some eldritch horror all into a delicious stew. As stated in the above premise, everyone would be a member of Burke’s expedition party. I would NPC Burke as GM and any characters/situations where I was needed to write. I'll have more details and maps if we can get more interest.