Byrd Man

Scum & Villainy [40k Underhive Gang/Outlaw Adventure RP] (No 40k knowledge necessary!)

I know very little about 40k, but I love crime fiction and hard-boiled stories so I'm down

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

Quarry vs. Parker
Part 2
"Right Time of the Night"

---

Baldwin, Missouri
November, 1977

Quarry was listening to some soul station while he drove the little rental car down the back country road. Glady Knight and the Pips sang about a midnight train to Georgia over the static as Quarry bounced over another pothole. Broker told him the underground casino was in Kansas City, but upon his arrival in town Quarry discovered it was in the Podunk backwoods of Baldwin, some 45 miles outside the city. After a drive out to Baldwin, he’d stopped at a service station and asked for directions to the Barn. The old man working the pumps rattled off directions like he’d done it for decades. He probably had, thought Quarry. An out of towner asking directions to the Barn was probably nothing new for him.

The Barn lived up to its name, thought Quarry. He pulled into the gravel parking lot. A giant red barn that stretched back across an empty field. An unlit neon sign bedside the road advertised it as “Missouri’s Best Watering Hole.” Quarry’s car was just one of a half dozen or so in the parking lot. He checked his watch and saw it was just before five. The place was technically open, but he would be one of the first customers of the day. A place like this didn’t really heat up until after dark, when that neon sign came on and the people from Kansas City came down to party.

---

Mick McKiernan looked at Quarry warily. Or maybe Quarry was just projecting thanks to McKiernan’s black eyes. Several days had passed since the assault, but his eyes were still black and purple. Otherwise the middle aged man looked to be in good health. Overweight and at that age where muscle begins to turn to fat, though the suit and tie he wore still seemed to fit well enough. Quarry figured he was an ex-cop before becoming security for the Barn. Someone in the Outfit had called ahead and told McKiernan to expect a “guy of theirs” to come in and look around. McKiernan, even if he wasn’t an ex-cop, had to know who Quarry was and what he would do to the thieves.

The two men sat at the bar in the lounge area. Only a few people were set up at the bar, one or two in the lounge chairs and couches stretched across the room. A bandstand on the far wall held musical instruments and a baby grand piano. Over their shoulder were double doors that looked like they were made of some sort of metal. He guessed through those doors was the casino portion of the Barn. As rustic as it looked on the outside, the inside of the Barn was well designed in a sort of retro aesthetic that to Quarry looked like it was early 30’s. He could see why the place was popular. If it were closer to actual civilization it may have been an even bigger operation.

“So there were three guys,” asked Quarry. “What’d they look like?”

“The two with shotguns, one was a tall redhead with bad acne and one was a short guy with dark hair and a fucking weasel face. Weasel-face was a lefty, the redhead was right-handed.”

Quarry lit up a cigarette. He at least had the observation skills of a cop.

“And the leader?”

McKiernan laughed bitterly as Quarry exhaled smoke.

“His face was gruesome. Like those old Boris Karloff movies, and he was big. Six foot five at least.”

“Someone told me that one of your guys here recognized the big guy, and said he went by Parker.”

McKiernan nodded. “Yeah. Raul, our piano player. He’s bounced around places like this over the years. Said he was in New Orleans back in ‘68 and big ugly was part of a crew that robbed a riverboat he was working on.”

“Ten years,” said Quarry. “That’s a hell of a long time to be an active thief like that.”

McKiernan pointed a finger at Quarry. “I worked Kansas City PD for thirty years, half of that time I was a robbery cop. These days most robbers are goddamn junkies. But these guys were real pros, a throwback to the guys back in the day. You gotta be a pro to stay alive and out of jail for that long.”

Quarry nodded and took another drag off his cigarette.

“They came in on a Sunday night, right? How much did they end up taking?”

McKiernan glanced at Quarry before his eyes darted out across the lounge. He sighed.

“We got a local bank we drop off to, but it’s closed on weekends. They took all the take from Friday and Saturday nights, along with what we had so far on Sunday. Based on receipts we’re talking somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred and fifty thousand.”

Quarry let out a low whistle. Fifty grand split for the three men. Or maybe less if there was a silent partner. Even still not a bad haul at all. Hell he was only getting paid twelve grand a body for this job.

“Anybody call out the night of the robbery or act unusual?” he asked.

McKiernan looked Quarry in the eyes and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’m not going down that road.”

“I just need you to answer the question,” said Quarry. “I’ll form my own conclusions. It’s my job.”

“No, okay,” McKiernan spat. “Or at least not from my back of the house people, the ones who would have helped those fucks get in. Front of the house – the cocktail waitresses and bartenders and cooks – they come and go like nothing. But back of the house, the security people, I hand picked them. They’ve been here at the Barn since I started five years ago. All ex-law enforcement. They know the real people who own this place, the ones you’re working for, and they know double crossing them is the worst decisions they could ever make because it brings fuckers like you out of the woodwork.”

Quarry let the silence between them linger. He actually admired McKiernan’s loyalty. It seemed to be a rare trait these days for any sort of manager or boss to go to bat for their employees. But even still, McKiernan had a job to do.

“Can I please get the names of the security people who worked that night?” he asked. “Along with a full list of all employees, front of the house and back, and their schedules?”

McKiernan glowered at Quarry. He slowly slid off his stool and made his way towards a door on the other side of the room. Quarry knew he couldn’t say no to him. He’d been given explicit instructions by the Outfit boys to let Quarry have full access to the place. The taking his sweet time was as much of a fuck you as he could safely muster. He came back five minutes later with four pages of names and work schedules. Quarry took them and said his thanks. McKiernan stared at him as he looked over the names. Quarry could feel his eyes on him but didn’t bother to look up.

“Were you Army or Marines?” McKiernan finally asked.

Quarry looked up at the older man. He saw a softening around McKiernan’s eyes.

"You carry yourself like ex-military. I know with that fucking long hair and mustache you ain't ex-cop."

“Marine,” Quarry said softly. “Three tours as an STA.”

“Scout sniper,” McKiernan nodded. “Tough work.”

“It was Vietnam,” he replied. “It was all ‘tough work’.”

McKiernan rolled up his right sleeve to show off a USMC tattoo on his forearm. ”I fought the Japs in the Pacific. You know, you boys got a raw deal over there and back home.”

“Yeah,” said Quarry. “Nobody ever spit on me and called me a baby killer… but I’m doing this kind of work now for a reason. Uncle Sam flicked the killer switch, and didn’t really give a damn about turning it off.”

Quarry looked up at McKiernan.

"Is Baldwin where I can find the closest payphone?"

---

It was a little after two in the morning when Quarry saw Mick McKiernan’s Cadillac pull out of the Barn parking lot and onto the rural route. Quarry finally sat up in the front seat of his car and stretched his back. He started his car and waited thirty seconds before pulling on to the road. McKiernan's Caddy had a half mile head start by the time Quarry started after him.

After getting the list of names of Barn employees, he’d gone into town to find a payphone. Quarry called in some favors from one of the many people inside Broker’s information network. The voice on the other end of the static filled line couldn’t tell him anything about Parker, but when he asked about McKiernan himself he got loads of information. The man had been KCPD for sure, but eight years ago got run out for corruption. That didn’t surprise Quarry. He was sure all the guys at the Barn had been ex-cops formerly on the take. But with McKiernan his scam was charging protection and passage to independent thieves who wished to operate in Kansas City. He’d been fingered by Peter and Baxter Edgemont, two brothers who had paid McKiernan and still gotten arrested.

The scandal that followed was covered in the papers. McKiernan resigned and eventually went to trial, where a deadlock jury couldn't find him guilty or not guilty. That state cut its losses after the mistrial and didn't retry McKiernan again. Quarry asked his source to dig deeper on the two brothers and, sure enough, one article described Pete Edgemont as tall, redheaded, and with a pockmarked face. Bax Edgemont, meanwhile, was short and “rotund.” Quarry was sure the papers had struggled on if they should describe his weasel face or not. So Parker’s two partners were the two men who had ruined McKiernan’s career… and he hadn’t thought to mention that to Quarry? After his phone call, Quarry had gotten a burger for dinner and drove back to the Barn, hiding his car in the now almost full parking lot. He settled in and watched the door and waited. According to the schedules McKiernan would be there until a little after two.

Quarry rounded a corner that came to a long stretch of road. He could see McKiernan’s car still in the distance. Close tails were impossible on these backroads so he had to trust Mick was headed back to Kansas City for the night. If he darted down a side road or took another path while Quarry was out of view then he’d lose him. It took Quarry a few miles to realize they weren’t heading towards Kansas City, but instead further east. He felt his skin prickle at the thought. His info on McKiernan said he lived in Independence, Missouri, just outside KC proper. Where in the hell were they going?

After what felt like thirty miles he saw McKiernan’s car pull down a side road. Quarry killed his lights and slowly drove down the road in the dark. He squinted as he came up on where McKiernan had turned. It looked like a gravel road. In the dark there was no way to tell how far it stretched, but he could just make out a light not too far away. Quarry pulled to the side of the road and killed the engine. He grabbed his pistol out of the glovebox, along with his leather gloves, and quietly got out of his car. He closed the door softly and started down the gravel road.

Even in the darkness he could see some kind of house down the end of the road. There were a few lights, just enough to see the outline of cars that came into view as he approached the house. He could see McKiernan’s caddy parked there along with a burnt orange Ford pickup. He crept up to the pickup and glanced in. He saw a heavy wooden nightstick resting on the pickup’s seat.

He turned towards the house and continued to slowly walk towards it. As he approached he could hear voices, McKiernan’s among them. Crosstalk with a few different people. One of the voices was gruff. That had to be Parker. Quarry got on his stomach and slowly crawled to a window. He slowly lifted his head to look inside.

There was McKiernan along with the Edgemont brothers. McKiernan had one hand on his hip while his other hand gestured towards a coffee table where three duffle bags rested. The two brothers sat on a couch facing the bags while Parker, in all his gruesome glory, stood closest to it while he faced McKiernan and talked, his arms crossed.

Quarry had to figure a way to get inside, take down all four of them, and get away with the money. Maybe it would be as simple as just waiting outside and picking them off one by one? He did have a sniper rifle in the car. He could just camp at a distance and blow them all away. He didn’t see any guns in the room, but the two shotguns McKiernan said the Edgemont brothers used were nowhere to be seen in the pickup. And there was no way in hell guys like McKiernan or Parker did anything without a gun nearby.

“We need to split it up now!” Quarry heard McKiernan say through the windows. “These are serious people we took off and they’ve already sent a guy to find us all out. The sooner we take the money and get out of here the better we’ll be.”

Parker said something Quarry couldn’t make out, but whatever it was it pissed McKiernan off. He started towards the big man. One of the Edgemont brothers shouted something as Quarry looked to his right and saw the two brothers staring at him through the window, Bax pointing with a stubby finger. He saw Parker turn around and look. His eyes, as cold as an icebox in December, fell on Quarry.

And that was when McKiernan pulled his gun and all hell broke loose.

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

3 (Africa) - 7 (Severe) - 4 (Posts)

Insert: NBC News Report
09/10/55

“Welcome back to NBC Radio News, brought to you by Sullivan’s Menthol Cigarettes. A taste of Sullivan’s is just what the doctor ordered. Now here is Martin St. John.”

“Turning to the international stage tonight, it seems what was originally small-scale rioting in Nigeria has blossomed into a full-blown civil war. A group of Muslim Nigerians have established a breakaway organization called the Fulani Liberation Army -- or FLA -- declaring the Northern Nigerian city of Kano as an independent region under their control.

This comes after weeks of civil unrest across the northern part of the country, an unrest that so far has taken the lives of hundreds of civilians and over fifty police and Nigerian Army soldiers. The spark for the violence was the seemingly anti-Muslim comments from President Akinwunmi Jacobs during a radio interview last month.

In the weeks since the initial outbreak President Jacobs has seemingly doubled down on his statements about Muslims and has not backed down. Last week the president declared country-wide martial law and mobilized two divisions to the north to suppress protests and violence.

The leader of the FLA, identified as only General Musa, issued a brief statement that read as, quote, ‘The President believes it is God’s will that Islam be broken. I believe it is the right and duty of every Muslim in Nigeria to fight for their religion and their right to worship Islam under the protection of the Fulani Liberation Army. I know me and my brothers will fight and die for that right, but how motivated are President Jacob’s Christian pawns?’ end quote.

When asked for comment, both President Jacobs’ office, and the British Foreign Office, which still oversees Nigeria loosely in accordance with the Federalization Act of 1937, declined to comment. More on this story as it develops.

Now to sports. Today the Brooklyn Dukes completed a three game sweep of the Pittsburg Pirates and overtook the New York Giants for first place in a tightly contested pennant race…”

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

It never dies. Just post when you get around to it

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

Part I
"So You Win Again"

---

Kansas City
November, 1977

“You’re dead.”

Mick McKiernan squinted through his swollen eye at the man in the black turtleneck. His back was turned to Mick as he was busy tossing duffle bags out the window. Mick knew that each bag contained roughly fifty thousand dollars in cash broken down into small, untraceable bills. The three men had came through the door like a fucking whirlwind, the two smaller guys with shotguns while the big guy carried a nightstick like it was a goddamn club. Mick was sure he'd crack Manny's skull with that fucking thing. The blow to Mick's face had sent him to the floor, a shotgun butt into the back of the head keeping him down for a few minutes.

“You and your friends are fucking dead,” he added, hoping to get a rise out the big guy.

Mick saw the man bristle at the threat. He stopped tossing the bags out the second story window and instead turned to look at Mick. Mick flinched under the man’s gaze. He had a face that looked as if it had been sculpted out of clay, raw a sharp edges. Mick had been mobbed up for over forty years and had seen his share of tough faces and mean mugs. But this guy’s face? He’d never forget the sight for as long as he lived.

The big man grabbed Mick by his lapels with two huge hands. The tiptoes of Mick’s shoes slid across the hardwood floor as the man held him up over his head.

“Is that a threat,” he said coolly. The big hands began to find their way around Mick's neck. He gasped for air at the big man showed his teeth and throttled him. “Or a promise?”

---

Chicago
Three Days Later

Quarry slid into the booth just as Broker finished his soup. The fat, middle aged man with pea soup on his tie and a thick mustache looked more at home at a Rotary Club meeting than overseeing any sort of criminal enterprise. He always reminded Quarry of Captain Kangaroo, the children's TV host. Looks were always deceiving, thought Quarry. Broker was without a doubt the most dangerous man he knew. And considering his past and present associates, that was really saying something.

“How was the drive down from Wisconsin?” Broker asked.

Quarry shrugged. He didn’t want to show his annoyance. When he wasn’t working, Quarry had a little farmhouse on Lake Du Bay he called home. It was a solitary life and he loved the quiet and he worked hard to keep his home a secret. A small hint of a smile played on Broker’s lips as he lit up a cigar. Quarry remembered the same smile on Broker’s lips years ago, when Quarry had just gotten off for murdering his soon to be ex-wife’s boyfriend. It was a scandalous story that was in all the tabloids. A Marine returns home from ‘Nam, finds his missus in bed with another man, and just snaps. It attracted all kinds of attention. Death threats, love letters, and the occasional crackpot. Quarry originally thought Broker was one of the crazies when he pulled up to his house in that big Lincoln.

“You killed for country and honor, for revenge, and hell… even pussy,” Broker had said that day. “How would you like to kill for money?”

“I want to personally thank you for that mess you cleaned up in Miami,” Broker said, exhaling smoke above his head. “Those goddamn Cubans, they mix politics and drug running up and before you know it they’re getting high on coke and seeing communist around every corner.”

“Buddy died over their bullshit,” said Quarry. “I wasn’t about to let them walk away from it alive.”

Broker nodded and puffed on his cigar. Quarry was not sure just how deep the criminal iceberg was with Broker, but he knew at the very least he had a small squad of men at his disposal like Quarry. They were all professionals who were trained – most by the US Armed Forces – who eliminated problems the Broker and any of his cohorts may need dealt with. They operated all over North America, killing as needed and were paid handsomely for their services. Quarry's house and car were paid for and his nest egg a small fortune. Despite his wealth, he had no doubt the Broker got the lion’s share of his earnings as the go-between.

“Buddy was a good one,” said Broker. “I’m working on getting you another partner. But this job I got line up should be easy enough that it can be done solo.”

“Where am I headed?”

“Kansas City,” said Broker. “At least at first. Two nights ago three guys went into an underground casino on the outskirts of the city. They were pros too. I don’t know the tally for sure, but they got away with at least six figures. No shots fired, no dead bodies, just a few casino employees beaten up.”

Quarry let out a low whistle. To go into a place like that, a place no doubt on high alert for any kind of robberies, and to walk away unscathed meant a few things to Quarry: The guys who went in were damn good pros. And…. they had to have an inside man.

“Where do I come in?” he asked Broker.

“They don’t realize how bad they fucked up,” Broker said with a humorless smile. “The casino is known as an independent holding, but they have a silent partner. Mikey Talarico, capo in the Chicago Outfit.”

Quarry frowned slightly at the news. The mob was involved? He knew Broker sometimes did contact work for the Italians, but it was rare.

“What?” Broker asked.

“They got their own guys,” said Quarry. “Their own trigger men, button men, whatever you wanna call it. Why pay us for it?”

“To keep up the illusion of it being an independent joint,” said Broker. “Independent hitters take out independent thieves of an independent casino. Keeps things neat.”

“I guess,” Quarry said with a shrug. It still seemed convoluted to him. But at the end of the day he was just a bullet, Broker and the people above him did the aiming and firing. “Do we know anything about the thieves?” he asked.

“The guy running the show that night has a rep,” said Broker. “He got ID'd by a few casino employees. His looks are... one of a kind. He’s kind of a walking miracle in that he’s a lifelong independent thief who has yet to have spent major time in the joint or ended up in a shallow grave. Big mean guy. Maybe you heard of him? Parker.”

“Parker what?” asked Quarry.

“Just Parker. Like Quarry. Just Quarry.”

“Never heard of him,” said Quarry. "But I'll help him with an easy transition into retirement."

Quarry
vs.
Parker
A Byrd Man Yarn

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Sitka Federal District

Chichagof Island

Ruth Endlemen-Coen’s eyes fluttered open. She could hear the sound of a ringing phone even over Danny’s buzzsaw snore. She scowled at her husband of fifteen years as he peacefully slept, unburdened with ringing telephones and anything that wasn't his own dreams. Her scowl was one of envy. Just once -- just for one night -- she would have liked to have slept as deep as Danny did every night. She wouldn't have to worry about ringing phones or crying children. Just blissful oblivion.

She slipped out of bed and found her slippers before padding towards the still ringing phone. This time of night, it could only be someone from Washington. Ruth peered at the clock on the wall through sleep blurred vision. 5AM Sitka time which meant it was 9AM on the American east coast. Somebody just starting out their work day had something that couldn’t wait for Ruth to get to the office four hours later.

Ruth snatched the phone off the cradle and answered in American, “Someone better be dead, dying, or the United States better be undergoing another fucking presidential coup.”

“Morin' to you too, Ruthie. A little birdie told me Greenleaf is at the White House right now. He's getting the approval coming back to Alaska to call for a constitutional convention.”

“Shit,” Ruth spat.

The southern-tinged voice on the other end was Joe Dawkins, Undersecretary for the Department of the Interior and Ruth’s boss. Greenleaf was Ernest Greenleaf, governor of the Alaska Territory and chauvinist on all things Alaskan statehood.

Ruth sighed and transferred the phone to the other ear. She glanced at the photos on the opposite wall. There were plenty of her and Danny and their two boys, but also photos of old men and women in black and white photographs. Portraits of Ruth’s ancestors in the days they called Germany home. Photos of Ruth and her brothers when she was just ten, photos of the entire Endlemen-Moses family outside their Sitka homestead in the days before the great migration began. Her Uncle Bob held a hand drawn sign in the photo "Welcome to Sitka: Home of the Frozen Chosen."

“If Greenleaf wants to make Alaska a state, that’s fine with me,” said Ruth. “My issue is he’s building statehood on the backs of four million Jews. Four million Jews, over a quarter of which are rightful US citizens and the rest in some murky limbo where they are citizens of Sitka in particular, but nothing else in general.”

“Save the speeches for the politicians,” said Dawkins. “I’m giving you a heads up because I don’t want some reporter trying to sandbag you and catch you off guard, okay. If they ask for a statement you tell them you are simply a federal employee, Alaska statehood is not your concern and you have no comment. Do not go on the record, Ruthie. I’m serious.”

Ruth bristled in silence as Dawkins continued to lecture her. His early call wasn’t the first step of some plan to change Greenleaf’s mind. No, it was a simple warning to keep her big yap shut. It was demeaning, standing here in her pajamas and slippers as a middle aged man talked to her, a thirty-six year old mother of two, like she was some child. Okay, she knew she had something of a track record when it came to the topic of statehood. She’d made it well known to anyone who would listen her thoughts on the matter. If the people she told in the past just so happened to be reporters, that wasn’t her fault now was it?

“You understand me, Ruth?” Dawkins finally said. “I need you to promise me you won’t go on the record to the press.”

A moment of silence passed. Ruth looked up at the photos on the wall again. She’d been here in the cold and snow for over twenty years, before people like Dawkins even knew where the hell Sitka was. How in the hell could he tell her to not fight for this place and these people?

“I promise,” she said, a smirk forming on her face. “To not go on the record to the press.”

---

Sitka Central

“So who killed Albert Einstein?”

Levy ignored Jake’s question as the two detectives rode the cage elevator up to the fifth floor. Sitka PD Central was a seven story dump of a building that sat at the corner of Lake Avenue and Gold Street. Bookings, holding cells, and the city jail comprised the basement and first two floors while the detective bureaus comprised floors three through five. While Sitka PD had six precincts that dotted the island, all investigations were ran out of Sitka Central. The third floor was all OCB – Organized Crime Bureau – territory. The fourth floor was home to narcotics, bunco, and vice. The fifth floor held the violent crimes bureau which included homicide, robbery, and sex crimes. The top two floors held administration. Whenever something came down from the bosses, it always was said “Seventh Floor wants this done," and in Levy's humble opinion Sitka Central would run much better without the top two floors.

Outside of the always opaque OCB, Levy had bounced around the other various departments as a detective. He’d gotten his start as a plainclothes cop working bunco, busting conmen and fraudulent fortune tellers Unter Tage. From there it was a two year deployment in narcotics followed by a wild three year run in robbery. His work on the Hebrew National Bank job helped springboard him to a plumb posting in homicide, and he’d been a murder police ever since. Levy had never personally gone back and looked at his numbers, but he knew enough based on memory to know his clearance rate had to be skewered higher than the average shamus Sitka entrusted to solve their murders. He was competent and knew how to avoid political shitstorms. Unless he fucked things up royally he could stay in homicide until he reached his 30th year of service and pulled the pin.

“I know who killed Albert Einstein,” Levy finally said, pulling open the cage door as the elevator halted on the fifth floor.

Jake perked up and looked at Levy expectantly

“An aneurysm…”

Jake furrowed his brow. “What?”

Levy pulled out a cigarette and lit up. “What do you mean what? You don’t remember the papers all last spring? Albert Einstein was some egghead yid who was president of Germany in the 40’s.”

“Really?” asked Jake. "So, a fake name on the registration."

“Yeah, considering the real Einstein died back in April. Wouldn't be the first time someone didn't put down their real name at a flop like the Disraeli.”

The two detectives walked down the hall towards the homicide unit. The fifth floor was quiet at this time of morning, just past seven in the morning, the last hour before shift change. The day squad hadn’t come in, and the night squad who hadn't left for the day were hunkered down and watching the clock, praying they could get through the last hour without being called out. No such luck for Detectives Levy and Abrams. Because of the call to the Disraeli the sun would be well into the sky by the time they were done with their paperwork.

Back at the crime scene Jake waited for medical examiners to show up to take possession of the body. Levy and Moose Moskowitz canvassed the residents of the sixth floor of the Disraeli Hotel for any potential leads. All they got were bleary-eyed people grumbling they hadn’t heard anything so please leave them alone. The ME’s had shipped the body to the city morgue where Dr. Feldenstein would do an autopsy later today. After that it was breakfast, Jake’s treat as penance for conjuring this murder with his words. Levy had opted for waffles at the all night diner. Seeing Moose Moskowitz in his lumpy, all-brown uniform killed his taste for latkes.

They walked into the bullpen of the homicide unit and found a sleeping Detective Mel Horovitz the only one "on-duty" at the moment. Horvitz had his feet propped up on his desk, his blazer wrapped around his front as cover. The bullpen contained twelve desks sectioned off in pairs facing each other. In the corner, behind glass, was Captain Katz’s office. The current squads were broken down into three eight men shifts. Twenty-four total detectives assigned to work and close the 150 plus murders Sitka City had every year. Broken down that meant every detective worked between 6 and 8 homicides a year. Levy, Jake, and the six other detectives on the nightshift would switch to the day shift of 8AM to 4PM in a month’s time, they’d stay there for three months before taking the evening shift of 4PM to Midnight, and then another three months before switching back to nights.

Levy took his porkpie hat off and rubbed the thinning, curly dark hair underneath. No yarmulke underneath his hat like Jake. He couldn’t remember the last time he wore one. His cousin’s wedding back in ‘52? That was probably it. He placed the hat and his coat on a rack beside the door and walked towards his desk. The desk across from his belonged to Detective Hiram Berg. Berg worked the afternoon shift this current rotation, so he and Levy were like ships in the night as they passed each other. But that didn’t stop them from their game.

On the corner of the workspace they shared was a small travel sized chessboard in the middle of a game. Levy played black and Berg was white. The rules were only one move could be made by each side per shift they worked. The current game had been going on for two weeks now and to anyone who knew the game it appeared that Berg had the upper hand. But that was Levy’s intent. He was playing a King’s Indian Defence, ceding control of the middle of the board to white and lulling Berg into a false sense of superiority. In a few more moves Levy would pounce on Berg’s pieces and surround his king. Levy surveyed the board with his hands on his hips. After about a minute of calculation, he moved a bishop to H6 for his turn that day before going towards the big board.

The large chalkboard took up almost the entire far wall of the room. Written on it was a variety of information – squad schedules and changes, reminders of upcoming training classes, even some scribbled bets and odds on that night’s Heshie Roth fight – but most important were the list of names and detectives that formed the grid. The twenty-four detectives of the homicide unit were broken down into a twelve square grid, each square representing a detective paring. Underneath the pairings were names and numbers – homicide victims and case file numbers – that were were color coded. Names and cases in white chalk were closed, names in pink chalk were still unsolved.

Levy crossed his arms as he watched Jake write underneath their name: “M1955173 - ‘Einstein’' in pink chalk. Murder number 173 for the year 1955. Shit, thought Levy, they stood a good chance to top over 200 by year’s end. Levy counted ten names above Einstein. Of those ten only two were still pink. Einstein made for the third open unsolved on their books. Far better than most other pairs on the board. That was the best thing to Levy about the big board. You could tell right away which detectives were solving cases and which were just soft humping them. The Rabinowitz-Greene team were either the worst or unluckiest duo on the board, twelve pink cases and only one white to show for it. But Levy had been there before. His 1949 year saw him go 0-8 on murders. That year the Unter Tage had been ripped apart by a shtarker gang war. Every single murder Levy caught that year was a victim of the war. No way to trace the killers and no cooperative witnesses. Nobody saw shit, nobody said shit, and nobody got arrested or convicted. His repeated requests to OCB for info on the victims were, as far as he knew, still under consideration pending approval from a supervisor. Maybe he’d get those files before 19 fucking 70.

“So who killed ‘Albert Einstein’, Detective?” Levy asked his partner, an eyebrow raised. “How about we find out?”

---

Ruth held an umbrella over her head to fight the slow, steady drizzle coming down from above. Her large purse sat in the crook of the arm that held the umbrella. In her other hand was a briefcase. She wore a trench coat over her dress to keep it protected from the elements. She was downtown at the corner of Lake Avenue and Trout Boulevard. The federal building and her office was just down the block, cars passed by on both streets while the rain seemed to not deter the throng of commuters walking the sidewalks on their way to work. Ruth had taken the train in from Chichagof Island that morning. It probably wasn’t any faster than driving into the city, but she liked the time to sit on the train and think. To plan what she wanted to do with the information Dawkins had laid on her lap hours earlier.

She glanced towards the federal building again. City hall sat directly across the street from it, Sitka Central next to it on the corner of Lake and Gold. She checked her watch and saw it was just past nine now. Uncle Bob would be into work by now. That was good. She could make this first little salvo and then consult with him. Because if there was one man who could see all the angles, it was Robert Moses.

The payphone door slid open easily enough. Ruth stepped in and shut it behind her. She shook the rain from her coat and umbrella before fishing through her purse for change. Ruth fed the machine a dime and waited for the operator to pick up.

“Eydish oder Rusish?” the voice on the other line asked.

“Yiddish,” replied Ruth.

“How may I direct your call today?”

“Connect me with OXford145, please.”

“One moment.”

Ruth heard the silence and fuzz, followed by a steady purr of a phone ringing.

“New York Times, Sitka Bureau. How may I direct your call?”

“I’d like to speak to Artie Mayfield.” said Ruth.

“Who should I say is calling?”

“Ruth Coen.”

“Hold please.”

Almost a minute of silence until she heard the nasal voice of Arthur Mayfield.

“A good Sabbath eve Ruth, my dear. It is my honor, no, my privilege to be conversing with you on this Sabbath eve. What in the manner of answer, solution, or resolution can I provide for you today, Sabbath Eve?”

“Artie,” she said in America. “Drop the Yiddish.”

Though he would never confirm or deny, word was Baltimore native and Times reporter Arthur Mayfield jumped headfirst into his Sitka bureau assignment by learning Yiddish from an old German professor at Johns Hopkins. The problem? The old Jew’s Yiddish was even older than him, early 19th century and very formal. This left him with a stilted and very redundant way of speaking Sitka’s primary language. The joke was if Artie Mayfield could order a pizza in thirty minutes or less it was on the house.

“What can I do for you, Ruth?” he asked in his native tongue.

“Governor Greenleaf is in DC this week. This is deep background, but he’s drumming up federal support for a constitutional convention back in Juneau. He wants Alaskan statehood soon.”

“Where does that leave Sitka?” Artie asked. Ruth could hear something in the background, a soft scratch that was probably Mayfield writing notes.

“Nobody knows yet, but if Alaska gets statehood it’s because of Sitka’s population. All these Jews that fled and were born here, they deserve citizenship as much as our goyish friends in Juneau or Nome. So if the governor’s plan is to call a convention, you can bet Sitka will have representatives there. Whether we’re invited or not.”

“How much of this can I use?”

Ruth could hear the excitement in his voice. She remembered Dawkins words. No comment on the record. On the record.

“Keep me anonymous, Artie, and you can use it all.”

“Perfect. I gotta let you go. I need to start making calls back to DC and New York. It’s already the afternoon there.”

“Happy hunting,” Ruth said with a smile on her face. “Keep in touch.”

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

Yep. Wife's office Christmas party kind of interrupted things

@Hound55

Hound, seen here, in the middle of the party:

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

Hub City, Michigan

Thank you for tuning in to WHUB. Tonight a small group gathered around the offices of the Hub City Chronicle for a candlelight vigil, staff members coming together in memory of one of their own. Today marks the fifth anniversary since his disappearance. WHUB’s own Miriam Weisner-Martinez has the story.

“Vic was a lot of things. He was a great colleague, a good friend, and -- because of his job -- a professional pain in the butt.”

That’s Nora Lace, editor in chief of the Hub City Chronicle. She’s one of over a dozen people here tonight to remember investigative reporter Victor Sage on the anniversary of his disappearance. A native of Hub City who joined the paper right out of college, Sage was known for his in-depth investigations on municipal affairs. In 2014, Sage and the Chronicle were nominated for a local reporting Pulitzer after the ten-part series on O’Neil County’s dysfunctional and underfunded jail system.

In 2016, Sage seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth. Lace says that while Sage was prone to long absences in the name of his work, a move like this was completely out of character.

“Vic was a newshound, you know? When he was working on a story we may not see him for a week at a time. So we were used to not hearing anything from him at first. We thought he'd check in eventually. But Al was the one who came to me with some concern that Vic wasn’t okay.”

Al being Al Kert, head of the Chronicle’s multimedia department who at the time was feature editor, the one person on the paper who worked closely with Sage.

“Vic and I kept in touch pretty regularly when he was working on a story, just bouncing ideas back and forth. It got to almost a month and I hadn’t heard from him. I started texting, getting bounce backs from my message. Then I started to call. His number was no longer in service.”

A welfare check by HPD found that Sage’s apartment was still filled with his belongings and no signs of either a struggle or a hasty attempt to pack and leave. All his earthly possessions, save a laptop, were still in the apartment. When asked about the matter, HPD issued no comment as it was still an active missing persons case.

But the question is, what was Sage working on in the weeks leading up to his disappearance? Lace doesn’t know and even Kert, Sage’s closest confidant, is in the dark.

“That was Vic. We collaborated, but only after he had the framework -- the bare bones -- of a story. That part could take months to form. So whatever the new topic was at the time, he never let me in on it.”

Could who or whatever Sage was investigating be behind his sudden disappearance? Five years on there’s really no way to tell, but that hasn’t stopped Lace and the rest of the Chronicle’s staff from gathering here tonight to remember their lost colleague, and to hope for his safe return.

“Wherever Vic is, I hope he’s safe. And I hope one day he’ll come back to us with one hell of a story.”

Reporting downtown for WHBU, I’m Miriam Weisner-Martinez.

---

Ditko Terrace Homes

“Oh, shit, it’s 12!”

Hasseem cursed and looked out the window. Sure as shit, a black SUV was parked on the lawn of the courtyard and six men in cop uniforms were rushing towards the door. Railand, the young boy BMF used as a lookout, was already hauling ass down the street now that he’d warned the men inside the stash house what was coming.

He did a quick mental inventory of what was inside the bungalow style project house. At least twenty kilos of heroin, another ten keys of uncut cocaine, about twenty grand in cash, and enough weapons to overthrow a small Caribbean nation. Hasseem knew he and the four other guys at the stash house were about to go away for a long time. He just wondered who had fucked up and not given the police their kickback?

“On the ground, motherfuckers!” One of the cops yelled as the door flew open.

Hasseem looked down the barrel of an honest to god AK47. The cop flipped him over with a hard kick to the ribs. He gasped for air as he felt zipties constrict around his wrist.

“Meech paid you motherfuckers off,” Hasseem gasped. "You want more?"

“Shut the fuck up, pendejo,” the cop growled.

Something about the choice of words gave Hasseem pause. It was like it unlocked something in his brain. He started to piece things together as he watched the other cops spread out through the stash house. AK-47 sure as shit wasn’t standard issue for no police Hasseem had ever seen. And then there was the makeup of the cops here. All latino. No blacks and no whites, and no way in hell Hub City had some unit that was all minority. Hasseem caught sight of some ink on one of the cops forearms. A stylized LD with three tally marks beneath it. Hasseem cursed when he saw the tat. LD stood for Los Discípulos, the three tally marks stood for the gang member’s body count thus far.

“Fuck,” Hasseem screamed. “These motherfuckers ain’t cops. They goddamn LD!”

That was when all hell broke loose. The BMF guys not already restrained started for their weapons, the “cops” did the same. Hasseem started to wiggle around in a fruitless attempt to break his restraints. There was a crash of glass and something flew through the house with a loud hiss. Gunfire broke out just as gas filled the room. Hasseem coughed and tried to see through it all. Somebody stepped over his prone body and rushed into the gas. He heard a rapid burst of gunfire, followed by screams. One of the LD members flew through the air and crashed through a glass coffee table beside Hasseem. More gunfire, more yells of pain and thuds.

Hasseem squinted as he saw someone step out of the gas cloud.



“Question: What kind of bird doesn’t fly?”

Hasseem screamed at the sight of the faceless man.

“A jailbird.”

The man drove Hasseem's head into the floor, knocking him out in one swift movement.

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

CONGRATULATIONS: ___________________________________ I'm happy to announce that the following players have had their character applications accepted! A C C E P T E D S H E E T ( S ): Fantastic Four aka Reed and Susan Richards, Johnny Storm and Ben Grimm - @Cybermaxx The Question aka Victor Sage - @Byrd Man

@Lord Wraith

……

Thanks for that. Not sure what I would have done without the okay

His Son Will Ride a Camel

I'm here for it