Byrd Man

Territory Daze: A Pro-Wrestling Promotion RPG

I'm guessing we'll need some NPC territories to round out the NWA so I'm working on them now. If you have any ideas or suggestions shoot them my way. I imagine there will be at least two big territories in the Northeast (ala WWF) and the south (ala WCW) that will serve as the two leaders of the NWA.

The way the champions work, like in the old territory system, is each promotions have their own regional territories but the NEW controls the world titles. The championships are controlled by the NWA booking committee and they tend to favor the bigger promotions when it comes to the champs.

Here's the list of champs going into the game.

NWA WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION
Rich Money (Northeast Territory (NORTHEAST TERRITORY), rich heel gimmick)

NWA JR HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION
Tony Allardice (Chicago’s SCW, heel soccer hooligan gimmick)

NWA NATIONAL CHAMPION
Ronnie Spicolli (California’s WCCW, face surfer dude gimmick)

NWA WORLD TAG TEAM CHAMPIONS
The Terrifying Thunderbirds (SOUTHERN TERRITORY), heel good ole boy tough guy gimmicks)

Territory Daze: A Pro-Wrestling Promotion RPG

I know nothing of wrestling but the tabletop nature of it and the idea of running them outside of matches sounds kinda awesome

Is there a single book I can read that can give me enough context on the subject?

@Enarr

"The Squared Circle" by David Shoemaker is a really good overview of the sport and its history up until the modern era.
"Death of the Territories" by Tim Hornbaker covers the NWA and its eventual demise at the hands of the WWF.
"We Promised You a Great Event" by Bill Hanstock covers mostly the WWF/E. It's an unauthorized biography so it's very much warts and all.

Squared Circle would probably be your best bet probably.

Territory Daze: A Pro-Wrestling Promotion RPG

Glad to see some interest! I know this is super niche stuff, hopefully we can get a few more to bite. I'll try to work on an OOC thread this week

Territory Daze: A Pro-Wrestling Promotion RPG

“We make our own gods for our own purposes. And we love them, and that’s the whole point.”
-- David Shoemaker

Snapshot of the NWA circa 1976

TLDR;

• An alternate history pro-wrestling game asking “What if the WWF never killed the territories?”
• Players pick and run their own promotion.
• PC and NPC bookers make up the “NWA” ruling committee.

In Character Info;

---

The year is 1990 and in the world of pro-wrestling the NWA still continues to rule the territories. With no WWF monopoly, the territory system is still intact with both regional and national televised events controlled by the NWA’s ruling board. While each promotion is given a seat at the table, only the truly influential and powerful members get a say in booking the champ. Every promotion vies for a chance to put that championship belt, the fabled “Ten Pounds of Gold” on their best wrestler’s waist, but only those who know how to play the game can actually see it through. To the marks, the competition is in the ring, but in reality the competitions are in the lockers, in the rental cars on the way to the next house show, in the smoked filled back rooms where champions are made, and championships are won and lost.

Out of Character Info:

---

The game will work essentially as a combo of written prose and a little bit of tabletop dice rolls in the form of orders.

Orders

The procedures for this game will be fairly simple. You send orders to me.. The orders will then be rolled and presented by me (or another GM) in an update. Each round of orders will be the span of one year. Orders work as thus: each promotion is given one large focus order and three normal orders. The large focus order will always succeed to a degree, but it can only be used internally (having your promotion gain a new TV program is okay, having your promotion take over another territory is not) and the three normal orders can be used for things like pushes for your top stars into the NWA title scenes, gimmick changes, or even poaching talent from another territory.

Promotion Sheet

---

Name:
Territory:
Style:(example: sports entertainment, hardcore, King's Road, rasslin', etc.)
Television:
Promotion Champions
Promotion Top Stars
Booker:
Booker Bio:

Example sheet:

APW

Name: Appalachian Pro Wrestling (APW)

Territory: Eastern Tennessee, Kentucky, Southwest VA, West VA, Western NC

Style: Rasslin’

Booker: Donald “Dusty” Brisco

Booker Bio:
Dusty Brisco is a second generation promoter. APW was founded thirty years ago by former pro wrestler Big Donnie Brisco. APW originally started in a high school gym in Roanoke and has expanded slowly ever since. APW joined the NWA in the late 60’s and firmly made Appalachia it’s territory. In early 1979, Big Donnie took over the territory of the failing Smoky Mountain Wrestling and expanded APW into Tennessee and Kentucky. With a myriad of health problems and a lifetime of traveling under his belt, Big Donnie retired in 1987 and handed the business over to Dusty. Although raised in the industry, he struggles to fill his father’s shoes as both booker and promoter. With his father’s guidance behind the scenes, Dusty APW continues it’s steady march as one of the core members of the NWA. While Big Donnie sat on the board’s championship booking committee, Dusty has neither the clout of connections just yet to make it there.

Television: APW Avalanche weekly taped show in Roanoke, VA and aired in Knoxville, Lexington, Roanoke, Charleston, Charlotte, and Asheville

Champions:
APW Heavyweight Champion: Mike Harlan (Face) - Blue collar man of the people gimmick
APW Blue Ridge Champion: Glenn Gekko (Heel) - New York businessman gimmick
APW Smoky Mountain Champion: Adam Bomb (Face) - Strongman gimmick
APW Tag Team Champions: The Ozark Daredevils (Faces) - High flying Hillbilly gimmick, #1 contenders for NWA World Tag Team Champions

Top Stars:

Mike Harlan
Adam Bomb
Colonel Asadi (Heel), evil middle eastern gimmick. On loan from another territory.
Vince Law & Bob Order (Heels), corrupt law enforcement gimmick. Currently on loan with another territory.
James Luna/B.B.Wolfe (Face/Heel) Werewolf gimmick
David Brisco (On-screen authority figure)

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

incompleta

@Ruby

Perfect example of style over substance with these sheets. SMH

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

Dutch Hill

Tim Drake got out of his car and surveyed the area. It was a fairly quiet, working class neighborhood. The further east Dutch Hill ran the suburbs yards faded into row houses and inner city Gotham, but this neighborhood was about four blocks away from the change. Tim saw yards well kept, dogs in some of them, and houses that were maintained with pride by their owners but in desperate need of remodel. Gentrification was only a matter of time, but for now it stood as a bastion of blue collar Gotham that was rapidly becoming a distant memory.

He was looking for the 1200 block of Williamson Road, a little side street that ran parallel to the main avenue of Kemper Street. Two weeks ago GCPD made a routine traffic stop on Antonio Boggs and found a substantial amount of cocaine on his person, enough to arrest Boggs for felony possession with intent to distribute. Boggs retained the services of Pennyworth & Fox for his criminal defense, and Al threw him the case. An easy enough task for an investigator still wet behind the ears.

Tim checked the PDF of the arrest report on his phone as he walked down the sidewalk towards Williamson. Sergeant Mike Malone of the Western District initiated the stop, made the arrest, and later wrote out the report Tim was reading. From soup to nuts, Sergeant Malone was the lynchpin of the entire case.

The map on the incident report showed Tim where the stop had occurred, just quiet of the part of the street. He looked around for any cameras on light poles or in backyards. The advent of the wireless doorbell cameras made the job a lot easier some times, some times. You still had to deal with getting the footage from greedy homeowners looking for a cut. It seemed that headache would be avoided this time.

According to the report, Malone observed Boggs’ car doing a rolling stop at a four-way intersection on Williamson. That gave Malone the probable cause he needed to initiate a traffic stop and find the drugs. Tim took pictures of the street with his phone. There was a four-way stop about 200 yards from where the traffic stop occurred, but he couldn’t see a good vantage point to where Malone had been sitting. He walked up the street towards the stop. No good spots to park for a cop cruiser, but he did see a convenience store on Kemper that might have a view. He took more shots of the intersection before trudging over to the convenience store.

“Good morning, my friend,” the man behind the counter said as Tim entered.

The place seemed to be empty. This time of the morning most working people’s days were well underway. There would be a lunchtime rush and then another at five, but for the most part Tim imagined the place just had customers dribbling in one at a time.

“Morning,” Time said. He reached into his pocket and quickly flashed his credentials. “My name is Tim Drake and I’m an investigator.”

He always found the key was to carry yourself with the air of a cop, but never outright say you were. His ID card did in fact identify him as a state license private investigator, and he hoped his use of the word in an introduction wouldn’t lead to follow up questions.

“Who is the owner here?” he asked.

“It’s me,” said the man.

Tim should have guessed. He was a middle aged Asian man wearing a white button up with top button undone, dark dress pants, and a nice gold watch on his wrist. He didn’t exactly look like he was working for minimum wage.

“I have a few questions for you.”

Tim got out a leather bound notebook and a pen. The good thing about most immigrant business owners was that they were the law and order types, especially in borderline neighborhoods like this one. After asking his name and other biographical details he got to the heart of the matter.

“You ever have a cop frequent this place?”

“Yes,” he said with a smile. “Sergeant Mike. He’s here almost practically every day, he’s one of the good ones. Doesn’t ask for free stuff, always pays full price, and always likes to talk.”

“He ever sit out in the parking lot?”

“All the time,” the owner nodded. “And I love it. Bunch of punk kids live around here, they see Sergeant Mike and they know not to fuck with me.”

Tim kept his head down as he wrote in his notebook. “He ever pull anybody over while sitting in your lot?”

“A couple of time. The people around here, they speed up and down this street. No sense of safety.”

Tim nodded and kept scribbling.

“When was the last time he did that?”

“A couple of weeks ago,” said the man. “Why?”

“Just curious,” Tim said as he looked up. “Thank you for your time.”

“Who did you say you were with?” the man asked with a furrowed brow. “You police?”

“Thank you for your time,” Tim said as he walked out the store.

From the front of the store, Williamson could be seen, but the four-way stop was a little further up the road. Boggs may have done a rolling stop, but from his vantage point Malone couldn’t have seen it. What he would have seen was a blacked out car with music blasting out of it and he made an assumption, invented probable cause. Profiling, in other words.

Tim took a few more pictures of the street from the front of the store and headed back to his car. It wasn’t much, but in the hands of Big Al Pennyworth it would be enough. They’d go to trial, subpoena the convenience store owner, and destroy Malone’s credibility on the stand. All it took for a Gotham City jury to hear was that a GCPD officer may have lied in the course of the investigation. Al would play it up from there. If Sergeant Malone had lied about the probable cause, maybe he was lying about the drugs he found on Boggs? Enough doubt to get Boggs out of jail and back on the street.

Because the fact of the matter was Boggs was a drug dealer, the cocaine Malone found on him was in fact meant to be sold. But Boggs was a Wayne Family dealer, and as such he was under the legal protection of Pennyworth & Fox. Tim knew firsthand that the Waynes always stood by their people. He and his dad were proof.

He was on the way back to his car when his phone buzzed. Not the actual phone he used for personal or work related things, but the second phone only a select few people had the number to.

BW
Meet me at the tower tonight.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and got into his car. The big man was calling. They probably hadn’t seen each other face to face in a a lone time, but that’s how it worked. That’s how he worked. If it required face to face then it was a big deal. Tim texted Karmen and let her know they’d have to reschedule for another night, she could always pick up another shift at the Peppermint Rhino.

Back when Tim was a kid and his old man was out on the street hustling for nickels and dimes, he had always had a dream that he wanted to be a somebody. The night his old man stood tall for the Waynes, Bruce had promised Tim the chance to be that somebody. Jack Drake had sacrificed his life, but it wasn’t in vain. And now here was Tim, a nice well paying job doing something he loved and the freedom to be his own man and the chance to sleep with beautiful women.

“Living the dream,” he said softly to himself. “I made it, pop.”

---

Barbara Gordon opened her eyes. The sound of her phone vibrating on the nightstand was nearby. She sat up and groaned. The clock on the nightstand said it was almost 11 in the morning, the sunlight peaking through the curtains doubled down on the time. She leaned over and squinted at the screen of her phone.

INCOMING CALL:
BULLOCK

The hell was Bullock calling for? He knew she worked third shift last night. She had just gotten to sleep a few hours ago. Barbara fumbled for her glasses and put them on. She heard a groan over her shoulder and looked back.

“Tell them to call back,” Dick Grayson mumbled.

She scowled back at him before slipping out under the covers and grabbing her phone.

“I didn’t wake you did I, sweetheart?” came Bullock’s gruff voice.

“Yeah, you did in fact.”

“Too bad. I’m on my way to your place. Think we may have a break on the Crutchfield Street killings.”

Barbara cursed under her breath and looked back at the bed. Dick was half asleep, the sheet covering his naked body. The last thing she needed was for Bullock to find him here like this.

“How far away are you?” she asked. “I need to get ready.”

She heard a knock on the front door.

“That answer your question? I been trying to call you for an hour now.”

“I’ll be right there.”

She hung up and started to shake the bed.

“Dick,” she hissed. “Wake up, my partner is outside.”

It surprised Barbara how quickly he moved at that point. He seemed to spring out of the bed and start dressing himself. Within seconds he had his jeans and t-shirt on.

“Do you think he knows?” he asked.

“Bullock is a great detective when he’s on the job, but outside work? He’s a mess, no way. This is something else”

There was another thump at the door.

“C’mon, Babs, I don’t care if you’re in your pj’s.”

Barbara turned towards the door.

“Give me a minute, Harvey!”

When she turned back, Dick was gone. The window to her fire escape was open and she heard the sound of rattling metal. Good, she thought, the last thing Harvey needed to find was Bruce Wayne’s adopted son warming her bed.

---

“This was worth waking me up for?” Barbara asked as she looked at the grainy security footage. Bullock was sitting on her couch, drinking a cup of coffee while Barbara watched the footage from Bullock’s phone, her robe covering her pajamas.

“Keep watching,” Bullock grunted.

On the phone events from four months prior played out like it had a thousand times before. But, she noticed, this was a new angle.

Crutchfield Street in the Bowery had a reputation. It was firmly in the red light district and known for its wide variety of carnal pleasure for sale. Usually the red light district was violence free. They knew it drew the attention of the cops, and cops were bad for business. But that truce had been broken during the height of the summer. A pimp and his two goons had been killed approaching the brothel they ran. All three men had been stabbed to death with surgical precision. Barbara and Bullock inherited the case from the uniforms of the southeastern district. They’d identified the three men as Eastern European, members of the Chechen’s crime organization.

After that, the trail went cold. No eyewitnesses were willing to speak to cops, and the few surveillance cameras they found showed footage that was grainy and out of focus. But now? The footage Barbara watched was pretty clear and pretty close. She could clearly make out the name of the brothel where the men had been killed out front: Alexi’s Tea Room.
“How did you get this?” she asked Harvey.

“It took a little convincing and a little bribing,” he said. “But the whorehouse across the street from our scene did in fact have a security camera, despite what they told us. It was hidden in the tits of that naked statue out front.”

He cleared his throat and looked away from Barbara.

“Don’t… ask more about what I had to do to get it, just watch.”

She smirked and turned back to the footage. It showed a black sedan pull up to the Tea Room. Three serious slavic looking men in suits climbed out the car. The two larger ones flanked a smaller man with a shaved head and a neck full of gold chains.

Before the could head inside, a figure landed on the roof of the car and struck out quickly. They jumped down with the car blocking them off from the camera. Movement from the other side of the car was fast and furious, the figure knocking all three men to the ground before they could defend themselves. Barbara saw blood running on the pavement under the car and pooling on the street.

Her eyes widened as the figure jumped back on top of the car. She tapped her finger on the screen to freeze the footage. Crouched on the top of the car, frozen mid-jump, was a man dressed in black body armor. In both hands were some sort of club with what looked to be a razor’s edge. A mask hid his face and on his chest was a bird. The footage was black and white, but she knew the bird would be red.

“Deathwing,” she said softly.

“If that’s what that jerkoff’s name is,” said Bullock. “He’s one of the Bat’s goons, that’s all I know. This was a Wayne hit, Babs.”

She cursed softly and looked towards her bed. The window to the fire escape was still cracked open. If she didn’t know any better, she could have sworn she saw the fire escape sway with movement again.

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

Gotham City

“I believe in Gotham City.”

Hamilton Hill took a rather large swig from his glass of scotch and looked out the window at the impressive view of the city below.

“My grandparents came here from Kentucky during the war, my grandfather was looking for any opportunity to escape the coal mines. He labored in a factory so that his son could become a lawyer and judge, so that his son’s son could one day become mayor." A soft smile played on his lips as he thought back to some distant memory of his grandfather. "The city isn’t without her flaws and imperfections, but… she’s done alright by me.”

Hill turned away from the window and stared across the desk at the man sitting behind it. Bruce Wayne looked at Mayor Hill with indifferent blue eyes.

“And my love for this city is why I turn to you. Falcone, Maroni, Sionis, they’re all just nouveau riche wannabes. The name Wayne means something in this city, that name rings out from the slum corners to the corridors of power–”

“If you could get to the question,” said Bruce. “And stop kissing my ass, Mr. Mayor.”

Hill smirked and raised his glass to Bruce.

“Can’t shit a shitter.”

He drained the rest of the glass and put it on the edge of the desk. Bruce stared at the glass in silence for a long moment before Hill got the hint and put it on a coaster.

“I, umm… am in a bit of a pickle you see,” Hill said, clearing his throat. “It stems back from my days as a law student. I did something rather rash, I’d rather not get into the details…”

Bruce watched the fop sweat begin to form on Hill’s forehead. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit and pulled out a lint covered handkerchief he used to mop his face with. Hill was a four term mayor seeking a fifth term next fall, the man had traded away his sense of shame or impropriety and even decency in the same of reelection. Whatever he was hiding, it had to be horrible.

“But suffice to say, during my first campaign someone wrote a crude letter threatening to leak the details of that unfortunate event to the world at large if I did not pay them a certain amount. I obliged them and that seemed to put the matter to bed, until my reelection campaign four years later. And every reelection cycle since they reach out and ask for more and more and more. This time I simply cannot afford their asking price! I need your help to find the blackmailer and end my nightmare once and for all. I’ll pay you, name your price.”

Bruce let the silence in the room linger as he stared at Hill with an annoyed look on his face. He knew the man was a born politician, a silent room would be the worst thing in the world for him. He let the man squirm in silence for nearly a minute before he spoke.

“For almost ten years now,” Bruce said softly. “I’ve tried to donate to your campaigns, including that time you ran for congress and lost in a landslide. But my donations were always returned. I’ve never known a politician to turn away free money.”

“It’s the optics,” Hill mumbled. “It just wouldn’t look good. I do the same with Falco– uhh, others. I just don’t want to answer all those pesky questions reporters would have.”

Bruce nodded and put his hands together, leaning back slightly in his plush leather chair. “And now you come to me, like a thief in the night. Your chauffeur parks five blocks away, you take the freight elevator up to my office –” Bruce motioned towards the empty glass on his desk. “You drink my scotch, and you ask for help. No, you demand it. And you offer to pay me? Like I’m some errand boy.”

Bruce stood and slowly walked around the desk. He wrapped an arm around Hill’s shoulder and walked with him towards the large glass window.

“Mr. Mayor, people like me don’t deal in simple things as money. If you’d taken the time to know me, then you’d know that we have at least one thing in common: favors are our currency. You’re not asking me to do work for you, you’re asking me to do a favor. A favor which you’ll pay back one day.”

Hill went for his soaked handkerchief again, dabbing it on his cheeks.

“I’m not some common hood, Mr. Mayor: I’m a Wayne.”

With his free arm, Bruce pointed to the city that stretched out below them.

“Like you said earlier in your sycophantic rant, this city was built on the backs of my ancestors. They didn’t hop off some boat from Sicily one hundred years ago and call themselves American. You won’t be the first politician in debt to a Wayne, and you won’t be the last.”

Bruce let Hill go, pushing him away slightly. Hill lurched forward against the glass window and caught himself against it while Bruce walked back around the desk. He sat down and spread his hands, letting a cold smile spread across his face.

“Besides, Mr. Mayor, if not for my grandfather, how do you think your father would have become a judge? How do you think you were allowed to run for mayor in the first place? Back in the day, nothing happened in this city without my father's say so. You say you’re afraid to be in my debt, but the truth is you were in my debt before I was even born.”

He saw Hill’s face flush and Bruce knew he’d struck a nerve.

“Now, tell me all you can about your blackmailer.”

---

Finger Housing Projects

The Finger operation ran like clockwork. The high-rises and low-rise courtyards operated 24/7, selling cocaine, heroin, crack, weed, pills, whatever you needed. Everyone in Gotham and the greater tri-state area all came to the Finger regardless of class or social standing. Stockbrokers in power suits lined up alongside dope fiends, minivans with the little annoying stick families idled behind crackheads pushing shopping carts.

The demand served as a testament to both the product and the business acumen of the Skeevers Bros. Jefferson and Julius Skeevers had once been corner boys selling dime bags and eight balls once upon a time. The life of the corner boy was usually short and violent, you either died by the time you were eighteen or in jail for most of your life. The people at the top always changed due to the usual violence and backstabbing, but Jeff and Julius were always good soldiers. If the streets were a game of chess, the two brothers would have been pawns, but they were the smartest and most dangerous pawns in the game.

After one management change too many they decided they were done being pawns. A few guns and a few connections with the west side dealers for product, and they slowly but surely took over the east end block by bloody block. An alliance with Carmine Falcone gave them all the product and men they would ever need to control the entire city’s drug supply.

Jeff stood on the balcony of his apartment at the top of one of the high-rises. He smoked a cigarette and watched the traffic. A dark suburban pulled out of the high-rises and headed down the avenue. That would be the midnight re-up. A group of armed muscle went around the spots and resupplied the dealers with drugs and did cash drops. The crew chiefs were responsible for making sure the inventory count was correct, both in cash going out and drugs coming in. If the count was off both the dealer and his boss would faced the consequences.

“Goddamn,” Julius said as he came out on the balcony. “It’s too cold to be out here this time of night. What are you doing?”

“Watching,” Jeff said, exhaling a column of smoke. “Look at this shit, Jules, all this territory and all this product, all the work we put in… it’s just amazing.”

“Imagine if we’d been born white,” Julius said with a chuckle. “We’d be CEOs or some shit.”

Julius bumped his chest with his fist, Jefferson doing the same, before they dapped each other up.

“Us,” said Jeff.

“Us,” replied Julius. “Always us.”

The two brothers looked out proudly at their empire below. What they didn’t know was that while they watched, they were being watched. It was true that they had built up an empire. But like the people before them, and the people before them...



Empires were made to fall.

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

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

B A T M A N

---

^{_{BRUCE WAYNE ♦ CRIME LORD ♦ WAYNE FAMILY ♦ EARTH 0160921}}

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

---

^{“Why should I be afraid now? Strange men have come to kill me ever since I was twelve years old.”
-- Mario Puzo}

The Wayne name is one synonymous with wealth, power, and corruption. For two hundred years it stood as the power that truly ran Gotham City – mayors, police chiefs, governors, US senators – the Waynes either held those positions or outright owned the men that held them. But that had all changed when Bruce Wayne was born. It was an empire in decline, one his good-natured father Thomas wasn’t cut out for. A new breed of criminal on the streets smelled blood in the water when it came to Thomas Wayne.

When Bruce was thirteen an assassin’s bullet gunned down Thomas and Martha Wayne. A jammed gun saved him from a similar fate. That night he made an oath and a promise to his parents and to the dark forces that had for so long been behind the Waynes: vengeance would be his. Thanks to the timely intervention of family lawyer Alfred Pennyworth and Thomas' estranged brother Philip Bruce was taken from Gotham that night before he could join his parents in death.

Ten years later the vacancy of the Waynes had been filled by the Co-Op, a consortium of uneasy alliances among multiple criminal gangs. Carmine Falcone sat at the head of the table as criminal and political boss of the city.

And then the Bat came to town.

A masked lunatic calling himself the Bat waged a one-man war against the criminal forces of Gotham. It soon became clear that this vigilante wasn’t looking to eliminate crime in Gotham: he was looking to take over. Block by block and territory by territory the Bat began to eliminate forces loyal to the Co-Op and replace them with his own people. Falcone called for a sitdown as he began to lose more and more ground. When he arrived at the meeting he was met not with the Bat, but with Bruce Wayne. He revealed he was the power behind the Bat, and he was back to collect what was owed to his family.

Ten years later and the criminal underworld of Gotham sits at an uneasy truce. The Wayne Family chips away more and more with each passing year into the Co-Ops rackets. Fissures are have begun to form in the foundation of the Co-Op. And, like what was done with his father decades before, Bruce can feel the weaknesses. With the Bat and a host of other colorful enforcers one their side, the Waynes are preparing for a final push to eradicate the Co-Op and reclaim Gotham City fully for the Waynes. Meanwhile the Co-Op has finally decided if the Wayne Family is going to use costumed freaks to do their heavy living, well they can fight fire with fire.

P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ):

---

Evil mob Batman, c'mon.

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

---

Bruce Wayne/The Bat
Head of the Wayne Crime Family, well known figure across Gotham

Dick Grayson/Deathwing
Wayne ward and heir, acts as family underboss as both Dick and Deathwing, the Bat’s right hand.

Alfred Pennyworth
Lawyer and chief advisor for Bruce, adopted Bruce after his parents were murdered.

Tim Drake/Talon
Wayne ward and captain inside the family, operates as Talon.

Cassandra Cain/Batwoman
Assassin and mute.

Jim Gordon
GCPD Commissioner

Barbara Gordon
GCPD Detective

Selina Kyle
Bruce’s fiance. Informant for GCPD.

Jason Todd/Red Hood
Former Wayne Family member turned murderous vigilante.

Edward Nygma
Captain in the Major Crimes Division.

Carmine Falcone
Head of the Co-Op and chief Wayne rival.

Salvatore Maroni
Member of the Co-Op with eyes on taking Falcone’s place.

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

---

A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed arcs and stories.

Variety Hour: An Absolute Comics Roleplay

1936

New York
1936

A light rainstorm fell on Harlem that scorching hot summer night. Instead of breaking the heat, the rain just increased the humidity. Luke Cage could see steam wafting off the pavement from inside the car. He pulled a handkerchief out of his dress’ shirt’s breast pocket and dabbed sweat from his bald head. Marcus, sitting in the driver’s seat, perused over a racing sheet. The rain futzed with their radio, but the sounds of big band music filtered through the static. Glen Miller and his orchestra were playing at the Rainbow Room and NBC was broadcasting it out across the city and the country.

“I think your tip may be bullshit,” Cage grunted.

“Turk just likes to take his time is all,” came Marcus’ response.

Cage had been working with Sergeant Marcus Stone for five years now. The two men were the only black plainclothes officers among the NYPD’s sworn officers. And, naturally, they were assigned to work Harlem from the 32nd Precinct. Stone was the only black sergeant inside the organization, just one of two black men to attain any kind of rank. Cage knew that Stone had earned those sergeant stripes and then some. He’d had twice as much service time as Cage, not to mention the things he'd seen in France. Cage had tried to ask him once or twice about the Great War. And every time Stone changed the subject.

“Speak of the devil,” said Cage.

The skinny form of Turk Barrett came out of Ms. Sadie’s, pulling the collar of his blazer up against the rain. Cage started to open the door but stopped when Stone put a hand on his shoulder.

“Not yet. From the way Turk is walking he just lost a lot of money. Five gets you ten he’s going back to find work.”

Stone tossed the racing form into the backseat and started the Ford. They gave Turk a long leash as he walked down 110th Street in the rain. Cage lit up a cigarette despite Stone’s dirty look. Cage cracked a window to temper his partner’s passive aggressive waving.

“Think he’s going to the Cotton Club or to Harlem’s Paradise?” Stone asked Cage.

“Depends on how much money he lost gambling,” Cage replied.”If he lost a lot, he’ll go to the Cotton Club and pick up a package. If he lost everything, then he’ll go to Harlem’s Paradise and put himself at Stokes’ mercy.”

Stone nodded slightly at the younger cops’ logic. If Cage didn’t know any better he may have seen a flash of pride on the man’s face. Cage felt even better as they saw Turk approach the Cotton Club. They knew he was heading towards the club’s back door. Harlem’s premier nightclub was white’s only for the most part. You had to be somebody rich and famous if you were black and wanted to pass through the doors. NYPD were also pretty sure it operated as a front for organized crime, with heroin being sold out the back. How else could you explain “dishwasher” Turk Barrett being able to afford such nice suits and such hefty gambling debts.

“What’d I tell you?” Cage said as he flicked the butt of his cigarette out the window.

Turk ducked into a side alley beside the club. Stone parked the Ford and put it in park.

“Alright,” said Stone. “When he comes out, we put him against the wall and shake him down. Try to sweat him and see if we can roll him up. From there we-”

Stone’s words were cut off by the sound of gunshots. Four soft pops coming from the back of the Cotton Club. Cage and Stone jumped out of the car with their own guns drawn. And that’s when all hell broke loose.

---

Hell’s Kitchen

Blake Tower got out the backseat of the taxi and quickly paid his fare. He watched the yellow Desoto speed off into the night as he opened up the umbrella in the pouring rain. Even though he had a short distance to travel he wanted to stay as dry as possible. His tailored suits were far too expensive to get soaking wet.

Tower tipped back the brim of fedora as he entered the shabby little lobby and crossed the scuffed parquet floors towards the building directory. He found the listing he needed on the third floor and started the climb up. There on the third floor landing was the door with frosted over glass and faded gold letters: Nelson & Murdock: Attorneys At Law. The door opened before Tower could attempt a knock. Foggy Nelson stood in the doorway to greet him, his face peeking out of the threshold to make sure Tower was alone before he waved him inside.

“Thank you for seeing me with such short notice,” Tower said as they walked through the office’s small reception area. The desk where a receptionist usually sat was empty. Tower expected that this time of night. Foggy took his raincoat and hat before hanging it up on the stand by the front door.

“We’re night owls,” replied Foggy. “Or at least he is.”

Tower followed Foggy into the back office. He saw, amidst the bookshelves crammed with files and law books, framed newspaper clippings touting the firm’s headline victories over the years.

POTTER WALKS!
Deadlocked Jury Means Mistrial Declared in Potter Murder Trial

I DID IT!
Blind Lawyer Makes Prosecution Witness Breakdown and Confess in Court

WASHINGTON HEIGHTS SIX ACQUITTED
Puerto Rican Gang Found Not Guilty by Jury

Sitting behind one of the two desks that occupied the center of the room was Matt Murdock. Like Foggy, his suit coat had been stripped off and he wore a white, sweat stained dress shirt with a red necktie slightly loosened around his neck. His red opaque glasses glinted in the dim lighting as he tilted his head towards Tower.

“If New York’s most expensive defense attorney cold calls you at your home,” said Murdock. “You tend to open up your social calendar.”

Foggy motioned towards one of the free chairs facing the twin desks as he leaned against the side of his desk and crossed his arms.

“I’m the best,” said Tower. “Not just the most expensive.”

“No,” said Foggy. “We’re the best.”

“You’re just the most connected,” added Murdock.

“A good lawyer knows the law,” said Tower. “A great lawyer knows the judge.”

“And if you can’t talk about what you need from us over the telephone,” said Foggy, an eyebrow raised. “It must mean even those great connections are coming up short.”

Tower leaned back in his chair and adjusted his bowtie slightly as he cleared his throat.

“Are you gentlemen familiar with Rand Industries?”

“They sponsor Jack Benny’s show,” said Foggy. “I hear him and Rochester talk about them at least twice an episode.”

Tower spread his hands slightly as he spoke. “They do more than that. Petroleum, chemicals, car tires, radios, weapons. You name it, they make it. One of the biggest companies in the world. Their owner, Wendell Rand, is the Rockefeller of the 20th century. He’s a client and a close personal friend.”

“And what kind of trouble is he in?” Murdock asked. He laced his fingers together and tilted his head away from Tower. He figured it was Murdock’s way of concentrating on Tower’s words. "And why can't you get him out of it?"

“It’s not him,” said Tower. “It’s his boy, Danny. He was arrested for murder tonight. Wendell is doing everything he can to keep it off the radio, but I’m almost certain the news will hit the morning edition of all the papers.”

Tower saw Murdock lean forward in his chair and place his elbows on the desk. It almost looked as if he was looking straight into Tower’s eyes through his sunglasses. Tower felt a shudder go across his body at the feelings.

“And where do we come in?” asked Murdock. “Surely, you have enough paralegals to help with legal filings.”

“Young Danny is refusing my firm’s help for legal representation,” said Tower. “He’s requesting the two of you specfically.”

Murdock remained stoic while Foggy let a soft grin seep on to his face. Tower knew enough about the two of them to know here would be a debate. These two men were among the best defense attorneys in New York State... but they were among the rarest breed of lawyer, those with unflinching integrity. For all their famous cases, it had done little to line their pockets. Tower reached into the breast pocket of his suit and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“I have a very generous retainer check,” said Tower, passing it to Foggy. “It’s made out to Nelson & Murdock. If you accept it, I’ll need at least one of you gentlemen to accompany me to the 32nd Precinct.”

---

NYPD 32nd Precinct

Frank Castle smoked a cigarette and looked in on the interrogation room from the two-way mirror. The tight little corridor ran the length of the three-two's five interrogation rooms, it provided observers the chance to look in on multiple interrogations at one time. Currently their doer had his head down on the bolted down metal table. He’d lawyered up not long after Stone and Cage hauled him in. Normally that didn’t stop the detectives from working over a suspect for a little bit until that lawyer came. But word had come down from on high to treat him with kid gloves. To Frank that meant the kid was politically juiced somewhere down the line.

He moved down the corridor to the next room over. Henderson and Matthews were in there with Stone and Cage, going over their statements. All of them had stripped their jackets and ties off, their dress shirts soaked with sweet and their sleeves rolled up off the wrist. Cage had an ashtray beside him as he chain smoked one butt after the other. Stone was leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

“One more time for us,” said Matthews. “Just from the top.”

“We were following a suspected drug dealer,” said Stone. “From a gambling house to the Cotton Club. We saw him go into the club’s side alley–”

“Damn shame it was them,” a voice said behind Frank’s back.

He turned and saw Sergeant Russo standing there watching. Even on a hot Thursday night he was dressed for church. Russo didn’t dress much like a cop, an expensive seersucker suit draped over his body with a colorful pocket square tucked into his breast pocket. Frank would bet ten that Russo had a hat somewhere matching the suit’s color.

“They brought in the big guns,” Frank said, expelling smoke as he talked. “If Billy the Beaut from downtown homicide is here, this case must be an important one.”

Russo winked at Frank and looked back at their dozing suspect before turning back towards Cage and Stone.

“Christ, crime of the century and a couple of spooks get the collar?”

Castle let the comment pass. He didn’t know much about Cage and Stone, the two colored men stuck to themselves for the most part. That wasn't too surprising. In the NYPD the micks stuck together, the Italians stuck together, and the few oddball white Americans like Castle were kind of left on their own. So no wonder Cage and Stone had a brotherhood inside the brotherhood. He'd worked concurrent with them for four years now, enough to know they seemed to be straight shooters and hard workers. They took care of the parts of Harlem most white cops didn’t venture into unless they wanted to blow off some steam.

“What do you mean, crime of the century?" Frank asked Russp. “Sleeping beauty in there has to be a somebody, right?”

“Probably confused you when the captain told you not to give him the rubber hose treatment?” Russo said with a smile. “He ain’t anybody, Frank. But his father? The old man makes more money in a minute than you do all year.”

Frank let out a low whistle.

“Rich kid plugs six people at a world famous nightclub,” Frank mumbled. “Christ.”

The door leading to the corridor opened and Lieutenant Hannigan popped his head in.

“Need you boys to clear out,” he said in his soft Irish brogue. “Our suspect's lawyers are here.”

---

Matt sat down on the cold metal chair on the other side of where Danny Rand sat. Tower and Foggy had accompanied him uptown to Harlem, but they waited outside while Matt went in to talk to their new client. He needed as little distractions as possible. He heard Danny sit upright at the sight of Matt. He'd heard soft snoring through the door. How the hell was he able to sleep at a time like this?

“Mr. Rand,” said Matt. “I’m Matt Murdock, but I suspect you already know that.”

“Big fan,” said Rand. “You and Mr. Nelson did some incredible work with the Washington Heights Six. Those poor boys, you know that trial went international? I saw it in the papers in Shanghai, you and Mr. Nelson were in a newsreel at a Hong Kong theater.”

“Good to know," Matt said softly. "I had a debate with my partner on the ride here. It was on whether or not we take your case. If you’re a fan, then you know you are not our usual clientele.”

“Nelson and Murdock: The Saints of Lost Causes."

Matt could feel his face flush. Some writer at the Daily Bugle coined the term during the Melvin Potter case. Foggy loved it, but he didn't have to hear the cold derision in Father Kavanaugh's tone every time Matt went to confession. St. Matthew, he would say. What can I do for you, my son?

"Not a fan of the nickname," said Matt. "We're not Clarence Darrow."

"But even Clarence Darrow defended Leopold and Loeb,” said Rand.

“That doesn’t help your case,” Matt said with a slight frown. “But after some debate, I agreed to represent you if you can answer one simple question for me: Did you do it?”

Matt could hear the cacophony of the city all around him, from the police officer relieving himself three floors above them, to the scuffle of a lady’s shoes two blocks away. He drowned it all out and focused on Danny Rand as he answered his question.

“No. I am completely innocent.”

And Danny Rand’s heart stayed at its consistent rhythm, his forehead already damp with sweat from the heat stayed the same. There was no sounds of micro-movements – those soft almost indecipherable squirms everyone made when they lied. Danny Rand was telling the truth. He was innocent, or at least he thought he was.

“Mr. Rand,” said Matt. “You just hired yourself Nelson & Murdock.”

(NOW CLOSED:) Marvel RE: Imagine - A Marvel Comics Roleplay

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

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^{_{HOWARD LONGNAMEOVICH ♦ INTERDIMENSIONAL INSURANCE AGENT ♦ THE MULTIVERSE ♦ PECK PROPERTY & CASUALTY INSURANCE, INTERDIMENSIONAL FIRE & LIFE DIVISON}}

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

---

^{"What the fuck?"
-- EE}

Inspired by stuff like Doctor Who, H2G2, and the Howard the Duck comics, I want to tell some comedic sci-fi stories and that's pretty much 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:

---

Howard wants to become the multiverse's A-#1 insurance agent. Call me now for a quote on everything from uninsured motorist to retcon insurance. Lost your house in an attack from space invaders? You're covered! Got maimed by a time-displaced caveman? You're covered! Subjected to a shitty reboot where the words "Fuck Batman" actually come out of your mouth? You're covered! I'm here to help you!

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

---

CAST

Kang the Conqueror (Earth #21099) -- Uninsured interdimensonal conqueror. Major asshole. Doesn't even leave a courtesy note when he wipes out a planet.

Bruce Banner/The Hulk (Earth #0002) -- An older, greyer (pun) Hulk who has reached the end of his superhero days and is now transitioning to a second career: Howard's intern. Hulk smash lunch order.

The Despair (Earth #2292) -- Hive mind that is bent on utter and complete assimilation of their dimension's inhabitants. One of Howard's best clients.

Zeus Bain/Flying Squirrel Man (Earth #798) -- Superhero and member of the Righteous Guild. Inhabits an earth that couldn't afford the rights to licensed characters.

The Phillie Phanatic (Earth #090995) -- Serial killer/baseball mascot. Got absolutely washed by Tommy Lasodra one time.

Meryl Streep (Earth #321210) -- Hardened criminal. Most prolific bank robber in the multiverse. Just a real delight, crushes everything she does.

S A M P L E P O S T:

---

A Day in the Life

Reality #8675309
Peck Property & Casualty Insurance Offices

“Hey. I’m Mr. Dickhead. And I’m a real asshole. I go around dimensions and I do things like key your car, set your house on fire, and tea-bag your mom's vegetable soup. If you want to protect your shit against assholes like me, then get Greco Interdimensional Insurance today.”

“Waugh,” Howard the Duck snarled. He grabbed the remote on his desk and turned off the monitor mounted on the far wall of his office. He shook his head as he laid the remote back down beside a stack of three-ring binders.

Howard rubbed his temples with his feathered hands and sighed. “Greco, Greco, Greco.”

“A new ad?”

Bruce Banner walked through the door holding two cardboard coffee cups. He gave one to Howard while he kept the other. Howard took a deep pull off his coffee before talking.

“Yes. A new ad. I expect nothing less from the company that prioritizes marketing over superior coverage and products.”

Howard’s company did their own share of advertising. For awhile, Howard had been featured in commercials as Peck Property & Casualty Insurance’s Agent of the Year campaign. It was pretty straightforward. Howard gave a speech to the folks watching:

“Hi, folks. My name is Howard the Duck, and I am Peck Property & Casualty’s Agent of the Year for the year 2018 in realities 0003-0054, and 0057-0068, 1969 for all you groovy cats in realities 9813-44401, and the year of 42069 (nice) in the reality where everyone is perpetually sixteen years old. Along with my accolades, those same realities also named Peck Property & Casualty as the #1 insurance company for those years. How was it that over a thousand different dimensions recognized our work? It’s simple. At Peck Property & Casualty, all our agents go above and beyond the expectations of good service. It’s the Peck guarantee. And for an agent to be named agent of the year, it speaks to how far I will go to offer good service to my customers. Don’t take it from me, hear it from some of my insured:”

“As a power hungry dictator, I often have to face many threats from challengers both at home and abroad. When it looked like the cursed Richards would finally win the day, Howard assured that my plot armor insurance was up to date, and he also helped me figure out how to go get a good discount on Life Model Decoys. NO ONE BESTS DOOM! VENGEANCE WILL BE MINE, RICHARDS! Thanks, Howard.”

“*indecipherable howls.* *Yak bleating* *bones crunching* Howard. #1!”

“When some greedy executives tried to use me as a bargaining chip in their corporate negotiations, I was worried I would be kicked out of the cinematic universe I had just recently entered. So I called Howard and it turned out that he had me signed up fr reboot fatigue coverage for up to ten years. Take that, Andrew Garfield! What’s more, he told Kevin Fiege to &$@# off. Thanks, Howard!”

“So you see, I go the extra mile for my customers. It’s what all Peck Property & Casualty agents do. If you want to experience the different first hand, give us a call and get your quote in as little as ten minutes, or go to peckpac.com or .org or .biz or .boobs, depending on your reality. Peck Property & Casualty, no slogans, just good service.”

"Good coffee, Bruce," said Howard. "You always do a great job.

"There's a science to it," said Banner. "And of the few things I know, science is one of them."

Howard watched his trainee sip coffee from across his desk. To Howard, Banner looked like a college professor. Round, rimless glasses with long graying hair pulled back into a ponytail. Hard to believe that the Hulk was inside him, just waiting to come out. But Banner had insisted that those days were behind him. In Bruce's reality, the Avengers had a falling out after Hawkeye spiked the lemonade at the Avengers annual picnic with laxative. They'd called the event Civil War 3, which Howard fully couldn't quite grasp. What had happened in Civil War's 1 and 2? Regardless, the fight had been brutal and Banner gave up both the Hulk and the dimension for a second life here with him. Howard had his doubts on if Bruce really had banished the Hulk. On one hand, having the Hulk as backup would be great. But as an insurance man, a raging monster who destroyed property left and right was a nightmare. Think of how high his premiums must be!

“Enough about advertising, let’s look at the Book.”

Howard placed a small metal cube on the desk and pressed the single button on the cube’s smooth surface. A hologram projection showed a network of dots across a great expanse. There were plenty of green dots, several red dots, and a vast collection of black dots.

“Pop quiz,” announced Howard. “What do the color coding on the dots mean?”

“Green is a dimension where you have at least one insured client,” said Banner. “Red means that you don’t. And black means those are realities where there is no interdimensional traffic, so they are outside of PP&C’s coverage.”

“Correct. And what does…. It mean when a green dot is flashing yellow?”

Banner looked at Howard with a puzzled expression.

“I don’t know, Mr. The Duck.”

“Call me Howard. Mr. The Duck was my father.” Howard pointed towards hologram map of the Book. One of the green dots was in fact pulsing a deep amber color.

“That means that one of our insured is currently in the process of filing a claim.”

Howard pressed the button on the Book again and zoomed in to the dot. Information crawled across the display beside the flashing dot.

REALITY # 3311
LOCATION: EARTH
INSURED: US PRESIDENT MCGILLICUTTY (JOINT GLOBAL POLICY)
CLAIM: ALIEN INVASION
COVERAGE: YES

“Alright,” said Howard. He pushed stood up and rifled through the drawers of his desk. He pulled out a large rifle and tossed Banner a black rectangular device. “That’s an interdimensional beacon. It’s how we move between realities. Keep it clipped to your belt and never have it leave your sight.”

Howard flicked a button on the rifle. It sparked blue energy and began to hum. He looked at Banner and winked.

“Let’s go give some great service.”

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

---

TBA