Hound55

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

Good new stuff. Pretty much have my sheet done.

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

Holmes stuff is straight fire, @DocTachyon

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

.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

Do I bring Calliope back for this or nah?

@PatientBean

Personally...

...hope so.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

Heavy WIP, definitely a coming soon^TM situation. Have some stuff to flesh out for lore and need to revise the CS and some of the other OOC elements.

@Lord Wraith

Too late! Expect CS tonight!

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

"Lay off the brake, you'll soak the bloody snags!"



In other words, stand by for a... not unfamiliar... updated character sheet.

Hound's Wacky Shack of Miscellaneous Clap-Trap

Better Get a Lawyer, Son. Part 1

Edgar Martinez's face was pressed hard against the hot hood of the cruiser which had absorbed the late day's April sun. His hands already sore from the tight cuffs. That mild pain wouldn't be going anywhere in a hurry.

Edgar's head had been positioned so he could watch the whole process of the seizure taking place, in full glory.

Bag after bag of tightly wrapped white powder was removed from the car by the other New Mexico trooper, after initial photographs.

"Aww, maaaaan."

"It would seem you're in a whooole mess-a trouble, young man..."

"Wha-- what am I gonna do? This is crazy, man..."

"What are you gonna do..? Well, we already mirandized you, son... but it would seem you Better Get A Lawyer, son. You better get a reeeeal good one."

---

_{Location: Lock Up, Albuquerque, New Mexico}

Better Get A Lawyer, Son: 1.01 Better Get a Real Good One

---

_{Interaction(s): Nil}

Previously: N/A

Italian wingtips clak across state linoleum.

Edgar had his head on the table. The cuffs still hurt and were now connected to a loop holding him here in this tight room that they wouldn't let him out of. It'd been hours.

A practised double windsor, resting on a dress shirt with an exorbitant thread count, bounces with a confident gait.

They had him. They kept talking about Mexico, but he'd brought this coke across from Texas. Just because he was Latino they thought he was Mexican? This was fucked. Kept talking about how the Feds would turn him inside out. They all knew they had him. They pulled all the bags out right in front of him. Maybe he should just--

The door opened. In walked a blonde man, with a crisp suit and a swagger all his own.

"Hey, I'm Banjo de León fro--"

"No frickin' way you're Latino, man..."

Banjo blinked twice.

"--and with that I think we can put a heavy line through 'Incompetency to stand trial'. Yes, you're very astute."

He rounded the table and put his case on the floor.

"As I was saying... I'm Banjo de León from 'de León, Alvarez, Prescott and Attorneys', now whilst--"

"Whoa... name partner." Edgar was surprised that he'd received this kind of attention.

"I'm not a name partner." He replied, going through the motions of a conversation he'd had all too many times already.

"Your father, then?" Edgar assumed. They always assume.

"My wife, as it bloody happens. But you couldn't afford her, mate. So you're stuck with me if you'll have me. Now... as I was trying to say, 'de León, Alvarez, Prescott and Attorneys' we're not generally known for criminal defense. We're known as a civil rights law firm by reputation. I, however, am entirely focused on criminal defense within our firm, and I assure you I am the best you'll find. Unless you want to take your chances on the crapshoot that is the Public Defenders Office." He produced a small box of business cards and slid one across the table top.

Edgar scooped the card up in both cuffed hands like it was a communion wafer, and clung to it like a life preserver. "How-- how much is this going to cost me..?"

"Well, since we're a civil rights law firm, a lot of what I do is actually pro bono work. Which means--"

"You mean you'll work for free..?!"

"Well... on occasion, the judge can occasionally determine that pro bono counsel be renumerated by the state for some or all of our costs if we win in a really over the top fashion, in which case, you wouldn't see THAT money. But yeah. That won't be you. No costs up front."

"Oh thank God, man! They've real--" Banjo silenced him with a hand gesture and "Ah!"

"These rooms are all mic-ed up." He explained.

"Wait, they can do that? You're my lawyer, man?!"

"Well, I'm pleased to hear that." He said as he removed the standard forms and pen from his case, to lay on the table in front of Edgar, before closing the case back up. "And yeah, it wouldn't be admissible in a court room, because of privilege, which you're right to refer to. But anyone listening in might still be tempted to use that for lines of invstigation, and then mysteriously the audio for the room goes missing orrrr they claim it was never recording at the time. You get what I'm saying? So let's not tempt fate, mate. These people are already screwing you to the wall, let's not offer to buy them dinner."

"They're-- they're screwing me?"

"That'd be my bet. Let me guess, they got you in here, started talking about how you were seen driving up from the Mexican border, all of a sudden the Feds are getting mentioned...?

"Yea-- yeah, man! That's exactly what they did!"

"Figures... Trafficking - WHICH NO ONE IS SAYING YOU EVEN DID - is a second degree felony." He raised his voice for Edgar's benefit, having mentioned the mics. It was covered by privilege and meant nothing, but the client wouldn't actually SEE him fighting for him for a while yet, and it was important to make sure they maintain that belief in their lawyer always being on their side. Always fighting. Relentless. "First charge is nine years... unless they can tie you to bringing it in from south of the border. Then it jumps to Federal and they can nail you for twenty years. Stronger negotiating position."

"Those-- those muthafuckas!" He hurriedly signed the paperwork.

"Yeah. Yeah, I hear a lot of that." He took the paperwork back and put it back in his case.

"So... so what do we do from here?"

"Well, I have your casefile, from here I'm going to go down to the ADA's office and see what kind of offer I get out of them."

"Wait-- wait, we're, we're taking a plea..?"

Banjo said nothing but gave a look of pity across the table that all but said "Mate, they hauled bag after bag of cocaine out of your car directly in front of you."

A few beats passed before he eventually spoke. "I'm just going to hear their offer. I wouldn't - and for that matter can't - accept their offer without talking to you first. At this stage it's all a negotiating process anyway. That's why they're trying to find ways to make YOU think they can up the penalty. We have our own investigators to look into this stuff as well. But the negotiations, I'm good at this. They'll need to change their pants after they see me coming."

"You're-- You are good, right? Promise?" Banjo looked into Edgar's desperate eyes.

Banjo smiled back warmly.

"Mate, I somehow managed to talk the best woman I've ever known into marrying me, and all it cost me was taking her name. And given when we met, I didn't have one of me own... I think I made a pretty good deal."

He got to his feet and walked to the door.

"I'll level though... she maaaaaay have been a little sweet on opposing counsel. But it won't matter. You'll see."

And with that he was gone.

- - -

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---

Better Get A Lawyer Son - Part 2

Banjo stood with his tie over his left shoulder, tucked into his suit, and the wide stance of a local at the bench of 'Julie's' foodtruck, hunched over his breakfast burrito.

"I dunno how you keep nailin' this every morning, Ferd..."

"Sure you do. Same ingredients. Same process. Lots of practice."

"Alchemy. Magic most foul. Got it. Say no more." He punctuated it with a massive bite.

Fernando turned back to the grill, to prep the next white slip. He called out over his shoulder "So'd you hear about this kid they got downtown. Word is they've got one even you couldn't flip."

"Nnng..?" Banjo said, barely paying attention, basking in the experience of his food.

"Yeah. Highway patrol caught this kid with a trunk full of cocaine..."

"Mmm..." Banjo listened, but his jaw was otherwise preoccupied.

"Yeah, say they gonna nail his ass to the floor..." Fernando kept his back to Banjo. Working away at the grill. A loud hissing noise came as the next ticket's ingredients hit the hotplate.

"DA said he'd bet a million bucks he's got this kid nailed, dead to rights. So I thought I'd tell you, and take my own action. Bet you two grand you couldn't flip him."

Banjo put his burrito down and pinched his brow in frustration. "Ferd... whaddaya doin'?"

"What, I can't make a friendly wager... see if the pendejo DA actually knows what he's talking ab--"

"Well, first of all, get your terminology right. I don't flip anyone. The Feds flip people to turn wit, and the prosecution flips witnesses to turn state. I walk 'em. And secondly, why are you treating me like I'm an idiot, Ferd? You're not betting me. You're trying to undercut my price on taking a case. Now who's this kid?"

"..."

"Ferd..? Ferd I haven't gone anywhere. I'm still right here... Feeer-errrrrd..." He picked his burrito back up and took another bite. "Dammit, that's good!"

^{_{"Julie's niece knows him..."}}

"Aww no, Julie? You're in on this..?"

"Please Mister Banjo, Edgar's a good boy..."

"No. No. First of all, I know you both know Banjo's the first name. You're doing that to sound more pitiful, and I haven't been eating here all this time to not have noticed that it's beneath you to not realise it. You're playin' me Julie..." He took another big bite, but Julie wouldn't let up.

"Lisa, she knew him from school, she said that Edgar Martinez was a good boy, but then his father died. All he had was his car and some gas money, Mister Banjo, and he still had to look after his mother..."

"Knock it off!" He said, with his mouth still partially full.

"...He had to drop out of school! Mister Banjo, the only way he could come close to making up the money that they relied on his father to bring in, was to start driving for bad--"

"Dammit! I'd say you just made me lose my appetite, but we all know that's not the case! It's too damn good! I'm taking this to go..." He stormed off.

The crunch of his shoes on the ground foretold his return. He grabbed a handful of napkins from the basket.

"Needed serviettes." He explained. He felt four sad eyes on him. He sighed.

"French dip sandwich. Lunchtime. I'm not bloody payin' for it. And I want you to know, that I'm not very happy with any of you..."

And with that he walked to his car.

---

_{Location: Bernalillo County Metropolitan Court, Metropolitan Courthouse, Albuquerque, New Mexico}

Better Get A Lawyer, Son: 1.02 Get yourself a Lawyer, Son

---

_{Interaction(s): Nil}

Previously: Better Get A Real Good One

The newest Assistant District Attorney stepped out of court, and down the corridor after a fine morning session. He looked over and found himself walking next to a blonde man in a fine tailored suit. Defense attorney. Had to be.

"Hey, I'm Banjo de León fro--"

"Ah, the Martinez case, right?"

"That's right."

"The guy who just saw us pull all his coke out of--"

"Not all facts are yet in evidence. Oh, and feel free to drop an 'allegedly' in there at any point in time." Banjo kept a closed mouthed smile.

"You're right. They're not yet in evidence. The coke has been seized... and I then get to enter it all - as a few people bring it in, and dump it all down on that little table, piled high - as evidence in front of a jury. I am new here, but I'm pretty sure that's how it works." The ADA didn't keep his smile closed-mouthed at all. Flashed a wide grin. Like a predator.

"If it need get that far..." Banjo said. "Now it is my client's first offense..."

"And a very interesting choice of crime for your client to make for his first offense, driving drugs in from Mexico..."

"Again... allegedly... and to be honest I'd even be careful saying that much..."

"Oh yes, and why would that be the case?"

Banjo stopped, and thought for a moment. "I'm gonna tell you a story... There was this young couple of newlyweds, named Rachel and Diego." The young ADA stopped in his tracks as Banjo had in the hallway of the courthouse, tucking himself against a wall to avoid foot-traffic and hustle and bustle. "Anyway, Rachel and Diego had always dreamed of owning their own home and had mamnaged to achieve it. Proper sized home as they wanted, but on the outskirts, near the Wienerschnitzel by the on-ramp for the Forty... even then the payments were choking them off pretty tight..."

The ADA's foot was tapping, this was dragging and going nowhere and he had places to be, he had other trial work coming up that day, and a full tray of work awaiting him back at the office.

"Anyway, when they wanted to build up a big Megamart Mall on the outskirts they were trying to buy up a lot of cheap properties by whatever means necessary to add to the development, provide additional parking, you know the drill... anyway, the people at the Megamart Mall were getting, well, let's say aggressive with their dealings. Making day-to-day life very difficult for Rachel and Diego. There were threats. People were stealing their mail... which happened to include a one-off bumper fee and due date for said fee on their home loan. More threats. Diego had to put up cameras outside his house. Those cameras got smashed. Had to re-install hidden, and recessed cameras that couldn't be so easily destroyed."

The ADA's patience was left a thread. "Alright, what's the moral of the story. Slow and steady wins the race?"

"What? No. This wasn't-- This wasn't an analogy. I know Rachel and Diego. Good people. I helped them save their house, we proved that payment was missed because of that mail theft - a Federal offense, and they send my wife and I Christmas cards every year. This wasn't that kind of story."

The ADA was incensed, he was wasting his time. "Then what?! What was the point of any of this?!"

"The point was. I know Rachel and Diego. Nice people. We get along well. And if I were to have pulled the footage on the video cameras he still has from his property and told you that you can see a very familiar sedan driving up the Forty, at the time consistent with my client's story and absolutely no clear evidence to support the baseless theory that he was driving up from Mexico, what would you say?"

The pallor dropped from the ADA's face.

"We--"

"My guess is 'Oh!', because there's not much else to be said beyond that, really. Which takes me back to before when I said '--and I'd be careful even saying that much.' Because your filed paperwork is already Doo-de-doo-de-doo-de-doo--" He mimed a walking figure up to the Judge's office with his fingers. "--well and truly on it's way to the Judge. I'm guessing you were trying to put pressure on me as some kind of power move right there, don't really care. But at this point it's something you'd have to walk back if we proceed to trial. Walking back what will likely be seen as a bad faith effort to tack on years to a plea agreement."

"Well, now that's not really a fair asse--" The ADA spoke up with half-hearted faux outrage at the attack on his character.

"Not a fair assessment? So your plan was... what... to go to trial claiming before a judge and a local jury of his peers that Edgar Martinez was hauling a load of drugs from Mexico via... what... Amarillo? Would be interesting to watch. Particularly from my vantage point on the defence bench."

"Fine... Three years."

"Really? I was thinking one."

"One year?!? He had a trunk full of cocaine!"

"Ohhhhhh that's because you're still thinking about this as about Edgar Martinez. No, no, no. I was thinking you were negotiating with... some kind of concern for self-preservation and your own career. See, because if you go up there before a judge with this, WHEN I make you walk back your cynical play here, that's going to affect how the judge sees a new ADA who hasn't really prosecuted anything in this state. Well, first impressions are a very valuable thing in our profession. I'm saying one year and letting you buy yours back."

"Two years." The young ADA threw out in a blurted counter.

"I said one year. And I didn't stutter. If I were in the mood for haggling Id have said six months and let you walk me back to a year. No. One year. And I still have to convince my client to take the deal."

The young Assistant District Attorney seethed and considered his options. "How the Hell am I supposed to swing one year with our office."

"You tell them the full story. All of it. And they'll get it. Hell, might even think you dodged a bullet." Banjo flashed a quick leer. "Either way, it's not my problem and it's not Edgar Martinez's."

He considered. "I'll take it to my office."

"Really, you're gonna crowd source this?" Banjo chuckled like he'd just been told a wry joke.

"I'm not going to let some slick little asshole defense attorney push me into making an unmakable deal." He hissed at him in frustration. "If I CAN swing one year, for a watertight case with a trunk full of cocaine, without being strung up I will call you back and you can tell your client."

Banjo's grin remained glued to his face. He enjoyed this part of the process far too much.

"You have until close of business, Prosecutor." He turned and left him in the hallway. "I'll go talk to my client, but I wouldn't drag my feet if I were you."

- - -

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---

Better Get A Lawyer Son - Part 3

"A year..? I'd have to go to prison for a year?"

It was always difficult doing this part. No matter how good the deal. If it involved a term of imprisonment, it never came easy. Understandably so.

"Yes. But given the maximum is nine years for your sentence, if found guilty, one year is pretty-- well, I'm hesitant to say it's a great deal, because I'm not the one doing the time. But it's beyond what would usually be considered reasonable given the circumstances."

"It-- it is?"

"Like I said... he had to change his pants." Banjo tried to offer a warm smile.

"Well... what happens now?" Edgar asked.

"Well, assuming he gets clearance to sign off on the deal, he calls me back and let's me know it's on. Then, assuming this is what YOU want, there's paperwork and documentation to fill out that becomes activated upon your submission of a guilty plea, which would take place at a preliminary hearing. At which point you'd be taken into custody and transferred to prison from where you're being held, and go through processing. With the year's penalty starting that date. Since it's part of plea bargaining, there'd be no knocking time off on time served, but a year's also considerably less time in the first place than you'd likely get if found guilty."

Edgar looked nervous. A whole year in prison. Could he-- what would that even be like? Could he make it through that?

"Do you-- do you think I could make it through that? A whole year?"

Banjo sighed, there was no easy and honest way of doing this. Any effort to spare the client in one way would be sacrificing the other. It was not a situation where compromise was possible.

"I've had clients do thirty days. I've got clients doing multiple years. I'm not going to lie and say it's ever easy... or like a really bad summer camp, or the worst school you've ever attended... but I can honestly say, for shorter termed sentences - and this is all relative - the bigger reason to not take it is the question of what will happen when you get back out, than the horrors when you're in. And don't take that wrong. It will be horrible when you're in." Banjo kept his voice down, and it almost seemed muffled beyond the pair of them behind his hunched shoulders.

"When you come out, there's no return to the status quo. You'll be treated differently everywhere. You're going to have even more trouble finding legitimate work. Taking this deal... what you get back from the years you'll have taken off your sentence, they won't be the same as your existence before you got arrested. They just won't. If you're scared of potentially having to be in there and ACTUALLY SURVIVING for five to nine, then yes. I get it. On paper it's a fantastic deal. A single year, when you could have been serving nine. But it doesn't factor in everything that comes with telling society that you're guilty."

"You don't think I should take it?"

Banjo tried to arrest the way the conversation was going by raising his hands up, palms out.

"Whoa... that's not what I'm saying. What I AM saying is that this isn't the kind of decision you can make just seeing the number one, the number nine, and thinking 'this' is a Hell of a lot bloody better than 'that'. Even if it is. Because there's still pain that comes immediately with 'this' that would outright not be felt with an acquittal or positive verdict."

"If I served nine, when I get out wouldn't I have the same problems? And they hauled bag after bag from my own car. What are the odds you could even get me an acquittal or positive verdict? At least when I get out, I could help my Moms, man. I go for nine years... she might not even make it that long. She just lost Pops already."

Banjo shrugged. An honest gesture, if somewhat callous. "But that's what I'm saying. I can't make this decision for you. Has to be by you, what's right for you, based on your knowledge of what the different options mean and their consequences."

"So if we get the greenlight for the one, what do YOU want?"

Edgar hunched over thinking. In the end it was the thought of his own mother which made the decision for him. Just as it had made the other decisions which led him to where he sat right now. In the 'Visitation Room' in stir.

"I mean-- I've gotta take the one and done, man."

---

_{Location: Bernalillo County Metropolitan Court, Metropolitan Courthouse, Albuquerque, New Mexico}

Better Get A Lawyer, Son: 1.03 Get Yourself a Suit And Tie

---

_{Interaction(s): Nil}

Previously: Get Yourself A Lawyer Son

"A year?!? I don't get it, I thought you said you had a clean bust, clear case."

"I do. But--"

The younger Assistant District Attorney was following an older colleague around the office whilst he made stops at various desks and the photocopier.

"Then what's the problem?"

"Well, it's this slimeball defense attorney..."

"Isn't it always..."

"Says he's got evidence to walk back the charge for crossing the Mexican border..."

"So drop the Fed charge."

"Yeah, but I papered the charge. It's already gone to the judge. He says when he makes me walk it back he's going to dress me down in front of the judge, with his stupid shitbag accent..."

The older man stopped in his tracks and his neck straightened up.

"Wait-- accent..?"

"Yeah, it's weird. He's got this Mexican name, which he even mispronounces with this stupid accent from like, Britain, or Austra--"

"Banjo de Leon..? Fuck that. Take the opportunity he gave you. Call him back, he'll drop it to six months. Doesn't matter. Take the plea." The older man turned and faced him, and actually got animated with his advice. His hands a quick flurry of gestures, before he went back to what he'd previously been doing.

"Wait, what--? What happened to clean bust, clear case?"

"Don't care. You're not ready for the kind of buzzsaw you're staring down. Hell, you don't even have the sense to realize that's what you're looking at. Not this early in your career, you don't want any of that. Make him plead it out. Shit, three months if it gets you out of that woodchipper." He handed back paperwork to someone working behind a desk, and moved on, before noticing the younger man wasn't still following.

The young ADA had stopped in his tracks, barely able to believe what he was hearing. He snorted derisively.

"What?" The elser statesman of the prosecution asked.

"You're scared of him. Make it sound like he should be wearing a cape. Acting like he's Superman or something."

"I am scared of him. For you. You've nowhere near the level of experience necessary to be dealing with this guy, ESPECIALLY with a case that looks open and shut from the outside. This guy will embarrass you. And he's not Superman..." With an 'onwards' nod of his head he gestured for the new ADA to keep walking.

"...Superman has a moral code." He finished after the younger man was once again by his side.

"He's more like-- I dunno-- Nineties Michael Jordan. You don't give him any reason to be pissed off. Hope he tries to sleepwalk his way to a breezy twenty-five... thirty-five points... and then hope you can sneak up on him and steal a game here and there where he's not looking. In your case... Make him plead it out. Build your career around him until you're established. Hope you catch him on a breezy day later once your reputation is solid."

"I did call him an asshole. I think my exact words were, 'some slick little asshole defense attorney'..."

"Or you could kick the hornet's nest and call him an asshole..." He looked up to the sky as if he couldn't believe the stupidity of the younger man.

"It's a car full of cocaine, though..."

"It's a two-bit driver, with no apparent connection to his higher ups. The actual dealers or cartel will replace him by the end of... well this sentence. They'd have already replaced him."

"You want me to take the plea bargain?"

"I think it would be best if you did. And I'll explain it up the chain. You wouldn't be the only one to have dodged him early. But a lot of the people who didn't-- don't work here anymore. So, your choice."

"Yeah. Alright."

The older man still sensed resistance. "Look... how old are you?"

"I'm twenty eight."

"Exactly, you're twenty eight. And how many other Assistant District Attorneys are operating in major US cities under the age of thirty five?"

"And how am I supposed to know that?"

The older man raised his eyebrows, refusing to give that response any dignity whatsoever. The young wunderkind ADA from New York city who had moved to New Mexico to be the youngest operating ADA in any major city in the country, had a clipped article framed at his workspace. Playing dumb did not impress him at all.

"Alright, none. What's your point?" He admitted his knowledge.

"My point is, you moved here to get that put on your resume, and presumably when you move back in five or ten years--"

"I'm not--!"

"I didn't interview you. I'm not your boss, and I'm not stupid. For what its worth, they're not either." He pointed to the closed door of the District Attorney's office. "You moved here short term for your career. I'm not mad. Not even disappointed. So let's be straight here. You got offered an ADA gig at a ridiculously young age in an attempt to lure a high-potential, high-profile young prosecutor down here. They get your talents however long you stay, you get the resume plaudits, until you hit a high profile enough case that gets New York looking in this direction... at which point the resume speaks for itself, and they bring you back as an ADA to New York. And you've shaved ten to fifteen years off your waiting period - Youngest ADA in New York is about twenty years older than you right now, I believe. And because of your added years of experience in the role, quickly put yourself in the frontrunning position of District Attorney successor over enough time as well. Yes?"

He'd checked pretty much every box of his career plan that he'd mapped out.

"..."

"I'll take that as a 'Yes' or at least a 'Close enough'. Well, what you don't realise is, this guy... he's the guy who derails all of that. This is the heavy puncher that the young boxer ducks early in his career, because you're in no way ready to deal with this, so that you can go on to be the Heavyweight champ one day. Maybe you take him on later, maybe you don't. But you sure as Hell don't make that fight today."

"Why are you so worried that this guy's going to beat me?"

"I'm not worried he's going to beat you. Any one of these attorney's could suddenly have a good day, evidence drops in their lap, a witness disintegrates on the stand, a good session turns one way one day. You're going to get beaten by one of them one of these days."

"Then why?"

"Because you care about your career, about your reputation, and this guy isn't just going to beat you. He's going to embarrass you. If you get on the wrong side of this guy and set foot in that courtroom, he's going to dance around on you and make it look like you don't even belong up there."

"And what would you do, when you were my age, if you had someone your age coming at you telling you to get this guy to plead it out, to less than a year for a trunk full of coke."

"Me? Oh, I'd take it to trial." The older man said in a matter-of-fact way.

"Ex-ACKT--!"

"But then I have no problem with being an Assistant District Attorney in Albuquerque at age fifty three... I'm right where I want to be."

The younger man stopped in his tracks.

"Alright, alright... I get your point. I'll get him to plead it out."

"Good luck. Hope he lets you out."

"Wait-- What?" This whole thing was only sounding worse by the minute.

"Well, you did call the man an asshole. And he can be... competitive."

"So? The man has a client."

"He does. But if he thinks he can beat you, he will voice as much to the client. As much hardball as you think he's playing in plea agreement, this isn't what he does. He's a trial attorney. That isn't because he's incapable of being convincing..."

- - -

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Story arc to be continued here, for anyone interested...

Ju-V

Looks like Discord is suffering under the increased traffic of outages to Meta (Facebook/Insta, etc)

...and back up.

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

"So an Australian, a Scotsman and a Yank walk into a bar..."

---

S U P E R I O R R O G U E S
S U P E R I O R R O G U E S

---

"Wait-- wait... that's not right. A bank. An Australian, a Scotsman and a Yank walk into a bank. That's even better. Rhymes."

"Except I'm not Scottish."

"Y'r jokin' me..?"

"Nope."

"But y'r name's Mac bloody Gargan."

"Yup."

"Not even second generation..?"

"Nope."

"But you cut out every round before it's your shout... what y'r tellin' me is that you're just a cheap bloody Yank?"

"..."

"Right... the Scottish Defamation League'll have your guts for garters, mate. Passin' yourself off as Scottish when you're just a tight Yank, exploitin' expectations with that name..."

"Is there a Scottish Defamation League..?"

"It's the 2020s. There's a Defamation League for everybody. Every bludger's gotta be offended all the time."

"Right... An Australian, a Yank, and a slightly more difficult Seppo bastard go into a bank... Bloody Yanks, can't just go along to get along, can ya?"

---

Fred Myers, Mac Gargan and Herman Schulz are waiting in line at a bank. There's five teller counters but only two people working behind them. And one of the two manned counters has a "Sorry, Next Teller Please" sign in front of them.

Fred Myers is tapping his feet in frustration. Mac Gargan is growling lowly in frustration. Herman is standing at the front of the line, and checking all of his possessions to make sure he's ready for when he gets served.

"Mask... gauntlets... bag with a dollar sign on it..."

"Come! On!" Fred cries out in frustration.

At the front of the line a pensioner in an electric scooter is counting out pennies, to be deposited in her grandson's account, whilst the teller looks half-asleep.

"I keep telling you... these places are torture these days. They don't employ anyone, and the only people who actually go to the bank these days are people you really wish wouldn't."

Fred walked past Mac, grabbed the bag off of Herman and kept walking. "Right, I think we can move this along a bit..." He walked up to the front of the counter.

"Move. Now."

"Now you've gone and made me lose count." She pushed the pennies back to one side, and slowly started counting again. The teller visibly longed for death's sweet release.

Fred took another step forward and swept all of the pennies off the counter and into the small bag.

"You're done now. Leave before I club you into unconsciousness with Little Timmy's inheritance."

She scowled at the intrusion. "It's Billy. And its his birthday money."

"I. Don't. Care. And it's over there now."

With a flick of his wrist, befitting one in his line of work, he flung the bag of pennies across the room, where it spilled, scattering many. She held eye contact with him for a few seconds of standoff, before the scooter beeped as it began to back up, never taking her eyes off of the obnoxious man.

"Thank you." The teller said, tears of joy welling in the corners of his mostly dead-appearing eyes. "Now how can I help you today?"

The other two joined Fred at the now free counter.

"We're here to make a withdrawl." Fred said with a leer, joined later in kind by the other two. Mac liked leering, he was good at it. And Herman was always a Heck of a team player.

"Absolutely, sir. Just fill this out..." The teller produced a stack of dusty forms from behind the counter, blowing dust off of the top one, before presenting them with the form for a withdrawl. His creased mouth almost dared to turn into a smile. They didn't get many people coming INTO a bank to make a withdrawl anymore. ATM's had taken most of that out of his role, he was almost excited to see how this would go.

"Wait-- no. You don't seem to understand." Fred said, holding up Herman's bag with the dollar sign on it.

The teller took a few seconds to consider what his meaning could be, before it finally hit home.

"Oh, of course sir. You want some baggies for depositing change as well... Just a moment." He pulled a roll of little plastic bags held together with a rubberband and slid them across the counter.

Fred sighed and took out a pair of boomerangs and starting to gesticulate and twirl them in explanation. "No, you're still not getting it. What I'm saying is, This is one of thoooose... 'unofficial' withdrawls." He made quote marks with the boomerangs.

"The kind where we take your money and don't fill out any paperwork."

"I'll take a hand full of that candy you keep on standby for when people bring their kids in as well... and if you've got any of those gold chains you have for tying pens to your desks, we'll take those too."

The teller took a few seconds to consider what he was being told, before it finally clicked.

"Ohhhh! A robbery. That's what you're saying this is!"

Fred tapped one of the boomerangs against his forehead. "Yeees... There it is."

"Sure thing. We got told we're not to put up any resistance during a robbery, no point getting staff-- well, you know... just a second. We have a procedure for this.

"THANK YOU! Now we're getting somewhere. Can honestly say, wish we had more places which cared about their workers who-- what've you got there?"

"Standard Operating Procedures manual... told you, we have a procedure. Now, I'm to inform you that nobody here can access the safe, it's on a--"

"Timelock." The three said in unison. "Yep, this is all fairly standard."

"Okay, told you that... no, don't need to repeat it in espanol... skip that... This is just about money right, it's not an internal domestic dispute between yourselves and any coworkers here..?"

The three just looked at him with a bored expression.

"Okay, we can skip all of this section too, then. This is good. Streamlined... Okay, so it says now that I--"

Heavy roller shutters slammed down cutting them off between the tellers and the trio.

"Hey! Hey!"

"Oh! Oh no! Was that supposed to happen? There's a button here it says I'm supposed to press. Wait-- it says there's another button I'm supposed to press, here. Maybe that means I'll be able to see you again--?"

"No! Stop hitting buttons!"

An alarm suddenly started blaring out.

"Oh. Ow. That's really loud, isn't it? Is that supposed to be happening?"

"We probably should have told him to skip any steps that say to press buttons..."

"Yes, cheers Shock', very helpful..."

The alarm continued to blare. This was taking too long, Fred was beginning to find his enjoyment for the situation waning.

"Scorpion, make y'rself useful with that stumpy tail, and let's get to the safe crackin'."

Mac tore through the teller counter's with a swing of his club tail.

He stood in the wreckage gasping, looking to regain control of his faculties. Ever since the suit had been cybernetically grafted to his nervous system, its use would add to his rage. Overuse could result in his being consumed by it altogether.

"Nice, Scorp', smoko time f'r you though, mate. We'll take it from here." Fred flung a boomerang into the seam of the safe with pinpoint precision. It flashed a few seconds before detonating. Leaving superficial damage to their side of the safe.

"You're up, Shock. Least til Scorp's taken his five."

Herman let the safe have it with his gauntlets, targeting the point Fred had exposed. Soon the safe broke open, the door falling away from the wall altogether.

"Bloody rippa! I'll check on our wheelman, you two get on the money. We should be down to six minutes, since the alarm."

Mac and Herman started relocating the contents of the safe over to near the front door. Bags of cash, bearer bonds, investment gems and other valuable goods, were carried away.

Fred returned, and watched as their work was almost complete.

"Stand down! Drop your weapons! Police! Freeze!" An officer with a handgun called for their surrender. Fred raised a single eyebrow. Herman turned to face. Mac stepped in front of Fred with a growl, as the trio took formation.

"I-- I-- I said STAND DOWN!" The officer wavered, far less certain of himself.

"Y'r in the wrong place, at the wrong time, copper. Blind Freddy could tell ya that."

"I said put 'EM UUUP!"

Suddenly the car burst through the front of the bank, slamming into the officer, and sending him careening through the bank into the blasted hole in the teller counter.

"But then Blind Freddy can see 'round corners... Right, officer's here early, our schedule's off! Time to blow, gents! Shock' Grab the money!"

The driver wore a dark motorcycle helmet and didn't aid in moving the goods. He had his job, he knew it, he was good at it. James Beverley - Overdrive.

The police burst onto the scene and drew down. Gunfire was rife.

"Oi! Shocker! Make with the dosh! Time to cash out!"

Herman saw the bags by the floor and quickly made his choice.

"Alright! Got it! Go! Go! Go!"

The wheels of the augmented car spun rapidly as it cut a major burnout before blasting back out of the hole it had left in the bank, it's speed far beyond the capabilities of the local authorities to catch. Officers radio'd a description of the vehicle, but thanks to James Beverley's technopathic capabilities, it no longer matched the car's description in three blocks time. Let alone after another eight.

The generic van pulled to a stop at the agreed upon point. The foursome left on foot, walked through back alleys, carrying the take. Safe in the knowledge they'd left the authorities well behind them.

---

"So an Aussie, a Scotsman and a Yank walk into a bar, right?"

"Is this about--?" Asked the Trickster.

"Aye, that it is. That it is." Replied McCulloch.

"So anyway, an Aussie, a Scotsman and a Yank walk into the bar... there was probably a nutcase there too, Trick, let's face it, there generally is."

"Gargan's no Scot, by the way..."

"You're takin' the piss, right? His name's Mac Gargan. You're tellin' me he's not bloody--"

"It's not really important to the story. Just let him finish."

"Cheers Len'. At least someone's got an appreciation for a good bleedin' yarn, cob'."

"So's anyway, these four jokers go stumblin' into that bar they have over in the Big Apple..."

"Wait-- four-- where'd the fourth one come in?"

"Let it go, McCulloch."

"Well, the other Yank."

"Yeah, Mac Gargan. That's still only three."

"No, not-- Look, he was drivin' the bleedin' car. An Aussie, a Scot who's apparently not a Scot, a Yank... and a fourth bleedin' Yank who'd been drivin' the car. Are ya happy now? Ya couldn't just let it go?"

"So's anyway..."

---

Fred, Mac, James and Herman pull up the four stools by the bar.

"Drinks on us, boys! Just had a Hell of a bloody haul today! Pay the man, Herman! Cheers, Blue. The usual for me and... I guess whatever their usuals are as well, I don't know whatcha drink, that's his job!"

Herman took a small bag out and started counting out pennies to pay for their drinks.

"Oi! Whaddaya call this, are you-- Herman... Herman, where is the bloody cash?"

---

Captain Boomerang gestured with his arms out, a wide grin upon his face and his palms wide open as if waiting for approval over the whole story.

"I don't get it... Maybe I'm crazy--"

"You are."

"--but what happened to the money?"

"Well..."

---

Alone in the bank, with a line of twenty exaperated people behind, and large strings of police tape sectioning off damage parts of the bank, a single elderly figure in a scooter counts off individual bills to deposit in her grandson Billy's account.

"Twenty thousand, seven hundred and fifty five... twenty thousand, seven hundred and sixty... twenty thousand, seven hundred an--"

"OH COME ON LADY!"

"--Now you've made me lose my place... Fifty... One Hundred... One hundred and--"

The teller sobs behind the cashier's desk.

Ju-V

I have been in touch with Zoldyck. And there were medical issues...

But they're OVER and now I'm pretty sure that means bad things can never befall us again, and we're all immortal!

So try not to form any regular mortal attachments since they'll only make you sad when they leave their mortal coil, and let's all focus only on posting forever!

...or when its most convenient. *cough*