When the sound of the wagon was close enough to the cabin to be heard, Daron placed his patch of knitted yarn upon the table and took station at the window, standing to the side of it and peering around it to keep watch. He kept his stance in tense focus as the wagon drew near. His mind raced over what to do with the possibilities of who could possibly be arriving, and what to say. He'd have the deed ready for proof of ownership. He'd have some gold coin ready if there was a collection for property tax already being made. Hopefully it wouldn't be a county sheriff looking for the child, or him, or Whitney. The wait for the arrival seemed to be interminable to Daron as he watched the procession. His body relaxed and he put himself into open view behind the window when the wagon came to a stop and he saw a lady emerge from the passenger compartment, holding one young child by the hand in each of her own as she stood upon the ground to assist them out. The driver of the wagon kept to himself and stared blankly away from them as they disembarked. With the children out, the woman reached into the wagon and pulled a large stuffed sack out, which she struggled to lift towards her and fell to the ground once it was pulled free. The woman said "thank you" out loud to the driver, who said nothing in response and snapped the reins down to compel the horse to move. The horse and carriage drew a large circle and left the three persons behind. The woman watched the carriage trail off with a visible sigh, then turned to the sack on the ground. She clenched the end of it tightly with both hands and began to drag it on the dirt, pulling it towards the house in sharp tugs which conveyed little distance. The children were too little to offer any assistance and merely walked in her wake. Her handling of the bag caused Daron to think of his handling of Whitney and caused him to briefly shudder. He quickly left the cabin and went outside to approach the beleaguered woman.
"You're taking that here, I assume, ma'am?"
"Yes. Can I please ask for your help?"
Daron was already walking over to the woman as she asked for his assistance and wordlessly took the bag up and heaved it over his back, then stood beside her.
"Let's return to the cabin, ma'am."
She demurely said thanks and walked in the lead towards the doorway. Daron nodded to the children who stared at him blankly until the woman's urging caused them to follow her. Jesse stood attentively by his seat at the table as they entered. Daron gently laid the bag to the side of the doorway before closing it shut, then addressed the woman with a faint bow at the waist.
"Well uh, welcome to our home, ma'am. I was not expecting any kind of visitor. My name is Daron, the child's name is Jesse."
"Nice to meet you. I am Mrs. Whitney Poole."
Daron felt the blood rush from her face as she spoke the name. His mind rushed over the immediate future and the possible permutations for how this situation would resolve.
"Is my husband nearby?"
"I uh, um. I'm afraid to tell you Mrs. Poole that um, no, he isn't. There was a, a uh, a recent accident. He had an unfortunate accident, ma'am."
"What ever do you mean? Was he taken to a hospital of some kind?"
Daron ruminated and darted his eyes upon the ground. Now it all made sense. Now everything that had happened finally made sense. The attack was no sudden wild impulse, nor was it a drunken rampage. It was his plan all along. Whitney did that with the intent to make room for his family to move in.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
18380221 18:03:30
"The very idea seems preposterous and repugnant." Frederic now sat upright on the edge of his seat and glared at Daron. "I fail to see how you would be able to get this to happen without having all of your people being overrun by sin in short time. Who would you propose to even oversee this kind of operation? You? Is this something you would do?"
"Me? Nah, I know I ain't got it in me. When I had to take care of Whitney that day, I lost it. Just thinking about it now makes me weak in the heart. No, I'll need to find a way to get a man appointed to it, make it his job."
"And... in this kind of unbelievable situation, how would that man know what's approved for him to do or not?"
"Well, who's the guy who tells him what's legal or not right now? A judge. A court judge. Yeah, so, what if we were to do it where the judge sets down a list... sets down things the guy can do which are not going to be punished by the court."
"So now you are looking to enshrine a corrupt judge in addition to an official criminal. Surely you see the folly in all of this, Daron."
"I'm just trying... trying to figure out how to get a handle, get control of this all. Just got to think of something new, some way to change things to get a different outcome. We have the good of us, we have the Church, we have each other relying upon each other, but that isn't enough. The bad ain't being shamed or stopped out of being bad. What we doing now isn't working. So we gotta try something else. S'all there is. So, now, we gotta put this in writing. Make an official judge and figure out how to go from there."
"Me? Nah, I know I ain't got it in me. When I had to take care of Whitney that day, I lost it. Just thinking about it now makes me weak in the heart. No, I'll need to find a way to get a man appointed to it, make it his job."
"And... in this kind of unbelievable situation, how would that man know what's approved for him to do or not?"
"Well, who's the guy who tells him what's legal or not right now? A judge. A court judge. Yeah, so, what if we were to do it where the judge sets down a list... sets down things the guy can do which are not going to be punished by the court."
"So now you are looking to enshrine a corrupt judge in addition to an official criminal. Surely you see the folly in all of this, Daron."
"I'm just trying... trying to figure out how to get a handle, get control of this all. Just got to think of something new, some way to change things to get a different outcome. We have the good of us, we have the Church, we have each other relying upon each other, but that isn't enough. The bad ain't being shamed or stopped out of being bad. What we doing now isn't working. So we gotta try something else. S'all there is. So, now, we gotta put this in writing. Make an official judge and figure out how to go from there."
Thursday, September 13, 2012
18351225 02:56:11
The wheezing stopped, leaving the wind scraping against the roof to be the only noise they heard inside the cabin over their breathing. Jesse rocked in place and still succumbed to an inadvertent cough while finally regaining the last bits of his composure. Daron kneaded his hands and curled his lips over the repulsive sensation of blood congealing in his hands - he still was unsure if the blood was his or Whitney's, but knew that he couldn't take the risk to find out while the room was dark. They were both rankled and paralyzed by the sudden attack and resolution, and sat in darkness on opposite sides of the moonlight shining upon the floor. The only reminder that Whitney's corpse lay somewhere between them was the smell which clung to their nostrils.
"Now... now what we gonna do?" Jesse shook his head sharply after speaking. He was still winded and dizzy. There was a long pause before he received an answer.
"Only thing we can do is get him out of here and wait until sunrise. Light the lantern."
"I don't know where-"
"Feel around for it. It's by the bed. Hug the wall and crawl over to it. Matches are by it."
Jesse nodded and took a moment to summon the strength to rise to his knees and kneel upon the ground. He threw himself off balance in the motion and lurched forward. Instinctively, he reached out in front of him to prevent himself from falling to his face, and planted his hands upon Whitney's body. The surface of it was already cold to the touch. The sensation caused Jesse to recoil backwards and his stomach to churn as a wave of dread tingled throughout his veins. The motion threw his back to the sodden wall of the cabin, which allowed him to quickly reorient himself and go about to find the lantern. He crawled on his hands and knees in the darkness, reaching for the edge of the room and not wanting to return to the middle of it. After inching forward nervously and finding no further obstruction, he ambled on all fours with his body scraping the wall until he came upon the wooden frame where the lantern was standing. Jesse wrapped his hands around it and then reached up to feel at the top, and found the glass of the lantern with his fingertips. He pawed around the base of the lantern and found the slender box where the matches were kept. He thanked the Lord that it was still there and pulled his body up from his hands as he anchored them into the stand. He slid the box open and struck a match and turned his head directly towards it to assuredly light the wick with the first attempt.
Though their eyes adjusted to the light, neither Daron or Jesse were able to comprehend the horror in their sight. Red blood coated Whitney's torso and glistened in the lantern's glow. Specks of shattered glass which protruded from the open lacerations in his neck caught reflections from the illumination. Jesse snapped his vision away in a horrified reflex and absently dropped the lit match to the ground, but still had enough sense to stamp it into the dirt. Daron squinted at his hands and expanded his fingers to inspect them, but was not able to see anything beyond a smudged coating over the digits. He flexed his fingers in and out, and finally was able to discern a few flaps of flesh which bent around the rest of his hand. The adrenaline rush still prevented him from feeling pain, but he knew to not wait for that circumstance to arrive before addressing the issue.
"Jesse, get a shirt. I need you to wrap it around my wrists."
"Okay."
Jesse kept his head away from the center of the room and walked back to the side of his bedding where a loose shirt was laying on the ground. He took it up and walked over to Daron and held it out to him.
"No, you gotta do it. Tear it up first."
Jesse pulled at the shirt from a hole in the middle and clenched his teeth as he pulled away at it from the sides until it split apart in his hands. He finished separating the pieces and knelt down in front of Daron, wrapped one of the halves around his right wrist, and tied it into a knot which he pulled as tightly as he could. Daron stood up after he had both wrists tied down and reached down to pick up Whitney's arms, then pulled sharply upon the body to inch it closer to the door. Daron only had enough strength in his grip to drag the body out with one protracted lurch at a time.
"Now... now what we gonna do?" Jesse shook his head sharply after speaking. He was still winded and dizzy. There was a long pause before he received an answer.
"Only thing we can do is get him out of here and wait until sunrise. Light the lantern."
"I don't know where-"
"Feel around for it. It's by the bed. Hug the wall and crawl over to it. Matches are by it."
Jesse nodded and took a moment to summon the strength to rise to his knees and kneel upon the ground. He threw himself off balance in the motion and lurched forward. Instinctively, he reached out in front of him to prevent himself from falling to his face, and planted his hands upon Whitney's body. The surface of it was already cold to the touch. The sensation caused Jesse to recoil backwards and his stomach to churn as a wave of dread tingled throughout his veins. The motion threw his back to the sodden wall of the cabin, which allowed him to quickly reorient himself and go about to find the lantern. He crawled on his hands and knees in the darkness, reaching for the edge of the room and not wanting to return to the middle of it. After inching forward nervously and finding no further obstruction, he ambled on all fours with his body scraping the wall until he came upon the wooden frame where the lantern was standing. Jesse wrapped his hands around it and then reached up to feel at the top, and found the glass of the lantern with his fingertips. He pawed around the base of the lantern and found the slender box where the matches were kept. He thanked the Lord that it was still there and pulled his body up from his hands as he anchored them into the stand. He slid the box open and struck a match and turned his head directly towards it to assuredly light the wick with the first attempt.
Though their eyes adjusted to the light, neither Daron or Jesse were able to comprehend the horror in their sight. Red blood coated Whitney's torso and glistened in the lantern's glow. Specks of shattered glass which protruded from the open lacerations in his neck caught reflections from the illumination. Jesse snapped his vision away in a horrified reflex and absently dropped the lit match to the ground, but still had enough sense to stamp it into the dirt. Daron squinted at his hands and expanded his fingers to inspect them, but was not able to see anything beyond a smudged coating over the digits. He flexed his fingers in and out, and finally was able to discern a few flaps of flesh which bent around the rest of his hand. The adrenaline rush still prevented him from feeling pain, but he knew to not wait for that circumstance to arrive before addressing the issue.
"Jesse, get a shirt. I need you to wrap it around my wrists."
"Okay."
Jesse kept his head away from the center of the room and walked back to the side of his bedding where a loose shirt was laying on the ground. He took it up and walked over to Daron and held it out to him.
"No, you gotta do it. Tear it up first."
Jesse pulled at the shirt from a hole in the middle and clenched his teeth as he pulled away at it from the sides until it split apart in his hands. He finished separating the pieces and knelt down in front of Daron, wrapped one of the halves around his right wrist, and tied it into a knot which he pulled as tightly as he could. Daron stood up after he had both wrists tied down and reached down to pick up Whitney's arms, then pulled sharply upon the body to inch it closer to the door. Daron only had enough strength in his grip to drag the body out with one protracted lurch at a time.
Friday, September 7, 2012
18380221 17:58:54
"Dear Daron, perhaps I should better state the issue in this manner." Frederic paused to properly formulate this assertion, but suddenly chose a different means to continue the conversation. Daron didn't respond well to being outright told that he was wrong, even if he was. He had to help lead him to this conclusion on his own. "See, what you are looking to do is reform the sinister men whom you speak of now. You want to end their criminal actions. But you already have one Church here and you see that you all attend it faithfully. You all profess your faith but several seem to lack the ability to adhere to it. If these men who act in this way do so without fear of being dishonest to the truly highest of authority, how do you expect them to respect you?"
"Freddy, Fred. You overthinkin this. Listen to me again - I want to make the bad guys the good guys. Ain't got nothin to do with the Lord or the Church. It's about a ... a name. A title. Those bad folks... they bad because we just say they bad. But that's just them doin what they know to do. They doin what they done to live. Ain't no other way they will. So that's how we fight it - by making it our own."
Frederic stared blankly and unable to speak for an extended moment. He felt that this idea which Daron was stating was now losing basis in reality.
"I... I fail to comprehend you. You are just going to decide to let lawlessness be the law? You are going to simply let rule be set by anarchists? That is impossible, that is prepos-"
"No, no, see, not all lawlessness. There will be law, yes. There will always be law. And there will always be folk who try to get around the law. So, here's the thing to do. What you do is, you say to a certain part of those folk, you tell them that their lawlessness is acceptable. You see? There ain't no cops where there ain't no robbers. There ain't no robbers without cops on em. They on the same coin. What we do is we mint that coin. Ha ha, see! See it!"
"Freddy, Fred. You overthinkin this. Listen to me again - I want to make the bad guys the good guys. Ain't got nothin to do with the Lord or the Church. It's about a ... a name. A title. Those bad folks... they bad because we just say they bad. But that's just them doin what they know to do. They doin what they done to live. Ain't no other way they will. So that's how we fight it - by making it our own."
Frederic stared blankly and unable to speak for an extended moment. He felt that this idea which Daron was stating was now losing basis in reality.
"I... I fail to comprehend you. You are just going to decide to let lawlessness be the law? You are going to simply let rule be set by anarchists? That is impossible, that is prepos-"
"No, no, see, not all lawlessness. There will be law, yes. There will always be law. And there will always be folk who try to get around the law. So, here's the thing to do. What you do is, you say to a certain part of those folk, you tell them that their lawlessness is acceptable. You see? There ain't no cops where there ain't no robbers. There ain't no robbers without cops on em. They on the same coin. What we do is we mint that coin. Ha ha, see! See it!"
Thursday, September 6, 2012
18351225 02:44:09
Daron and Jesse slept peacefully while being watched over in pensive study. The difference was that in this night, there was wine served with the Christmas meal, and alcohol wasn't consumed by either of the men since they had arrived here in October. Whitney assumed from Daron's age and physique that he would be more susceptible to the drink than he would be, and his suspicion seemed to be holding true at the present moment. He gingerly crept over to where Daron was sleeping and clapped loudly once by his face. He responded by snoring more loudly.
Whitney decided that the child would be first. He would be easier to suppress and subdue. All he'd have to do is smother over the body and apply pressure to the neck. Put him to sleep. That done, there would be one less obstacle against him for his plan. With each step towards Jesse he curled his bare feet against the hardened dirt and concentrated on being silent. He took position at Jesse's feet and knelt before them, and paused a few moments to collect his focus. This was the time he was waiting for. This was it. This was the first of the last obstacles to overcome before he'd be free.
Jesse suddenly stirred and mumbled a moan in his sleep, but eventually shifted his body to slouch to the side and resumed his slumber. This was the time. This was the time he wanted. Whitney moved his legs behind him to kneel with his feet pressed to the ground so that he could pounce upon Jesse as he slept. In a blink, he launched and landed upon him. Before Jesse could wake to respond, Whitney wrapped his hands around Jesse's neck and leaned his torso forward to pin Jesse's arms down with his elbows. Whitney also dug his kneecaps into Jesse's thighs. Jesse shook his body violently but did little to shift Whitney out of position. He flailed his arms but was unable to grab at anything. He started to groan loudly, screamed against his vocal chords but made no sound louder than a coarse hum. Jesse's eyes seemed to pop out from his head, against which Whitney glared without blinking. Jesse kept trying to flail and scream, and his peals were quickly losing duration and strength. Finally, Jesse managed to wiggle a leg free and thrust it into the center of Whitney's crotch. The impact caused him to roll off and lose grip, which gave Jesse a chance to take in a breath and cough violently as he gasped for air.
The sudden noise caused Daron to wake, but he was still slowed by the alcohol consumed earlier and didn't understand the commotion which was nearby but he couldn't see in the darkness.
"What's going on?" Daron called out to the room.
"Choke!" Jesse said the word in a sickly creak through heaps of coughing from the bottom of his lungs.
Daron roused himself to his feet and made a quick hobble over to Jesse's direction, but only made it halfway across the room before he was tackled and punched in the face when he was on the ground. The impact stunned him and he laid on the ground in a daze as the body quickly rolled off of him and walked back to Jesse. The child screamed out as he was smothered again. Daron felt at the side of the log wall for the empty wine bottle and grasped at the air wildly until he knocked it over to the ground. He took the bottle into his hand and quickly rolled himself upright. With a scream, Daron dove towards the noise and dashed to the lump of bodies. He smothered himself over both of them and felt for the neck of the person underneath him. His fingers found the collarbone. Daron wound the bottle back and struck it down to hit the back of the head. The glass shattered and left him holding the broken neck of the bottle. The impact caused Whitney to roll of off Jesse again, but Daron didn't lose his sense of touch to Whitney's neck. When he hit his back to the ground, Daron knelt over his body and shoved the broken wine bottle into the flesh by his fingertips. Within seconds he felt liquid pour over his hands as he plunged the glass into unseen flesh. Whitney gurgled a scream as the glass cut into the veins of his neck. Daron continued to grind the glass into the neck until he could press the tips of the fingers holding the glass against Whitney's blood soaked flesh. Whitney writhed and moaned in agony. Daron clenched his eyes shut and ground his teeth together as he struggled to keep the glass impaled into Whitney's body. The flailing diminished in moments until it gradually came to an end. Jesse continued to cough coarsely and sit upright in his bedding. As the adrenaline receded from his blood and the smell of blood and excrement filled the air, Daron reeled and turned to the side to vomit. He continued to heave dryly for several minute after he emptied the contents of his stomach to the ground.
Whitney decided that the child would be first. He would be easier to suppress and subdue. All he'd have to do is smother over the body and apply pressure to the neck. Put him to sleep. That done, there would be one less obstacle against him for his plan. With each step towards Jesse he curled his bare feet against the hardened dirt and concentrated on being silent. He took position at Jesse's feet and knelt before them, and paused a few moments to collect his focus. This was the time he was waiting for. This was it. This was the first of the last obstacles to overcome before he'd be free.
Jesse suddenly stirred and mumbled a moan in his sleep, but eventually shifted his body to slouch to the side and resumed his slumber. This was the time. This was the time he wanted. Whitney moved his legs behind him to kneel with his feet pressed to the ground so that he could pounce upon Jesse as he slept. In a blink, he launched and landed upon him. Before Jesse could wake to respond, Whitney wrapped his hands around Jesse's neck and leaned his torso forward to pin Jesse's arms down with his elbows. Whitney also dug his kneecaps into Jesse's thighs. Jesse shook his body violently but did little to shift Whitney out of position. He flailed his arms but was unable to grab at anything. He started to groan loudly, screamed against his vocal chords but made no sound louder than a coarse hum. Jesse's eyes seemed to pop out from his head, against which Whitney glared without blinking. Jesse kept trying to flail and scream, and his peals were quickly losing duration and strength. Finally, Jesse managed to wiggle a leg free and thrust it into the center of Whitney's crotch. The impact caused him to roll off and lose grip, which gave Jesse a chance to take in a breath and cough violently as he gasped for air.
The sudden noise caused Daron to wake, but he was still slowed by the alcohol consumed earlier and didn't understand the commotion which was nearby but he couldn't see in the darkness.
"What's going on?" Daron called out to the room.
"Choke!" Jesse said the word in a sickly creak through heaps of coughing from the bottom of his lungs.
Daron roused himself to his feet and made a quick hobble over to Jesse's direction, but only made it halfway across the room before he was tackled and punched in the face when he was on the ground. The impact stunned him and he laid on the ground in a daze as the body quickly rolled off of him and walked back to Jesse. The child screamed out as he was smothered again. Daron felt at the side of the log wall for the empty wine bottle and grasped at the air wildly until he knocked it over to the ground. He took the bottle into his hand and quickly rolled himself upright. With a scream, Daron dove towards the noise and dashed to the lump of bodies. He smothered himself over both of them and felt for the neck of the person underneath him. His fingers found the collarbone. Daron wound the bottle back and struck it down to hit the back of the head. The glass shattered and left him holding the broken neck of the bottle. The impact caused Whitney to roll of off Jesse again, but Daron didn't lose his sense of touch to Whitney's neck. When he hit his back to the ground, Daron knelt over his body and shoved the broken wine bottle into the flesh by his fingertips. Within seconds he felt liquid pour over his hands as he plunged the glass into unseen flesh. Whitney gurgled a scream as the glass cut into the veins of his neck. Daron continued to grind the glass into the neck until he could press the tips of the fingers holding the glass against Whitney's blood soaked flesh. Whitney writhed and moaned in agony. Daron clenched his eyes shut and ground his teeth together as he struggled to keep the glass impaled into Whitney's body. The flailing diminished in moments until it gradually came to an end. Jesse continued to cough coarsely and sit upright in his bedding. As the adrenaline receded from his blood and the smell of blood and excrement filled the air, Daron reeled and turned to the side to vomit. He continued to heave dryly for several minute after he emptied the contents of his stomach to the ground.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
18580923 09:46:26
Tazewell looked around the glass walls as he stepped into the center. Doctor Caden pushed the panel behind him after he took his position in front of the three stools, then sat at the high stool next to a table where his clipboard was waiting.
"Ready when you are, Mr. Nolson. Twist the bracelet as I instructed you."
With a turn of his left hand over the bracelet on his right wrist, Tazewell snapped the piece together. Within an instant, the chain links which dangled in his right hand melted and formed into a single metallic rod. The angle at which he held the metal caused the middle stool which he was standing before to be knocked over as it protruded out from the transformation. The granite rock which rested on its surface fell to the ground with a hard strike, but remained intact. He blinked at the fallen chair in a moment of disbelief before pulling the stool back up and replacing the rock on the seat. Doctor Caden laughed at his reaction.
"OK. First test, please. How does the metal feel in your hands now?"
"Feels good. Solid and sturdy. Like an iron rod."
"Good, good. Go ahead, then. Test One."
The first test was the tin can which rested on the stool to his right. Tazewell held the rod down, paused to take in a breath, then raised it over his head to strike upon the can with as much force as he could muster. The can offered no resistance to the strike and collapsed around the club, but only until the stool underneath it broke apart from the force as well. The metal and wood rained to the ground in a satisfying explosion of force. The Doctor smiled as he recorded the result on his sheet.
"Excellent! Test Two! Do it just the same."
Tazewell smiled now and and prepared the strike as he did before. The metal bat was raised up and swung down. The strike caused a few sparks to fly as the rock was split in two, and fell apart upon the stool seat. Doctor Caden nodded and wrote this expected result down. Now it was time for the most interesting test.
"Good. Now, as much force as you can muster with this hit. We need to test the durability as much as we can."
On the third stool was a piece of white mineral roughly the size of an apple - it was an unfinished and flawed diamond. Today it would find its use. Tazewell paused a few moments, making sure he had focus on the hit, drummed his fingers on the metal, then took the baton up to strike. He swung it down upon the diamond with a loud roar and caused the stool underneath to break apart yet again. The diamond bounced onto the ground and rolled to the edge of the glass wall. The recoil from the strike made Tazewell reel backwards from his stance. Doctor Caden rose to the side of the glass in an exctied rush.
"Show me! Quickly! Show me the metal!"
He held the metal rod up with both hands for the doctor to see, and he was elated at the sight. The metal did more than merely survive the strike intact, it appeared fully unblemished.
"Ready when you are, Mr. Nolson. Twist the bracelet as I instructed you."
With a turn of his left hand over the bracelet on his right wrist, Tazewell snapped the piece together. Within an instant, the chain links which dangled in his right hand melted and formed into a single metallic rod. The angle at which he held the metal caused the middle stool which he was standing before to be knocked over as it protruded out from the transformation. The granite rock which rested on its surface fell to the ground with a hard strike, but remained intact. He blinked at the fallen chair in a moment of disbelief before pulling the stool back up and replacing the rock on the seat. Doctor Caden laughed at his reaction.
"OK. First test, please. How does the metal feel in your hands now?"
"Feels good. Solid and sturdy. Like an iron rod."
"Good, good. Go ahead, then. Test One."
The first test was the tin can which rested on the stool to his right. Tazewell held the rod down, paused to take in a breath, then raised it over his head to strike upon the can with as much force as he could muster. The can offered no resistance to the strike and collapsed around the club, but only until the stool underneath it broke apart from the force as well. The metal and wood rained to the ground in a satisfying explosion of force. The Doctor smiled as he recorded the result on his sheet.
"Excellent! Test Two! Do it just the same."
Tazewell smiled now and and prepared the strike as he did before. The metal bat was raised up and swung down. The strike caused a few sparks to fly as the rock was split in two, and fell apart upon the stool seat. Doctor Caden nodded and wrote this expected result down. Now it was time for the most interesting test.
"Good. Now, as much force as you can muster with this hit. We need to test the durability as much as we can."
On the third stool was a piece of white mineral roughly the size of an apple - it was an unfinished and flawed diamond. Today it would find its use. Tazewell paused a few moments, making sure he had focus on the hit, drummed his fingers on the metal, then took the baton up to strike. He swung it down upon the diamond with a loud roar and caused the stool underneath to break apart yet again. The diamond bounced onto the ground and rolled to the edge of the glass wall. The recoil from the strike made Tazewell reel backwards from his stance. Doctor Caden rose to the side of the glass in an exctied rush.
"Show me! Quickly! Show me the metal!"
He held the metal rod up with both hands for the doctor to see, and he was elated at the sight. The metal did more than merely survive the strike intact, it appeared fully unblemished.
Monday, September 3, 2012
18460824 17:38:51
Jesse's head reeled as his nose took in the aroma of the fire cooked ribs, but he wanted to enjoy the meat of his meal for the last part and dug into the browned cob of corn first. He felt the juice from the corn drip down his lips and fall upon the wooden plate as the kernels snapped between his teeth. He looked around as he chewed on the corn, and took a moment to realize that he was actually rather happy with the scene. There was good cooked food on the plate in front of him, he didn't have to work in the fields today, and the warmth from the sun was strong but not enough to burn the skin. The temperature felt just right to him - warm, yet cool to the surface with the breeze. His adoration was quickly snapped out of his head when he heard the girl seated a few tables away yell loudly enough to silence the pleasant talking amongst the dining crowd.
"Smooth" Conrad Stanton looked to be up to his old tricks but had finally been called out on it. He had a lean physique, sly eyes, quick wit, and a velvet voice, all of which he took no shame in flaunting when he could do so amongst the ladies of the farm. He also always found a way to get a hand on a lady when he was talking to them; with one, he would take up one of her hands while speaking, for another he would rub a shoulder while standing behind his target. He didn't see the actual contact occur with this instance but it was enough to incite the wrath of Gloria Willit. Jesse didn't know much about her beyond she being roughly the same age that he was, and that she tended to keep to herself and wasn't very social. She seemed to bury herself in her work and not allow herself to be distracted. This is why her reaction surprised him and many of the other diners who watched this transpire.
Conrad held up both of his hands demurely and shied his body away, trying to play off of the offense. Gloria would have none of it. She stood by the side of her chair, pulled her arm back, and slapped Conrad with an open hand directly upon his left cheek. The contact reverberated in the air like her voice did just earlier. Rather than withdraw, Conrad righted his head and glared at Gloria. He yelled something which, to Jesse, sounded like "Bitch, what the fuck you-", and that's all he heard before Gloria took to jabbing his stomach with her fist. With as much surprise as injury received from the blow, Conrad sunk to the ground doubled over his stomach, which prompted Gloria to kick him until he laid on the ground before her feet. She pulled her fist back again, preparing for another swing, but held the hand in check and kept it at the ready over him as he groaned on the grass.
It was here, in this pose, with the August sun gleaming off of her bronze skin, with her face sharply pointed with rage, with her lips quivering in restraint of another shout, with her fist held high over the man she had just struck down, that Jesse truly noticed Gloria for the first time. It was here that he had seen something which he had never seen before - a woman who did not cower before a man. It was here that Jesse liked what he had seen.
"Smooth" Conrad Stanton looked to be up to his old tricks but had finally been called out on it. He had a lean physique, sly eyes, quick wit, and a velvet voice, all of which he took no shame in flaunting when he could do so amongst the ladies of the farm. He also always found a way to get a hand on a lady when he was talking to them; with one, he would take up one of her hands while speaking, for another he would rub a shoulder while standing behind his target. He didn't see the actual contact occur with this instance but it was enough to incite the wrath of Gloria Willit. Jesse didn't know much about her beyond she being roughly the same age that he was, and that she tended to keep to herself and wasn't very social. She seemed to bury herself in her work and not allow herself to be distracted. This is why her reaction surprised him and many of the other diners who watched this transpire.
Conrad held up both of his hands demurely and shied his body away, trying to play off of the offense. Gloria would have none of it. She stood by the side of her chair, pulled her arm back, and slapped Conrad with an open hand directly upon his left cheek. The contact reverberated in the air like her voice did just earlier. Rather than withdraw, Conrad righted his head and glared at Gloria. He yelled something which, to Jesse, sounded like "Bitch, what the fuck you-", and that's all he heard before Gloria took to jabbing his stomach with her fist. With as much surprise as injury received from the blow, Conrad sunk to the ground doubled over his stomach, which prompted Gloria to kick him until he laid on the ground before her feet. She pulled her fist back again, preparing for another swing, but held the hand in check and kept it at the ready over him as he groaned on the grass.
It was here, in this pose, with the August sun gleaming off of her bronze skin, with her face sharply pointed with rage, with her lips quivering in restraint of another shout, with her fist held high over the man she had just struck down, that Jesse truly noticed Gloria for the first time. It was here that he had seen something which he had never seen before - a woman who did not cower before a man. It was here that Jesse liked what he had seen.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
18841109 16:38:22
YF-N-6888 (nb: Inn near railway, north of main train station)
"Welcome to Daron's City. Nice to meet, you, Mister -"
"Smith.", said Rudolph Schnaubelt.
Momence laughed at the thick German flavor in the simple single word uttered through the long beard.
"Right, right, very good. OK then, Mr. Smith. How long do you intend to stay here? We can make your stay more comfortable, if you like."
"I frankly wish to discuss the matter of May First."
"Mhm." Momence figured he would get right down to business without recognizing the offer for some fun to be bought.
"The labor and the businesses both expect strikes on the day. We think this would be a good time to act. We think both sides will blame each other instead."
"Right, I see that. So how do you want us to help you?"
"I need to learn how to make, uh, boom. Bomb. I need materials they can't find the source."
"I understand you, Smithy. I understand." Momence smiled broadly. He preferred the exchanges to be like this, where the client just comes out and asks rather than have to beat around code phrases and watch language. His broken English helped here, if anything. "So here's what we do for you. You take a room here for a day and relax. I'll get you some points with the bar. Tomorrow, I'll send-"
"But I am ready now."
"Smith, Jesus! This May Day shit is more than a year away. Time's on your side on this one, OK? Just relax and listen. We set you up. We show you how to use the goods we send you. We show you how we'll deliver it. We'll do it slowly so you teach your brothers. Got it?"
"Yes." Somehow, Schnaubelt managed to say the simple word 'yes' in a palpably thick accent.
"what places do you have in mind?"
"Well... New York. And. Well, all big cities. All places were there are many workers."
"Y'know, maybe you should consider Chicago for this. Chicago's really loose right now."
"Chicago." Schnaubelt said the city's name in deep contemplation.
"Welcome to Daron's City. Nice to meet, you, Mister -"
"Smith.", said Rudolph Schnaubelt.
Momence laughed at the thick German flavor in the simple single word uttered through the long beard.
"Right, right, very good. OK then, Mr. Smith. How long do you intend to stay here? We can make your stay more comfortable, if you like."
"I frankly wish to discuss the matter of May First."
"Mhm." Momence figured he would get right down to business without recognizing the offer for some fun to be bought.
"The labor and the businesses both expect strikes on the day. We think this would be a good time to act. We think both sides will blame each other instead."
"Right, I see that. So how do you want us to help you?"
"I need to learn how to make, uh, boom. Bomb. I need materials they can't find the source."
"I understand you, Smithy. I understand." Momence smiled broadly. He preferred the exchanges to be like this, where the client just comes out and asks rather than have to beat around code phrases and watch language. His broken English helped here, if anything. "So here's what we do for you. You take a room here for a day and relax. I'll get you some points with the bar. Tomorrow, I'll send-"
"But I am ready now."
"Smith, Jesus! This May Day shit is more than a year away. Time's on your side on this one, OK? Just relax and listen. We set you up. We show you how to use the goods we send you. We show you how we'll deliver it. We'll do it slowly so you teach your brothers. Got it?"
"Yes." Somehow, Schnaubelt managed to say the simple word 'yes' in a palpably thick accent.
"what places do you have in mind?"
"Well... New York. And. Well, all big cities. All places were there are many workers."
"Y'know, maybe you should consider Chicago for this. Chicago's really loose right now."
"Chicago." Schnaubelt said the city's name in deep contemplation.
Friday, August 31, 2012
18970624 20:04:11
FA-N-0222
Stanley Deitz looked at the concierge desk in amazement as he approached it. Every time he came to this restaurant, there was a new girl behind it, and each of them was a stunning knockout. This girl couldn't have been older than 20 and sported immaculate features with an otherwise common body. Her skin was rather dark and held an unblemished glow under the soft lights overhead. Her straight black hair draped the sides of her long face and curled just under her chin, which was accentuated by her long lashes. The thin black ribbon tie clenched tightly to her neck helped to highlight her demure frame. When she noticed him approach, her eyes opened widely to reveal delicate light brown pupils.
"Good evening and welcome to Chordairs. Do you have a reservation?" He became even more enamored with her upon hearing her speak. Her voice wasn't too high pitched nor did she speak too slowly. He briefly wondered if it was an act.
"Actually, I have an appointment."
"Oh, I see." She peered down to the desk to look at the open book. "With who?"
"With Linda."
"Ah, I see. Please wait here a moment." Without hesitation she walked off to the dining area. Within a minute, she returned ahead of the escort. Linda wore her green dress today, which Stanley liked well enough.
"Good to see you, Stanley."
"And you, Linda."
She turned and offered her right arm out, which Stanley took into his left as the two returned to the table. Carbondale glanced up at them both when the two were nearby, and nodded to his girl when they were ready to sit with them in the booth. They shook hands over the table before Stanley sat down first and wiggled his way to the center. Once seated, the men turned their backs to each other and faced the ladies. They waited for the game to begin. All they had to do was mouth words silently and nearby to the men in alteration as the other's partner spoke.
"So what's the matter? This couldn't wait?" Carbondale kept a grin on his face as he asked this brusquely and maintained eye contact with his companion.
"I got a problem. I think it's in our interest to get it settled immediately." Deitz remained unemotional in his tone.
"Fine. What is it?"
"There's some Dutch faggot going into the Jew apartments and taking pictures of their shit in the middle of the night. He's making like some sort of social justice asshole, or a reporter. You know anything about this?"
"No, it's news to me."
"I asked around and it sounds like this guy's been doing this for a while. Seems like he's hit all the shitholes down there in the last few weeks. I heard the name 'Bojack' from a few of the people he busted on."
"So what do you want me to do about him?"
"Like I said, I think he's doing this for a show and not for a personal collection. I bet he's using them pictures to show to people in halls and such, to shock them and get their hearts to bleed so that they cry for the shit to get more cleaned. If that's what he's doing, he needs to be stopped."
"How badly do you want him to be stopped?"
"Oh, leave the guy alone. Yeah, I don't think it's that bad. If I were him, I'd double down if I got touched. Just shut him up."
Carbondale paused to calculate a price.
"Three." He said this referring to thousands.
"Phew, three? Three. OK, fine. Three. Yeah. You got it."
"Good."
With the price settled, the men each reached for their menus which rested on the table, giving their dates the indication that the business was settled and that they were now allowed to speak.
Stanley Deitz looked at the concierge desk in amazement as he approached it. Every time he came to this restaurant, there was a new girl behind it, and each of them was a stunning knockout. This girl couldn't have been older than 20 and sported immaculate features with an otherwise common body. Her skin was rather dark and held an unblemished glow under the soft lights overhead. Her straight black hair draped the sides of her long face and curled just under her chin, which was accentuated by her long lashes. The thin black ribbon tie clenched tightly to her neck helped to highlight her demure frame. When she noticed him approach, her eyes opened widely to reveal delicate light brown pupils.
"Good evening and welcome to Chordairs. Do you have a reservation?" He became even more enamored with her upon hearing her speak. Her voice wasn't too high pitched nor did she speak too slowly. He briefly wondered if it was an act.
"Actually, I have an appointment."
"Oh, I see." She peered down to the desk to look at the open book. "With who?"
"With Linda."
"Ah, I see. Please wait here a moment." Without hesitation she walked off to the dining area. Within a minute, she returned ahead of the escort. Linda wore her green dress today, which Stanley liked well enough.
"Good to see you, Stanley."
"And you, Linda."
She turned and offered her right arm out, which Stanley took into his left as the two returned to the table. Carbondale glanced up at them both when the two were nearby, and nodded to his girl when they were ready to sit with them in the booth. They shook hands over the table before Stanley sat down first and wiggled his way to the center. Once seated, the men turned their backs to each other and faced the ladies. They waited for the game to begin. All they had to do was mouth words silently and nearby to the men in alteration as the other's partner spoke.
"So what's the matter? This couldn't wait?" Carbondale kept a grin on his face as he asked this brusquely and maintained eye contact with his companion.
"I got a problem. I think it's in our interest to get it settled immediately." Deitz remained unemotional in his tone.
"Fine. What is it?"
"There's some Dutch faggot going into the Jew apartments and taking pictures of their shit in the middle of the night. He's making like some sort of social justice asshole, or a reporter. You know anything about this?"
"No, it's news to me."
"I asked around and it sounds like this guy's been doing this for a while. Seems like he's hit all the shitholes down there in the last few weeks. I heard the name 'Bojack' from a few of the people he busted on."
"So what do you want me to do about him?"
"Like I said, I think he's doing this for a show and not for a personal collection. I bet he's using them pictures to show to people in halls and such, to shock them and get their hearts to bleed so that they cry for the shit to get more cleaned. If that's what he's doing, he needs to be stopped."
"How badly do you want him to be stopped?"
"Oh, leave the guy alone. Yeah, I don't think it's that bad. If I were him, I'd double down if I got touched. Just shut him up."
Carbondale paused to calculate a price.
"Three." He said this referring to thousands.
"Phew, three? Three. OK, fine. Three. Yeah. You got it."
"Good."
With the price settled, the men each reached for their menus which rested on the table, giving their dates the indication that the business was settled and that they were now allowed to speak.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
18351022 05:58:08
Jesse shot up awake on the end of a bad dream. All he could recall afterward was the sensation of running - of running endlessly as fast as he could, and feeling panicked in fleeing from something which he didn't see. The several nights of being alone still caused him to sleep very lightly and rise in this manner frequently. While that was unsettling to Jesse, he was more perplexed in seeing Whitney Poole stare at him as this all transpired.
Whitney was seated in the tent, but not merely seated upright from where he had laid to rest the night before. He was seated with his back to the side of the tent so that Jesse and Daron were under his immediate view. Jesse didn't see Whitney hold anything while he sat there, so he could only assume that he had remained in that position for some time without doing anything else. Jesse nodded to Whitney and received no response of any kind. He continued to stare directly at him and Daron. Jesse quickly determined now to be a good time to address his need to urinate and quietly left the tent.
After a casual walk to the tree line and taking care of business, he took up some of the lighter loose branches and returned to the tent with them to start the fire. Jesse carefully arranged the twigs to lean against each other and set the pot of water on the spindle over it to catch the heat. He held the match inside the ring of rocks before lighting it, remembering not to do as he did yesterday which caused sparks to fly all over. He was glad that such a thing didn't happen in the summer. One chore done. Next was to make sure Randall had food. Jesse ambled to the remains of the barn, took up a giant pile of hay with both arms, and brought it to the carriage where Randall was standing. Jesse ran his hands over the canvas which covered the horse as it bent its head down to graze.
When he started to walk back to the tent he saw Whitney standing by the fire, staring towards him. He paused in his step before continuing his return. Jesse became increasingly uncomfortable with Whitney with each morning that he bore witness to this bizarre kind of behavior. Whitney would only speak to Jesse out of necessity and otherwise spent the small idle time like this doing nothing but simply looking at certain things. One morning it was the house, another it was the horse, today it was him. It all made Jesse feel uneasy and concerned, as much for the simple and focused manner in which he did it as well as not knowing if this was simply his natural way of being. Was there any harm in just looking around? No, but Jesse felt like his eyes pierced the subject of his view. He felt like his way of staring at things was done to make some sort of internal calculations for a purpose which he didn't betray. Was there an ulterior motive being formed? He couldn't tell - and it made him squeamish.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
18970625 12:38:17
EG-S-0680
Momence stood next to one of the chairs which the secretary offered for him to sit in while he heard his arrival being told to the auditorium's manager, Martin Leasar. The friction of his chair against the parquet floor inside echoed into the hall before he saw Mr. Leasar lean out from the doorway and wave him over to approach.
"Please! Please come in, Richard."
As he approached the doorway, Martin held his hand out to him while speaking to secretary, whom Momence didn't recognize.
"Dottie, this is Richard. Any time he comes here asking for me, you bring him to me immediately. Okay honey?"
"Sure, boss. Nice to meet you, Mister Richard..."
"Just Rick is fine." Momence said this with a smile and taking her hand to shake.
Dottie quickly withdrew from the room and shut the door with a swift slam behind her. The noise caused Momence to stare at the door with a blink.
"She needs to get some grace about her, I say. Anyway, this is unexpected! I Would have told her to look out for you if I knew you were coming. Sit, sit."
"I would, but I am busy and just need to convey this message to you directly. I understand that you just recently starting having presentations by a person named Ryan Bojack."
"Oh, him, yeah. Just did his first show last week. Brings in his own lantern and talks about those bums and whores by the factories. It's all for shock and show."
"Right. You are to disallow him from making those presentations here."
Martin stared at Momence in contemplative response. He found it seem curious for it to apply specifically to this one individual and his show.
"Really? I mean, he did draw a decent crowd for it. Did you...", Martin now leaned forward in his chair and spoke in a reduced volume, asking, "did you want a direct taste from his pull instead? Would that be good?"
"No. He cannot make that presentation here. At all."
Momence issued the command with cold rigidity and an unwavering stare. The motive for him not sitting down was clear to Martin at this point. This wasn't something to be negotiated or discussed. This was an order to be followed.
"OK, Rick. OK. I'll tell him."
"Good. See you Tuesday."
"Yeah, will do." Martin's voice was timid and soft when saying this.
Momence immediately took leave of the room and closed the door gently after he stepped out.
"See you Tuesday, Miss Dottie." As he said this to her, he continued walking on and didn't stop to look back at her as she filed her fingernails and hummed softly to herself.
"Oh, see ya later Just Rick." Dottie said this cheerfully, but the features on her face turned dour as he left the room without so much as acknowledging her beyond that.
Momence stood next to one of the chairs which the secretary offered for him to sit in while he heard his arrival being told to the auditorium's manager, Martin Leasar. The friction of his chair against the parquet floor inside echoed into the hall before he saw Mr. Leasar lean out from the doorway and wave him over to approach.
"Please! Please come in, Richard."
As he approached the doorway, Martin held his hand out to him while speaking to secretary, whom Momence didn't recognize.
"Dottie, this is Richard. Any time he comes here asking for me, you bring him to me immediately. Okay honey?"
"Sure, boss. Nice to meet you, Mister Richard..."
"Just Rick is fine." Momence said this with a smile and taking her hand to shake.
Dottie quickly withdrew from the room and shut the door with a swift slam behind her. The noise caused Momence to stare at the door with a blink.
"She needs to get some grace about her, I say. Anyway, this is unexpected! I Would have told her to look out for you if I knew you were coming. Sit, sit."
"I would, but I am busy and just need to convey this message to you directly. I understand that you just recently starting having presentations by a person named Ryan Bojack."
"Oh, him, yeah. Just did his first show last week. Brings in his own lantern and talks about those bums and whores by the factories. It's all for shock and show."
"Right. You are to disallow him from making those presentations here."
Martin stared at Momence in contemplative response. He found it seem curious for it to apply specifically to this one individual and his show.
"Really? I mean, he did draw a decent crowd for it. Did you...", Martin now leaned forward in his chair and spoke in a reduced volume, asking, "did you want a direct taste from his pull instead? Would that be good?"
"No. He cannot make that presentation here. At all."
Momence issued the command with cold rigidity and an unwavering stare. The motive for him not sitting down was clear to Martin at this point. This wasn't something to be negotiated or discussed. This was an order to be followed.
"OK, Rick. OK. I'll tell him."
"Good. See you Tuesday."
"Yeah, will do." Martin's voice was timid and soft when saying this.
Momence immediately took leave of the room and closed the door gently after he stepped out.
"See you Tuesday, Miss Dottie." As he said this to her, he continued walking on and didn't stop to look back at her as she filed her fingernails and hummed softly to herself.
"Oh, see ya later Just Rick." Dottie said this cheerfully, but the features on her face turned dour as he left the room without so much as acknowledging her beyond that.
Friday, August 24, 2012
18970623 22:18:40
TR-S-4918X0755
Carolina Leicht was the first to notice the strange noises coming from down the hall. There were unfamiliar voices, and the volume was loud enough to carry over the sewing machines which she and her husband Simon were hunched over. Neither of them nor their son Freiderich were interrupted by the noises to incur so much as a moment's pause in the operation as it neared the final hour which they would normally allow themselves to work. While running the dark fabric through the flying needle as it deftly threaded the seam which she held at both sides, she idly wondered who the stranger nearby could be. There wasn't any forewarning and there hasn't been any sort of loud screaming or altercation, so it wouldn't be any sort of Health Inspector, and it wasn't the landlord either. Deliveries wouldn't be requested at this hour, and she didn't recall anyone new undertaking that task in several days. She spaced for a moment on the latest boy's name - William came to mind. That should be it. He seemed a nice boy, whatever his name was. But anyway, who was down there? There was no good reason for anyone unfamiliar to be in this apartment at this hour. Then she heard footsteps approach their room. There were two sets of steps coming near them. Soon, a small middle aged man stood in the opened doorway and addressed them in their native Yiddish.
"Can we take a picture of this room?"
A picture? Here? Now? How is that possible? There wasn't any camera equipment being lugged around which she could see. Regardless, she had nothing to hide and knew neither person standing nearby as anyone important, so she instinctively said yes without wanting to debate or discuss the request. The three Leichts remained motionless for the brief moment while the second man, taller than the first who spoke, came from behind and held out a small box into the open area with one hand and a small tube with the other. Suddenly, the tube shot out a puff of light which pierced their eyes and caused all three of them to vocally express their shock. Carolina blinked several times and started to panic while her vision slowly returned. The last hour was drawing to a close and this was time being wasted. The shorter man spoke again.
"The gentleman would like to know how much your family is earning for your work. Would you be willing to tell us about what you do?"
Her confusion increased with the question. She had no idea why any of this was happening, and became as irritated as she was perplexed with the intrusion into her work as it was being delayed.
"Is he, are you the police? Do you work for the city?"
"No, madam. He is documenting the lifestyle of people like you for journalistic purposes."
"Us? Why us? What does he care about us? What's important to see here?"
"He wants to investigate the conditions of the workers like you. He would like to ask questions about your work and lifestyle from it."
Carolina was not satisfied with the response. She saw no reason why someone would want to be here to take pictures of her room and her work area. It made no sense. Something didn't seem right. She responded with finality after a moment's contemplation.
"If he has questions, he can ask my boss Stanley. He should know that we are going to sleep soon and we need to keep working until we do. I have nothing further to say."
The man nodded and mumbled some words to the other man in words she knew to be English. The taller man then nodded with his hat tipped and a smile, and turned away without further action. The shorter man spoke before following him.
"Sorry to have bothered you, madam. Thank you for allowing us to take the photograph. Please have a good night."
As the two walked away, Simon resumed his sewing and their son resumed the folding of the finished garments. Carolina remained still as she watched them walk away.
"I wonder what that was all about." Her husband asked the question with a tone of indifference.
"I haven't the slightest idea - but I think I should tell Stanley what has just happened. Something isn't right."
Carolina Leicht was the first to notice the strange noises coming from down the hall. There were unfamiliar voices, and the volume was loud enough to carry over the sewing machines which she and her husband Simon were hunched over. Neither of them nor their son Freiderich were interrupted by the noises to incur so much as a moment's pause in the operation as it neared the final hour which they would normally allow themselves to work. While running the dark fabric through the flying needle as it deftly threaded the seam which she held at both sides, she idly wondered who the stranger nearby could be. There wasn't any forewarning and there hasn't been any sort of loud screaming or altercation, so it wouldn't be any sort of Health Inspector, and it wasn't the landlord either. Deliveries wouldn't be requested at this hour, and she didn't recall anyone new undertaking that task in several days. She spaced for a moment on the latest boy's name - William came to mind. That should be it. He seemed a nice boy, whatever his name was. But anyway, who was down there? There was no good reason for anyone unfamiliar to be in this apartment at this hour. Then she heard footsteps approach their room. There were two sets of steps coming near them. Soon, a small middle aged man stood in the opened doorway and addressed them in their native Yiddish.
"Can we take a picture of this room?"
A picture? Here? Now? How is that possible? There wasn't any camera equipment being lugged around which she could see. Regardless, she had nothing to hide and knew neither person standing nearby as anyone important, so she instinctively said yes without wanting to debate or discuss the request. The three Leichts remained motionless for the brief moment while the second man, taller than the first who spoke, came from behind and held out a small box into the open area with one hand and a small tube with the other. Suddenly, the tube shot out a puff of light which pierced their eyes and caused all three of them to vocally express their shock. Carolina blinked several times and started to panic while her vision slowly returned. The last hour was drawing to a close and this was time being wasted. The shorter man spoke again.
"The gentleman would like to know how much your family is earning for your work. Would you be willing to tell us about what you do?"
Her confusion increased with the question. She had no idea why any of this was happening, and became as irritated as she was perplexed with the intrusion into her work as it was being delayed.
"Is he, are you the police? Do you work for the city?"
"No, madam. He is documenting the lifestyle of people like you for journalistic purposes."
"Us? Why us? What does he care about us? What's important to see here?"
"He wants to investigate the conditions of the workers like you. He would like to ask questions about your work and lifestyle from it."
Carolina was not satisfied with the response. She saw no reason why someone would want to be here to take pictures of her room and her work area. It made no sense. Something didn't seem right. She responded with finality after a moment's contemplation.
"If he has questions, he can ask my boss Stanley. He should know that we are going to sleep soon and we need to keep working until we do. I have nothing further to say."
The man nodded and mumbled some words to the other man in words she knew to be English. The taller man then nodded with his hat tipped and a smile, and turned away without further action. The shorter man spoke before following him.
"Sorry to have bothered you, madam. Thank you for allowing us to take the photograph. Please have a good night."
As the two walked away, Simon resumed his sewing and their son resumed the folding of the finished garments. Carolina remained still as she watched them walk away.
"I wonder what that was all about." Her husband asked the question with a tone of indifference.
"I haven't the slightest idea - but I think I should tell Stanley what has just happened. Something isn't right."
Thursday, August 23, 2012
18351016 15:48:11
Jesse saw the horse drawing cart from nearly a half of a mile away, but didn't know for sure that it was Daron returning until he was able to make out the horse's brown hair that he knew it to be Randall. What confused him more was that he was able to discern two men seated in the carriage as it approached. The other man was bulkier and sat at a taller height than Daron in comparison. Rather than wait for them to approach, he began to run towards them when they were nearby. After being alone for so long, he was desperate to see another person.
"Hold on, Jesse, hold on." Daron yelled the command loudly to carry the voice over the squeaking wooden wheels of the carriage. "We're bringin this to the house." Jesse nodded and walked along the side of the carriage as they approached the front walkway to the charred remains of the house. Daron snapped the reins and Randal stopped immediately, then tossed his head side to side with a rough sigh as it was finally allowed to stop. The two men descended from opposite sides. Jesse ran to Daron and wrapped his arms around him.
"Praise God for your return, Misser Daron. It has been awful out here alone."
"I don't doubt it, and I am as thankful that you stayed to keep this place. I take it you're hungry?"
"Oh, starving, Misser Daron." When Jesse said this, he released his grip from Daron and made a point to rub his belly with both hands. "I feel like I can eat dirt, no lie."
By this point, the other man had walked around Randal from the side and stood before the both of them. He folded his hands under his stomach and stood still while staring at them.
"Jesse, this is Mister Whitney Poole. He heard of our plight when I was in Baltimore and decided to assist us here, with intent to remain and establish himself here."
"Nice to meet you, Jesse." Whitney extended a hand for Jesse to shake, which he did promptly. Jesse noticed that his voice was a lower timbre than Daron and his pace of speech was slower.
"Well," said Daron, "among the goods we have brought is some dried meat and a tent, so I think we should see to making it before night falls. Cmere and take the stuff, Jesse."
Jesse obliged and walked with Daron at his side as the pair went to the side of the wagon to get the tent and some other supplies. Jesse noticed that as they did so, Whitney remained in place and looked around at the entire area, inspecting the remains of the house and barn, and studying the surroundings. He wondered why he didn't volunteer to help acquire the supplies.
"Hold on, Jesse, hold on." Daron yelled the command loudly to carry the voice over the squeaking wooden wheels of the carriage. "We're bringin this to the house." Jesse nodded and walked along the side of the carriage as they approached the front walkway to the charred remains of the house. Daron snapped the reins and Randal stopped immediately, then tossed his head side to side with a rough sigh as it was finally allowed to stop. The two men descended from opposite sides. Jesse ran to Daron and wrapped his arms around him.
"Praise God for your return, Misser Daron. It has been awful out here alone."
"I don't doubt it, and I am as thankful that you stayed to keep this place. I take it you're hungry?"
"Oh, starving, Misser Daron." When Jesse said this, he released his grip from Daron and made a point to rub his belly with both hands. "I feel like I can eat dirt, no lie."
By this point, the other man had walked around Randal from the side and stood before the both of them. He folded his hands under his stomach and stood still while staring at them.
"Jesse, this is Mister Whitney Poole. He heard of our plight when I was in Baltimore and decided to assist us here, with intent to remain and establish himself here."
"Nice to meet you, Jesse." Whitney extended a hand for Jesse to shake, which he did promptly. Jesse noticed that his voice was a lower timbre than Daron and his pace of speech was slower.
"Well," said Daron, "among the goods we have brought is some dried meat and a tent, so I think we should see to making it before night falls. Cmere and take the stuff, Jesse."
Jesse obliged and walked with Daron at his side as the pair went to the side of the wagon to get the tent and some other supplies. Jesse noticed that as they did so, Whitney remained in place and looked around at the entire area, inspecting the remains of the house and barn, and studying the surroundings. He wondered why he didn't volunteer to help acquire the supplies.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
18970722 05:56:11
MP-S-7918X0418
Ryan Bojack shot up from his bed when he heard the door knocked open. The proximity of the volume from the impact and subsequent scattering of his cat as it dashed off of his bed confirmed it instantly in his mind. Was he really being robbed? Why him? Why now? More importantly - what to do? He heard multiple footsteps quickly entering his apartment, so taking out the intruders was out of the question. He had no gun or any sort of weapon with which he could strike someone. He wasn't about to rush out to get into a fist fight with someone who likely would be armed. Regardless, he jumped out of the bed and backed to the corner of the room, clenching his fists tightly and bracing the heels of his feet against the sides of the walls. He felt that he had to make a stand, and thought of no better way to quickly do so.
The footsteps approached his room - both pairs did. There were two men. The weight and heavy sound of the steps registered to Ryan as men. But they were approaching his room - were they targeting him? Were they not here to steal? The confusion distracted him enough that when Exeter and Secor entered, he didn't have enough time to discern any recognizable features of them against the faint light coming from the hallway light which reached the dark room. Before he could throw a fist out at Secor as he came within range, a thick fabric was thrown over his body which was quickly wrapped around him, tight enough to bind him. He felt a rope being raveled around his torso and tied to keep the fabric cinched on his body. The other man stepped forward and leaned his mouth by Ryan's ear, and issued the command in a whisper.
"All right, faggot. Where's the camera and the film."
Ryan was even more confused with the request.
"You... you're looking for, for my cam-"
Before he could finish speaking, a fist was thrust into his stomach. It felt to him like the knuckles managed to make contact with his spine. He moaned loudly and felt ready to vomit but somehow managed to contain himself enough to only cough violently instead. The whisper came to his ear again.
"Answer me. Your camera and your film. Now."
"Cl. Closet." Ryan struggled to say the word through fits of gasping for air in coughs.
One man walked away while Ryan was still held in place by the other. His bedroom closet was thrust open and all of the contents were rattled and sifted about. Ryan heard strikes hit the glass plates as if they were hit by a bat, but he didn't recall seeing either of the men bring in a bat. He then heard a metal pan hit the floor, followed by some film prints being thrown into it. Next, he smelled the developing fluid being poured on top of the prints as the liquid dripped into the pan. Then the sound of a match strike rang in the air with the smell of sulfur in its wake. He could see an orange glow through the sack which covered his face. The pictures! Three weeks of work was being consumed in an instant! The man who was restraining him now leaned by his face to speak. His whisper had more volume and came out as a coarse grunt.
"No more pictures of the bums and their houses. Got it, cocksucker?"
Ryan Bojack shot up from his bed when he heard the door knocked open. The proximity of the volume from the impact and subsequent scattering of his cat as it dashed off of his bed confirmed it instantly in his mind. Was he really being robbed? Why him? Why now? More importantly - what to do? He heard multiple footsteps quickly entering his apartment, so taking out the intruders was out of the question. He had no gun or any sort of weapon with which he could strike someone. He wasn't about to rush out to get into a fist fight with someone who likely would be armed. Regardless, he jumped out of the bed and backed to the corner of the room, clenching his fists tightly and bracing the heels of his feet against the sides of the walls. He felt that he had to make a stand, and thought of no better way to quickly do so.
The footsteps approached his room - both pairs did. There were two men. The weight and heavy sound of the steps registered to Ryan as men. But they were approaching his room - were they targeting him? Were they not here to steal? The confusion distracted him enough that when Exeter and Secor entered, he didn't have enough time to discern any recognizable features of them against the faint light coming from the hallway light which reached the dark room. Before he could throw a fist out at Secor as he came within range, a thick fabric was thrown over his body which was quickly wrapped around him, tight enough to bind him. He felt a rope being raveled around his torso and tied to keep the fabric cinched on his body. The other man stepped forward and leaned his mouth by Ryan's ear, and issued the command in a whisper.
"All right, faggot. Where's the camera and the film."
Ryan was even more confused with the request.
"You... you're looking for, for my cam-"
Before he could finish speaking, a fist was thrust into his stomach. It felt to him like the knuckles managed to make contact with his spine. He moaned loudly and felt ready to vomit but somehow managed to contain himself enough to only cough violently instead. The whisper came to his ear again.
"Answer me. Your camera and your film. Now."
"Cl. Closet." Ryan struggled to say the word through fits of gasping for air in coughs.
One man walked away while Ryan was still held in place by the other. His bedroom closet was thrust open and all of the contents were rattled and sifted about. Ryan heard strikes hit the glass plates as if they were hit by a bat, but he didn't recall seeing either of the men bring in a bat. He then heard a metal pan hit the floor, followed by some film prints being thrown into it. Next, he smelled the developing fluid being poured on top of the prints as the liquid dripped into the pan. Then the sound of a match strike rang in the air with the smell of sulfur in its wake. He could see an orange glow through the sack which covered his face. The pictures! Three weeks of work was being consumed in an instant! The man who was restraining him now leaned by his face to speak. His whisper had more volume and came out as a coarse grunt.
"No more pictures of the bums and their houses. Got it, cocksucker?"
Monday, August 20, 2012
18550519 22:18:06
"Were you scared?", she asked.
Cook contemplated for a moment before responding.
"No, not scared. Not like, shivering and babbling and crying out like 'oh what in the world are we gonna do' scared. I was just more or less just like shocked, yknow? I had no idea why anything was happening but when you see the house you was in burning and the barn burning next to it and watching it from a hundred steps away because you can't get no closer without the heat choking you, you see all that. That's the end of the world, basically, right there. I'm asleep and next thing I'm running to the woods and turning around to see that. And just watch. No way to stop it. We were just dazed. Yeah, that's it. Dazed. Dulled and awestruck. But once we could start diggin things out, we had some luck on it right off."
"Mhm." Elise curled into Cook's body, nuzzling the bridge of her nose against his arm.
"We found Randy, then once we could get back to the place, we found the chest there. They just there to burn the place, they didn't steal nothin. And that chest was just in the right place or somethin because it was still there and the coin still inside. Then he go for three days to get the stores, and then - then, yeah, I got scared yeah. All I could do was lay down some dead branches by a tree, make a fort like thing, and find a place to lay down and store some berries or whatever I could find. Randy had some of the hay left behind, and I started chewin on that some days too, I was so hungry and there was just barely nothin to find. And it was just that clearing in the woods that whole time, just me in there. Me bein a child and alone there, yeah I was jumpin and spooked by damned everything I heard."
Cook contemplated for a moment before responding.
"No, not scared. Not like, shivering and babbling and crying out like 'oh what in the world are we gonna do' scared. I was just more or less just like shocked, yknow? I had no idea why anything was happening but when you see the house you was in burning and the barn burning next to it and watching it from a hundred steps away because you can't get no closer without the heat choking you, you see all that. That's the end of the world, basically, right there. I'm asleep and next thing I'm running to the woods and turning around to see that. And just watch. No way to stop it. We were just dazed. Yeah, that's it. Dazed. Dulled and awestruck. But once we could start diggin things out, we had some luck on it right off."
"Mhm." Elise curled into Cook's body, nuzzling the bridge of her nose against his arm.
"We found Randy, then once we could get back to the place, we found the chest there. They just there to burn the place, they didn't steal nothin. And that chest was just in the right place or somethin because it was still there and the coin still inside. Then he go for three days to get the stores, and then - then, yeah, I got scared yeah. All I could do was lay down some dead branches by a tree, make a fort like thing, and find a place to lay down and store some berries or whatever I could find. Randy had some of the hay left behind, and I started chewin on that some days too, I was so hungry and there was just barely nothin to find. And it was just that clearing in the woods that whole time, just me in there. Me bein a child and alone there, yeah I was jumpin and spooked by damned everything I heard."
Saturday, August 18, 2012
18961127 07:36:58
MK-S-4798
Carbondale opened the door to her bedroom and saw her sitting upright on the chair set before her dresser and mirror. She looked directly upon him as he entered the room, and remained precisely still as he approached her.
"Your mother can make you some toast. You should have something before the service."
"No, thank you."
The only part of her body which she allowed to move was her eyelids as she blinked. He found himself looking around the room at random spots while searching for what to say next - though it had been some time since he was fully within her room, he didn't quite recall it being so disheveled and brown. He recalled there being more floral decorations in here before, but couldn't recall specifically when now. The lack of organization also intrigued him - it wasn't like her to have so many books removed from proper placement in shelves and in haphazard piles on the floor.
"Well, your mother would like to see you before we leave, and we both would appreciate to see you join us and be around us. It would mean a lot to us both."
"I'd rather not, though."
"OK. By the way, you may like to know that my collection efforts have been great, and I have close to fifty thousand set to donate to the hospital. I think-" He stopped speaking when he noticed her eyes begin to well up.
"What good is it, Dad? Why bother? What difference will it make?"
He nodded and rolled his tongue around in his mouth while choosing his words.
"The difference is that we learn from her passing. The difference is that we start to find a way to keep people from thinking that way. That seems like a good thing to me. Isn't it?"
"Maybe a good thing for you." Her response was barely above a whisper and stated with her head turned away to the side "Make you feel good about yourself."
"Grace. Look. It's one thing for me to just pat you on the back and tell you everything will be fine and walk away. I don't need to do anything else. Don't even have to do that. And I could just take that money anywhere else and not give that place a dime. What I'm doing is to show how I can make things better for people like her in the future. That's something you should be proud of. To know that in response to this crisis, I do something to help all of us - not just you or this family, but everyone living here. All of us. This is what I can do for all of us."
She smiled weakly in response.
"You're right." He caressed her cheek gently with his fingertips.
"That's better. You should come down for some toast." He turned away from her and left the room. She remained seated.
"You're too late." Grace said this no louder than a whisper to the empty room.
Carbondale opened the door to her bedroom and saw her sitting upright on the chair set before her dresser and mirror. She looked directly upon him as he entered the room, and remained precisely still as he approached her.
"Your mother can make you some toast. You should have something before the service."
"No, thank you."
The only part of her body which she allowed to move was her eyelids as she blinked. He found himself looking around the room at random spots while searching for what to say next - though it had been some time since he was fully within her room, he didn't quite recall it being so disheveled and brown. He recalled there being more floral decorations in here before, but couldn't recall specifically when now. The lack of organization also intrigued him - it wasn't like her to have so many books removed from proper placement in shelves and in haphazard piles on the floor.
"Well, your mother would like to see you before we leave, and we both would appreciate to see you join us and be around us. It would mean a lot to us both."
"I'd rather not, though."
"OK. By the way, you may like to know that my collection efforts have been great, and I have close to fifty thousand set to donate to the hospital. I think-" He stopped speaking when he noticed her eyes begin to well up.
"What good is it, Dad? Why bother? What difference will it make?"
He nodded and rolled his tongue around in his mouth while choosing his words.
"The difference is that we learn from her passing. The difference is that we start to find a way to keep people from thinking that way. That seems like a good thing to me. Isn't it?"
"Maybe a good thing for you." Her response was barely above a whisper and stated with her head turned away to the side "Make you feel good about yourself."
"Grace. Look. It's one thing for me to just pat you on the back and tell you everything will be fine and walk away. I don't need to do anything else. Don't even have to do that. And I could just take that money anywhere else and not give that place a dime. What I'm doing is to show how I can make things better for people like her in the future. That's something you should be proud of. To know that in response to this crisis, I do something to help all of us - not just you or this family, but everyone living here. All of us. This is what I can do for all of us."
She smiled weakly in response.
"You're right." He caressed her cheek gently with his fingertips.
"That's better. You should come down for some toast." He turned away from her and left the room. She remained seated.
"You're too late." Grace said this no louder than a whisper to the empty room.
Friday, August 17, 2012
19490206 10:02:44
AA-N-8814
19490206 10:02:44
When Brian Forenze approached the door way, it opened before him as he reached out to the door handle. A large man dressed in an impeccably clean business suit held the door open for him from the inside. He nodded once. Brian looked away as he entered, and the man holding the door open closed it after he entered and remained in the doorway. The only direction in which he could go was to the immediate right, and upon turning the corner he looked over to the main living room of the house and saw four other men standing there. All five in the room stood silent, the other four of which stood surrounding a simple wooden table with no chairs. There were four small boxes arranged on the table. Against the left wall stood Phillip Torro, to Phillip's left was Xavier Stillman, to Xavier's left was Albert Courin, and standing to Albert's left against the right wall was Judge Nicholas Carrel. This was the first time these five men were ever in the same room together, and Brian assumed that nobody knew each other, neither by name or face.
"Good, you're on time. Glad to see you.", said the man at the right wall, who then continued speaking promptly. "We have no time to waste, gentlemen. I am Judge Nicholas Carrel. The only person here who may recognize me is you," he said while nodding to Xavier, who quickly shook his head to say "no" in response. "Right, I recall you mostly staring off in your trial. Even better. Regardless. The language I will use here will be very vague, and you will soon understand it is to all of our benefits. The reason that you are all gathered here is the reason why you were all given leave on your incarceration - because we have a job for you all to do, and you were chosen as the best men to do the job. Recall that this is your chance to redeem yourself, as well - you found yourself where you were because you fucked up. Consider this your Last Chance. You may not get another. Particularly since I - we - can put you right back in a blink. Never forget it. Now. The way this was done before was through a protocol of code names. It may seem stupid, but it does the job. We have chosen how you will adopt them for yourselves and your future comrades of your choosing. Your particular identities will be assigned now." Judge Carrel then slid one box to each of the other four men. "Each box has poker cards in them. Only of one particular suit, and only of two through ten. You will now choose one from the box at random."
Albert was given the hearts box, and drew a nine.
Phillip was given the clubs box, and drew a four.
Brian was given the spades box, and drew a seven.
Xavier was given the diamonds box, and drew a two.
The Judge spoke again.
"Nine of Hearts. Four of Clubs. Seven of Spades. Two of Diamonds. Remember these names, everyone. The suit assignments weren't random, if you were wondering. You can figure out the rest. Report to my office at the courthouse at 8AM. Hearts on Monday, Clubs Tuesday, Spades Wednesday, Diamonds Thursday."
19490206 10:02:44
When Brian Forenze approached the door way, it opened before him as he reached out to the door handle. A large man dressed in an impeccably clean business suit held the door open for him from the inside. He nodded once. Brian looked away as he entered, and the man holding the door open closed it after he entered and remained in the doorway. The only direction in which he could go was to the immediate right, and upon turning the corner he looked over to the main living room of the house and saw four other men standing there. All five in the room stood silent, the other four of which stood surrounding a simple wooden table with no chairs. There were four small boxes arranged on the table. Against the left wall stood Phillip Torro, to Phillip's left was Xavier Stillman, to Xavier's left was Albert Courin, and standing to Albert's left against the right wall was Judge Nicholas Carrel. This was the first time these five men were ever in the same room together, and Brian assumed that nobody knew each other, neither by name or face.
"Good, you're on time. Glad to see you.", said the man at the right wall, who then continued speaking promptly. "We have no time to waste, gentlemen. I am Judge Nicholas Carrel. The only person here who may recognize me is you," he said while nodding to Xavier, who quickly shook his head to say "no" in response. "Right, I recall you mostly staring off in your trial. Even better. Regardless. The language I will use here will be very vague, and you will soon understand it is to all of our benefits. The reason that you are all gathered here is the reason why you were all given leave on your incarceration - because we have a job for you all to do, and you were chosen as the best men to do the job. Recall that this is your chance to redeem yourself, as well - you found yourself where you were because you fucked up. Consider this your Last Chance. You may not get another. Particularly since I - we - can put you right back in a blink. Never forget it. Now. The way this was done before was through a protocol of code names. It may seem stupid, but it does the job. We have chosen how you will adopt them for yourselves and your future comrades of your choosing. Your particular identities will be assigned now." Judge Carrel then slid one box to each of the other four men. "Each box has poker cards in them. Only of one particular suit, and only of two through ten. You will now choose one from the box at random."
Albert was given the hearts box, and drew a nine.
Phillip was given the clubs box, and drew a four.
Brian was given the spades box, and drew a seven.
Xavier was given the diamonds box, and drew a two.
The Judge spoke again.
"Nine of Hearts. Four of Clubs. Seven of Spades. Two of Diamonds. Remember these names, everyone. The suit assignments weren't random, if you were wondering. You can figure out the rest. Report to my office at the courthouse at 8AM. Hearts on Monday, Clubs Tuesday, Spades Wednesday, Diamonds Thursday."
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
19380216 03:41:03
Addendum to yesterday's entry about Pine Grove Hospital: The Racine Project is the means by which Carbondale was able to make an official connection to have Runners get direct and anonymous treatment for job related injury, as well as make sure that rivals who may have needed to be eliminated and had not met such a fate would assuredly do so in this location.
IW-N-1610X1816
19380216 03:41:03
He knew that it didn't actually happen, but as the elevator took him up to the floor where his room was, it felt to Kedzie like there was a small pause and rest upon each floor as he ascended upwards. As he leaned his forehead against the side wall of the carriage, he felt the vibrations which coursed through the compartment. The sensation felt unpleasant, but standing upright seemed less appealing. When the eighteenth floor was finally reached and the door opened to the dimly lit hallway, he lurched away from his position with an audible groan and staggered out just as the door closed behind him. As he slowly ambled to his room, he used his right hand to anchor himself against the wall, repositioning himself with each pair of steps. When he finally reached his doorway, he resumed leaning his forehead against the door so that he could have his right hand free to dig through his pants pocket to get the key.
Kedzie nearly fell to the floor when he opened the door, but summoned enough energy to maintain balance and limp to the couch in the main room, where he finally fell upon his side in a heap. He clenched his eyes shut and took protracted breaths as the numb pain pulsated through his left arm and his feet. This is when Booker jumped upon Kedzie, and began kneading at his chest after walking up his body.
"Mmm... go get me some water, cat." Booker purred and kneaded harder as Kezdie rubbed at his sides and haunches; but rather than sitting upon him, Booker jumped down and stared up at Kedzie from the floor. When Kedzie shifted his body, the cat jumped back and walked towards the kitchen. The intent was clear.
"Fucking cat." He sighed and rose to his feet to walk over to the kitchen. Booker led the way to the refrigerator, from which Kedzie took out the bottle of milk and poured some for the cat in a nearby dish on the ground. He then took a glass and quickly filled it with water from the kitchen sink before returning to the sofa. He sat upright and held the cup to his body while not drinking from it. Booker returned to the sofa and kneaded his front paws into Kedzie's lap before resting upon it. Kedzie generously rubbed behind its ears, in response to which the cat contorted its head to feel the rubbing more deeply.
In times like this, Kedzie found himself contemplating how incredible the situation was, in that just hours ago he was in the middle that exhausting battle, and here he was with an animal which completely trusted his touch and care. Kedzie imagined how easy he could take an animal like that and commit horrible abuse within a blink of an eye - he could simply pick the cat up from the back of the neck and throw it against the wall, or even carry it to the balcony and throw it out to let it fall hundreds of feet. He could unsheath his sword and mutilate the thing as he had done to Victor just hours ago or countless other people before him. The violence which he inflicted on them he could just as easily impose upon this living creature with as much ease as flipping a light switch. But the cat wouldn't know that. The cat would want his care and attention regardless. Despite the disparity between a delinquent gambler and a housecat, he still found it amazing how differently he handled either living being.
IW-N-1610X1816
19380216 03:41:03
He knew that it didn't actually happen, but as the elevator took him up to the floor where his room was, it felt to Kedzie like there was a small pause and rest upon each floor as he ascended upwards. As he leaned his forehead against the side wall of the carriage, he felt the vibrations which coursed through the compartment. The sensation felt unpleasant, but standing upright seemed less appealing. When the eighteenth floor was finally reached and the door opened to the dimly lit hallway, he lurched away from his position with an audible groan and staggered out just as the door closed behind him. As he slowly ambled to his room, he used his right hand to anchor himself against the wall, repositioning himself with each pair of steps. When he finally reached his doorway, he resumed leaning his forehead against the door so that he could have his right hand free to dig through his pants pocket to get the key.
Kedzie nearly fell to the floor when he opened the door, but summoned enough energy to maintain balance and limp to the couch in the main room, where he finally fell upon his side in a heap. He clenched his eyes shut and took protracted breaths as the numb pain pulsated through his left arm and his feet. This is when Booker jumped upon Kedzie, and began kneading at his chest after walking up his body.
"Mmm... go get me some water, cat." Booker purred and kneaded harder as Kezdie rubbed at his sides and haunches; but rather than sitting upon him, Booker jumped down and stared up at Kedzie from the floor. When Kedzie shifted his body, the cat jumped back and walked towards the kitchen. The intent was clear.
"Fucking cat." He sighed and rose to his feet to walk over to the kitchen. Booker led the way to the refrigerator, from which Kedzie took out the bottle of milk and poured some for the cat in a nearby dish on the ground. He then took a glass and quickly filled it with water from the kitchen sink before returning to the sofa. He sat upright and held the cup to his body while not drinking from it. Booker returned to the sofa and kneaded his front paws into Kedzie's lap before resting upon it. Kedzie generously rubbed behind its ears, in response to which the cat contorted its head to feel the rubbing more deeply.
In times like this, Kedzie found himself contemplating how incredible the situation was, in that just hours ago he was in the middle that exhausting battle, and here he was with an animal which completely trusted his touch and care. Kedzie imagined how easy he could take an animal like that and commit horrible abuse within a blink of an eye - he could simply pick the cat up from the back of the neck and throw it against the wall, or even carry it to the balcony and throw it out to let it fall hundreds of feet. He could unsheath his sword and mutilate the thing as he had done to Victor just hours ago or countless other people before him. The violence which he inflicted on them he could just as easily impose upon this living creature with as much ease as flipping a light switch. But the cat wouldn't know that. The cat would want his care and attention regardless. Despite the disparity between a delinquent gambler and a housecat, he still found it amazing how differently he handled either living being.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
HQ-S-3191
HQ-S-3191
This is the site of the Pine Grove Hospital, which originally opened on August 15, 1883. The initial three story structure is within a portion of the current building which faces 32nd street to the South and was since renovated when the entire hospital was rebuilt in 1897. The 1897 renovation project was initiated by Carbondale after the suicide of Marilou Saunders occurred the previous November of 1896, who was subsequently referred to by the Runner members as "Racine" after the incident. The renovation led to the creation of an entire new building built adjacent to the original structure, the two of which being connected by a pair of external hallways at the third floor. The new structure was developed as a specific and independent psychiatric ward to treat mental trauma and illnesses. In 1943, this secondary facility because focused with the treatment of autism after the publishing of the article "Autistic disturbances of affective contact" by Leo Kanner of nearby Johns Hopkins Hospital. It is believed that there were several patients transferred to this hospital from Johns Hopkins when that facility became overwhelmed with an increasing number of newly identified autism cases. Pine Grove was rebuilt once more in its entirety in 1981 when the segregated building concept proved untenable, and the separate buildings had its inner walls removed to allow the hospital to be essentially combined into one structure, as it presently stands today. Pine Grove employs a staff of over one hundred doctors and nurses, fifty EMS persons, and can accomodate a maximum of two thousand patients. Current estimates indicate that Pine Grove has handled a minimum of two million patients in its span of operation.
This is the site of the Pine Grove Hospital, which originally opened on August 15, 1883. The initial three story structure is within a portion of the current building which faces 32nd street to the South and was since renovated when the entire hospital was rebuilt in 1897. The 1897 renovation project was initiated by Carbondale after the suicide of Marilou Saunders occurred the previous November of 1896, who was subsequently referred to by the Runner members as "Racine" after the incident. The renovation led to the creation of an entire new building built adjacent to the original structure, the two of which being connected by a pair of external hallways at the third floor. The new structure was developed as a specific and independent psychiatric ward to treat mental trauma and illnesses. In 1943, this secondary facility because focused with the treatment of autism after the publishing of the article "Autistic disturbances of affective contact" by Leo Kanner of nearby Johns Hopkins Hospital. It is believed that there were several patients transferred to this hospital from Johns Hopkins when that facility became overwhelmed with an increasing number of newly identified autism cases. Pine Grove was rebuilt once more in its entirety in 1981 when the segregated building concept proved untenable, and the separate buildings had its inner walls removed to allow the hospital to be essentially combined into one structure, as it presently stands today. Pine Grove employs a staff of over one hundred doctors and nurses, fifty EMS persons, and can accomodate a maximum of two thousand patients. Current estimates indicate that Pine Grove has handled a minimum of two million patients in its span of operation.
Monday, August 13, 2012
18961121 01:34:39
HQ-S-3191
Emptiness. A numb emptiness is all that she could acknowledge feeling within herself. Her body still registered external sensations, yes; the frigid air caused her to shiver, her brain still understood that it wasn't comfortable in the night's breeze and undertook the chemical reaction to cause her body to vibrate and alleviate the coldness. She recognized the sound of that cold wind as it swept over the rooftop and caused the naked trees below to sway. Her body still knew how to inhale and exhale and circulate blood through her veins. But she struggled to perceive anything beyond that. With her bare feet upon the rooftop pitch, she understood that she felt cold, and she understood that she does not want to feel cold, but she felt no compulsion to move to somewhere warmer. She felt fully detached from her body, and as she held out her own hand in front of her body, she required a moment to analyze the vision and accept that she was looking at her own body in the present moment. She felt no grounding in her own body or in reality. She imagined herself to feel like a chimney on the roof upon which she stood - an inanimate object which was exposed to the elements of the autumn night.
The rape did more than change her. A change would imply a refinement, or an exchange of one state for another. The rape did more than just physically harm Marilou - it uprooted her perception of reality and meaning. She had an upbringing in a comfortable house, parents who supported her, hobbies which she enjoyed, aspirations to maybe become a mother one day; but that all seemed totally foreign to her now. Those memories, those ambitions, seemed to belong to someone else who she didn't know. Who wasn't her, at least. The thought of stitching a pattern into a dress or sitting down to play a Bach composition seemed pointless. The thought of becoming a mother filled her with disgust, as much for the physical act as for knowing that there was no protection from the kind of evil to which she was subjected. All the love and support and protection which she ever may have felt she had from her friends and family vanished. This entire sensation of purpose and security is what she knew she had lost, and she didn't see any way it would ever come back. She convinced herself it would never come back.
This is how she convinced herself to ultimately end her grief. This is what brought her to the rooftop. She knew that she had to do this completely if she were to do it at all, and not take any chances. As she walked closer to the side of the building, she felt her heart begin to beat faster, but still felt no compulsion to reverse her course. She couldn't foresee an alternative. Much as her body instructed her to keep breathing, she felt chills within herself as an instinct for survival came from within to tell her to refrain. But she saw either choice as leading to suffering. The only question is what duration in suffering did she want. With each step towards the edge, she struggled to ask and answer that question. She finally reached the brick edge and climbed upon it to stand with her toes curled over the side. Her nervously deep breathing caused her body to shift in position, from which she instinctively corrected her balance. The struggle continued and her heart beating echoed in her ears. Again, she asked herself the same question and again she answered.
She leaned forward.
Emptiness. A numb emptiness is all that she could acknowledge feeling within herself. Her body still registered external sensations, yes; the frigid air caused her to shiver, her brain still understood that it wasn't comfortable in the night's breeze and undertook the chemical reaction to cause her body to vibrate and alleviate the coldness. She recognized the sound of that cold wind as it swept over the rooftop and caused the naked trees below to sway. Her body still knew how to inhale and exhale and circulate blood through her veins. But she struggled to perceive anything beyond that. With her bare feet upon the rooftop pitch, she understood that she felt cold, and she understood that she does not want to feel cold, but she felt no compulsion to move to somewhere warmer. She felt fully detached from her body, and as she held out her own hand in front of her body, she required a moment to analyze the vision and accept that she was looking at her own body in the present moment. She felt no grounding in her own body or in reality. She imagined herself to feel like a chimney on the roof upon which she stood - an inanimate object which was exposed to the elements of the autumn night.
The rape did more than change her. A change would imply a refinement, or an exchange of one state for another. The rape did more than just physically harm Marilou - it uprooted her perception of reality and meaning. She had an upbringing in a comfortable house, parents who supported her, hobbies which she enjoyed, aspirations to maybe become a mother one day; but that all seemed totally foreign to her now. Those memories, those ambitions, seemed to belong to someone else who she didn't know. Who wasn't her, at least. The thought of stitching a pattern into a dress or sitting down to play a Bach composition seemed pointless. The thought of becoming a mother filled her with disgust, as much for the physical act as for knowing that there was no protection from the kind of evil to which she was subjected. All the love and support and protection which she ever may have felt she had from her friends and family vanished. This entire sensation of purpose and security is what she knew she had lost, and she didn't see any way it would ever come back. She convinced herself it would never come back.
This is how she convinced herself to ultimately end her grief. This is what brought her to the rooftop. She knew that she had to do this completely if she were to do it at all, and not take any chances. As she walked closer to the side of the building, she felt her heart begin to beat faster, but still felt no compulsion to reverse her course. She couldn't foresee an alternative. Much as her body instructed her to keep breathing, she felt chills within herself as an instinct for survival came from within to tell her to refrain. But she saw either choice as leading to suffering. The only question is what duration in suffering did she want. With each step towards the edge, she struggled to ask and answer that question. She finally reached the brick edge and climbed upon it to stand with her toes curled over the side. Her nervously deep breathing caused her body to shift in position, from which she instinctively corrected her balance. The struggle continued and her heart beating echoed in her ears. Again, she asked herself the same question and again she answered.
She leaned forward.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
19490616 06:21:18 (continued)
BM-S-5683
Chene then pulled out from Albert's neighbor's driveway and began to follow him.
Albert drove up to South 56th already in a hurried state - Chene had to tail at 30 MPH almost immediately and had to bank hard in making the left hand turn behind Albert, as Albert managed to make the turn with little room behind him for the oncoming traffic. Chene could not allow more than roughly two car lengths between them without the connection to the metal in Albert's car being too thin to be maintained. They approached the intersection at C with the light being red, as planned. Chene saw a man standing behind the metal door of the control box near the corner street light, which told him everyone was in place so far. He wondered if Albert would take his usual route of going all the way to K before going North, but Albert took the right turn once the light turned green and roared off down the street. His temper was indeed getting to him. The next light was 48th, and there were two lanes to choose from on this portion of C. Albert weaved his way around two alternating pairs of cars which were staggered apart within the two lanes, and Chene kept pace in kind right behind him. By this point, Albert had already turned the radio in his car off and felt the blood pulsating within his fingers as they forcefully clenched the steering wheel. He ground his teeth in seething rage and released an audible grunt every time he darted around the next car in front of him. He paid no attention to Chene following closely behind. Albert didn't slow down for the red light at 48th until he was less than a block away - and then he suddenly accelerated even harder and ran through the intersection at a faster clip. Chene laughed softly and pressed on behind him, hearing a car horn blare and depress in tone as he sped past the cars. Albert gave a passing glance in his rear view mirror once he noticed that someone did follow behind him, but he didn't pay it any attention. He was in a hurry and already had a shitty start to his day, and it wasn't any of his concern if someone was following him. If it was a cop, he'd set it straight. With that thought in his head, Albert sped down C even faster now as he approached 32nd; who cares if a cop was following him, who cares about the other traffic around him - he was one of the Runners now, and it was almost his duty to bend the law to his will. He wondered why he didn't bother doing this every day since being indoctrinated into the system. "Fuck it all! This is my road!" is the thought Albert said outloud to himself as he approached the intersection. He reached the crossing as the light was still green. Now was his chance to turn! He started the left turn early and left a visible and audible streak behind him as his car slid on the pavement with the momentum carrying him forward.
The location wasn't what he had planned, but Chene saw it as the time to strike. He snapped his wrist down as Albert skidded to the left in front of him, and the trap sprung. The metal which lined the wheel hubs in Albert's car shot out in rigid spikes, which caused the two tires on the passenger side to rupture with a loud bang. The metal then swiftly slinked back into Chene's weapon as Albert's car tipped to the side and rolled onto the ceiling, which threw sparks into the air as it scraped against the asphalt. Chene continued driving Northward and pulled his nightstick away once the metal had fully retracted from the outside. Albert's car careened into the corner grocery store at full force, making it crash into the brick wall and display window glass which lined the wall. The steering column and engine block of the car became immobilized by the brick base upon which it hit, and Albert's body carried its inertia into the car parts and wedged itself into the metal. His body had no resistance from crushing into the steering wheel in front of him and exploded around the wheel. There was no prolonged suffering - the collision was instantly fatal.
The Nine of Hearts was down.
Chene then pulled out from Albert's neighbor's driveway and began to follow him.
Albert drove up to South 56th already in a hurried state - Chene had to tail at 30 MPH almost immediately and had to bank hard in making the left hand turn behind Albert, as Albert managed to make the turn with little room behind him for the oncoming traffic. Chene could not allow more than roughly two car lengths between them without the connection to the metal in Albert's car being too thin to be maintained. They approached the intersection at C with the light being red, as planned. Chene saw a man standing behind the metal door of the control box near the corner street light, which told him everyone was in place so far. He wondered if Albert would take his usual route of going all the way to K before going North, but Albert took the right turn once the light turned green and roared off down the street. His temper was indeed getting to him. The next light was 48th, and there were two lanes to choose from on this portion of C. Albert weaved his way around two alternating pairs of cars which were staggered apart within the two lanes, and Chene kept pace in kind right behind him. By this point, Albert had already turned the radio in his car off and felt the blood pulsating within his fingers as they forcefully clenched the steering wheel. He ground his teeth in seething rage and released an audible grunt every time he darted around the next car in front of him. He paid no attention to Chene following closely behind. Albert didn't slow down for the red light at 48th until he was less than a block away - and then he suddenly accelerated even harder and ran through the intersection at a faster clip. Chene laughed softly and pressed on behind him, hearing a car horn blare and depress in tone as he sped past the cars. Albert gave a passing glance in his rear view mirror once he noticed that someone did follow behind him, but he didn't pay it any attention. He was in a hurry and already had a shitty start to his day, and it wasn't any of his concern if someone was following him. If it was a cop, he'd set it straight. With that thought in his head, Albert sped down C even faster now as he approached 32nd; who cares if a cop was following him, who cares about the other traffic around him - he was one of the Runners now, and it was almost his duty to bend the law to his will. He wondered why he didn't bother doing this every day since being indoctrinated into the system. "Fuck it all! This is my road!" is the thought Albert said outloud to himself as he approached the intersection. He reached the crossing as the light was still green. Now was his chance to turn! He started the left turn early and left a visible and audible streak behind him as his car slid on the pavement with the momentum carrying him forward.
The location wasn't what he had planned, but Chene saw it as the time to strike. He snapped his wrist down as Albert skidded to the left in front of him, and the trap sprung. The metal which lined the wheel hubs in Albert's car shot out in rigid spikes, which caused the two tires on the passenger side to rupture with a loud bang. The metal then swiftly slinked back into Chene's weapon as Albert's car tipped to the side and rolled onto the ceiling, which threw sparks into the air as it scraped against the asphalt. Chene continued driving Northward and pulled his nightstick away once the metal had fully retracted from the outside. Albert's car careened into the corner grocery store at full force, making it crash into the brick wall and display window glass which lined the wall. The steering column and engine block of the car became immobilized by the brick base upon which it hit, and Albert's body carried its inertia into the car parts and wedged itself into the metal. His body had no resistance from crushing into the steering wheel in front of him and exploded around the wheel. There was no prolonged suffering - the collision was instantly fatal.
The Nine of Hearts was down.
Monday, August 6, 2012
19490616 06:21:18
BM-S-5683
19490616 06:21:18
Albert Courin walked to the front of the garage in an unhurried pace and opened it without urgency. He had a full list of things to do today - such as people to meet for bill collection, which required travel to several distant points of the city, and this knowing that a day full of meandering travel awaited him was chief amongst his current irritants. It wasn't until after he opened the door and looked down his driveway that he noticed a garbage truck parked and idling specifically at the end of it. He was boxed in. He figured that all he would have to do is get in the car and begin to back out, and the garbage men inside would hear him approaching and move up to allow him to pass through. But when he did start the car and begin backing out, the garbage truck stayed. He parked the car and let it sit idle in the driveway for a moment. The garbage truck stayed. Albert put the car in park and got out to approach the truck. It wasn't until he was nearby that he heard a steady stream of coughing coming from the truck's cab. Eventually, he saw that the driver was doubled over and coughing with alarming force, while the passenger was turned to face him.
"Is everything OK?" Albert asked with genuine concern.
"Nah, Mac, something's up. Alla sudden, Teddy here just started hackin a lung, seems like he's gonna run out of breath any second here."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"No," said Teddy in response, "no, I'll be OK." He needed several heaving breaths to utter each word.
"OK, well, see, I gotta get going to work so, if you can just move up a bit."
"Right, Mac, right. Just give it a minute and we can go."
"Well, could you drive, Sir?"
"See, I can't move him though. He's all sensitive right now." The passenger touched Teddy on the shoulder and he screeched in animated pain. "See?"
Albert narrowed his eyes at the scene. Was this a joke of some kind? There are two men in the truck and it is anchored until he overcomes some unexplained sudden pain? "OK, well, I do have to get going."
"Right, Mac."
Albert returned to sit in his car and turned the radio on to wait for clearance. He tuned one station to the next, finding a commercial break each time, and spending less time on each station in growing irritation. He went out of park and inched the car backwards. The truck moved, but only for an instant before it parked again. There were manicured flower beds lining each side of the driveway, a decoration which he felt he paid too much for but his wife appreciated, and he didn't want to have to drive over them just to get out of his own driveway. But the garbage truck remained in his way. A seemingly interminable few minutes passed, and the truck moved forward again, only to come to a halt again. Albert threw his door open with a furious thrust of his arm and rose out with full intent to start screaming, but was immediately responded to by the passenger again.
"Just a bit more, Mac! He's tryin!"
Albert had enough of waiting. He was sure this was some kind of joke, but he had no idea what the point of it was, and didn't want to wait to find out. He pulled up to the front of the garage door at an angle and reversed his way through the flower bed and bounced the car over the curb to reach the street. He sped off from his house with determined force.
Chene then pulled out from Albert's neighbor's driveway and began to follow him.
19490616 06:21:18
Albert Courin walked to the front of the garage in an unhurried pace and opened it without urgency. He had a full list of things to do today - such as people to meet for bill collection, which required travel to several distant points of the city, and this knowing that a day full of meandering travel awaited him was chief amongst his current irritants. It wasn't until after he opened the door and looked down his driveway that he noticed a garbage truck parked and idling specifically at the end of it. He was boxed in. He figured that all he would have to do is get in the car and begin to back out, and the garbage men inside would hear him approaching and move up to allow him to pass through. But when he did start the car and begin backing out, the garbage truck stayed. He parked the car and let it sit idle in the driveway for a moment. The garbage truck stayed. Albert put the car in park and got out to approach the truck. It wasn't until he was nearby that he heard a steady stream of coughing coming from the truck's cab. Eventually, he saw that the driver was doubled over and coughing with alarming force, while the passenger was turned to face him.
"Is everything OK?" Albert asked with genuine concern.
"Nah, Mac, something's up. Alla sudden, Teddy here just started hackin a lung, seems like he's gonna run out of breath any second here."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"No," said Teddy in response, "no, I'll be OK." He needed several heaving breaths to utter each word.
"OK, well, see, I gotta get going to work so, if you can just move up a bit."
"Right, Mac, right. Just give it a minute and we can go."
"Well, could you drive, Sir?"
"See, I can't move him though. He's all sensitive right now." The passenger touched Teddy on the shoulder and he screeched in animated pain. "See?"
Albert narrowed his eyes at the scene. Was this a joke of some kind? There are two men in the truck and it is anchored until he overcomes some unexplained sudden pain? "OK, well, I do have to get going."
"Right, Mac."
Albert returned to sit in his car and turned the radio on to wait for clearance. He tuned one station to the next, finding a commercial break each time, and spending less time on each station in growing irritation. He went out of park and inched the car backwards. The truck moved, but only for an instant before it parked again. There were manicured flower beds lining each side of the driveway, a decoration which he felt he paid too much for but his wife appreciated, and he didn't want to have to drive over them just to get out of his own driveway. But the garbage truck remained in his way. A seemingly interminable few minutes passed, and the truck moved forward again, only to come to a halt again. Albert threw his door open with a furious thrust of his arm and rose out with full intent to start screaming, but was immediately responded to by the passenger again.
"Just a bit more, Mac! He's tryin!"
Albert had enough of waiting. He was sure this was some kind of joke, but he had no idea what the point of it was, and didn't want to wait to find out. He pulled up to the front of the garage door at an angle and reversed his way through the flower bed and bounced the car over the curb to reach the street. He sped off from his house with determined force.
Chene then pulled out from Albert's neighbor's driveway and began to follow him.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
18961118 16:41:54 (continued)
HQ-S-3191
18961118 16:41:54
Grace quickly thought of something else to bring up - she figured something lighthearted and irrelevant might not be so bad.
"Oh, you would have loved to see it at class today. Mrs. Betten had a big stack of papers she was about to hand out when she slipped on the floor somehow, and the papers went up flying everywhere like a parade! We were all laughing."
"Hm."
Grace held the smile briefly, then looked down to her feet in embarrassment. No, inane humor probably wasn't going to go over well, but what would? She didn't want to hear how her Dad was busy tracking the rapist down, did she? She didn't want to hear about how two of the other men were caught and being questioned by them right now, did she? She didn't want to hear patronizing genial speech about how "things will get better with time" and other frivolous, empty phrases. Right? Could Grace give her a hug? Just hold her? Just do something to show support and care? Would that make things worse? The complete lack of knowing how to best respond to this made Grace angered and disgusted, with herself as much as the situation and for Marilou's condition. Grace's father had the position in the city where things like this could happen to family members. Marilou just happened to be Grace's friend who was with her that day. For all the power which she could only imagine her Dad having, this is what was brought upon them. For all of the intellect which Grace had and the sympathy which she could offer, she was completely failing at doing anything helpful for her friend now. Grace became terrified over how powerless this ordeal made her feel. The sensation was completely alien to her.
"How are you feeling?"
Grace snapped her attention back to Marilou. She maintained her position on the bed and her sight away from making eye contact.
"I'm... fine, really. Fine. And I'm glad they let me here to see you."
"M."
"Uh... oh, say. Y'know what might be good? A walk maybe? Get you on your feet a bit, out of this stuffy room? It might-"
"No, thanks. I'm comfy here. I'm comfy here." Marilou said this while rocking her head slowly forwards and back, with her arms wrapped around her knees as they pressed against her chest.
"OK, Louie, OK. That's fine. S'ok if I stay here a while with you then?"
"M."
Grace nodded with a faint smile and turned around to sit in the sparsely padded chair behind her. She had brought a copy of the novel assigned for the Literature study - Thoreau's Walden - and resumed reading. Marilou remained seated upright in the bed.
18961118 16:41:54
Grace quickly thought of something else to bring up - she figured something lighthearted and irrelevant might not be so bad.
"Oh, you would have loved to see it at class today. Mrs. Betten had a big stack of papers she was about to hand out when she slipped on the floor somehow, and the papers went up flying everywhere like a parade! We were all laughing."
"Hm."
Grace held the smile briefly, then looked down to her feet in embarrassment. No, inane humor probably wasn't going to go over well, but what would? She didn't want to hear how her Dad was busy tracking the rapist down, did she? She didn't want to hear about how two of the other men were caught and being questioned by them right now, did she? She didn't want to hear patronizing genial speech about how "things will get better with time" and other frivolous, empty phrases. Right? Could Grace give her a hug? Just hold her? Just do something to show support and care? Would that make things worse? The complete lack of knowing how to best respond to this made Grace angered and disgusted, with herself as much as the situation and for Marilou's condition. Grace's father had the position in the city where things like this could happen to family members. Marilou just happened to be Grace's friend who was with her that day. For all the power which she could only imagine her Dad having, this is what was brought upon them. For all of the intellect which Grace had and the sympathy which she could offer, she was completely failing at doing anything helpful for her friend now. Grace became terrified over how powerless this ordeal made her feel. The sensation was completely alien to her.
"How are you feeling?"
Grace snapped her attention back to Marilou. She maintained her position on the bed and her sight away from making eye contact.
"I'm... fine, really. Fine. And I'm glad they let me here to see you."
"M."
"Uh... oh, say. Y'know what might be good? A walk maybe? Get you on your feet a bit, out of this stuffy room? It might-"
"No, thanks. I'm comfy here. I'm comfy here." Marilou said this while rocking her head slowly forwards and back, with her arms wrapped around her knees as they pressed against her chest.
"OK, Louie, OK. That's fine. S'ok if I stay here a while with you then?"
"M."
Grace nodded with a faint smile and turned around to sit in the sparsely padded chair behind her. She had brought a copy of the novel assigned for the Literature study - Thoreau's Walden - and resumed reading. Marilou remained seated upright in the bed.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
18961118 16:41:54
HQ-S-3191
18961118 16:41:54
"Now, we've told her that you were coming, and even though she understood and accepted to have you visit, you need to understand that she's still very uh, sensitive, and that you need to be careful around her. Be sure to remain calm and not do anything to upset her."
"Of course." Grace didn't feel patronized by the instruction. The nurse spoke in a caring and motherly tone which she imagined would be difficult to do on a daily basis in a hospital. She suspected that the nurse was likely a mother herself. Her words reflected her nature and intent of genuine concern for patients like Marilou. The remainder of the walk up the flight of stairs and through the hallway to her room was in silence. When they arrived at the doorway, the nurse placed a hand gently upon Grace's shoulder and instructed her to "Wait here." with a whisper, referring to the doorway. The nurse proceeded inside.
Rather than eavesdrop on whatever the nurse was saying to Marilou then, Grace took the moment's wait to collect her thoughts on how she would conduct herself now. Specifcally, she contemplated on what she would say first beyond the initial greeting. "How are you feeling now?" seemed to be the exact kind of question to not ask at this point. The answer was not something which needed to be the subject of conversation. Grace specifically didn't bring any sort of gift, as she was unsure if there was anything appropriate to bring at this time. The nurse called out to Grace and said she could come to see her now.
The nurse made a point to see both girls and nod to them before walking backwards a few paces and showing herself out of the room. Grace stood before Marilou with her hands neatly folded into each other and around her waist. Marilou sat upright in the bed beneath the thin sheet and could only manage to look at Grace directly for a brief moment. Even this much seemed to make Marilou take deeper breaths. Grace studied her and she looked away, and first noticed the puffiness of her eyelids and how her hair was so unusually disheveled. The tone of her skin was discernibly more pale. Finally a question she felt comfortable in asking came to mind.
"Have your parents been here to see you yet?"
Marilou silently moved her lips to form words, as if she was analyzing each word of the question and constructing an appropriate response. "Yes. Daddy was here... a while ago." The word choice shocked Grace. She can't remember how many years it has been since she ever referred to her father as "Daddy".
18961118 16:41:54
"Now, we've told her that you were coming, and even though she understood and accepted to have you visit, you need to understand that she's still very uh, sensitive, and that you need to be careful around her. Be sure to remain calm and not do anything to upset her."
"Of course." Grace didn't feel patronized by the instruction. The nurse spoke in a caring and motherly tone which she imagined would be difficult to do on a daily basis in a hospital. She suspected that the nurse was likely a mother herself. Her words reflected her nature and intent of genuine concern for patients like Marilou. The remainder of the walk up the flight of stairs and through the hallway to her room was in silence. When they arrived at the doorway, the nurse placed a hand gently upon Grace's shoulder and instructed her to "Wait here." with a whisper, referring to the doorway. The nurse proceeded inside.
Rather than eavesdrop on whatever the nurse was saying to Marilou then, Grace took the moment's wait to collect her thoughts on how she would conduct herself now. Specifcally, she contemplated on what she would say first beyond the initial greeting. "How are you feeling now?" seemed to be the exact kind of question to not ask at this point. The answer was not something which needed to be the subject of conversation. Grace specifically didn't bring any sort of gift, as she was unsure if there was anything appropriate to bring at this time. The nurse called out to Grace and said she could come to see her now.
The nurse made a point to see both girls and nod to them before walking backwards a few paces and showing herself out of the room. Grace stood before Marilou with her hands neatly folded into each other and around her waist. Marilou sat upright in the bed beneath the thin sheet and could only manage to look at Grace directly for a brief moment. Even this much seemed to make Marilou take deeper breaths. Grace studied her and she looked away, and first noticed the puffiness of her eyelids and how her hair was so unusually disheveled. The tone of her skin was discernibly more pale. Finally a question she felt comfortable in asking came to mind.
"Have your parents been here to see you yet?"
Marilou silently moved her lips to form words, as if she was analyzing each word of the question and constructing an appropriate response. "Yes. Daddy was here... a while ago." The word choice shocked Grace. She can't remember how many years it has been since she ever referred to her father as "Daddy".
19220421 15:41:44 (revised date)
JF-N-7399
19220421 15:41:44
Mark didn't have to look back to know that Henry was on his trail - he could hear the gallop coming from behind him. He judged himself to be maintaining distance and knew that he wasn't running at his utmost of speed, so he felt assured of his escape. His premeditated route of weaving through the alleyway behind some stores facing 72nd to make it through the main street seemed to be working as he had planned. The alleyway approached and he banked into it while maintaining speed. Yesterday's rain still sat in puddles and kept the loose gravel of the alley moist, which meant that Mark's footing wasn't as assured. He made it out of the alley and ran through a small parking lot where he had to hold a sharp right turn to dash through the adjoining driveway. A car was pulling up just as he was getting through and Mark planted his hands on its hood so that he could pivot away from it and continue running. His handplant on the car shook the car's body against its shocks and made it lazily bounce. Henry maintained pursuit and anchored his hands on the corner of the same car to jump over its right headlight. Now Mark noticed that Henry seemed to be gaining on him and he forced himself to run harder, which led to his direction becoming unfocussed. Mark was forced to weave his way through the pedestrians in front of him on the sidewalk of 72nd, while Henry kept a linear stride in his wake as the people parted to the sides and gawked. The opposing traffic to the right of them was dense and couldn't be crossed. Mark reached out to grab some trashcans on his right side and pull them down, and Henry responded by simply jupming over the entire canister and not losing a stride upon landing. The gap was narrowing. Mark meandered and dashed in a crazed sprint while Henry ran behind in precise strides and hands pointed at tips and alternating between his steps as if he were running for sport.
The intersection ahead finally put up the red light for to the oncoming traffic to stop, which gave Mark a chance to cross the street. The driver approaching northbound on J and turning into their direction was quick on anticipating the green and began to move out as soon as the cross traffic stopped. The oncoming car slowed to a crawl in order to avoid hitting Mark as he turned hard to his right to avoid the collision. The lack of forward progress at this point was the moment that Henry caught up with him. Before he made it to the southern sidewalk, Henry made a lunge to tackle Mark and caught him by the legs. The two boys tumbled together over the street, and Lilian's bag scattered to the sidewalk gutter after Mark lost his grip. Henry rolled on his back with the momentum and came to his knees before Mark could get up by his back. Henry pounced upon Mark and pinned his knees over his body and held him in place under him. Henry leaned back to swing and connected his fist right into Mark's mouth. The second punch split Mark's lip. The fifth punch dislodged some of his front teeth. The ninth punch splattered red blood over his face and hair, and clung to Henry's fist and clothing. Each strike caused Henry to scream out in a piercing screech which successively increased in volume and pitch. Eleven. The blows were coming less rapidly but still with as much force. Fifteen. No traffic moved on the street, and everyone on the sidewalks froze to watch the beating. Seventeen. Mark's body ceased to spasm in pain. Eighteen. Henry's body heaved in breath as he stared at the shattered face beneath his legs. He tilted his head back and released a primal scream that echoed against the buildings lining the intersection. He then slowly raised himself, his right foot before his left, and walked over to retreive the bag. Henry left the body on the ground behind him and walked back to where he left Lilian.
Lilian made it to the end of the block when she heard the screaming and nothing else coming from her left. Her body cringed in knowing how horrifying her brother would now become. She was too far away to make it stop before Henry was done. She folded her hands demurely into her waist and looked down upon them, unsure of what else to do but wait for the incident to conclude and not draw attention to herself. The wait for Henry to return to her seemed to be interminable. Once by her side, Henry froze in place and extended his bloodied fist which clenched her bag in offering. She quickly took it from him and spun around without saying a word to walk away from 72nd. They walked past the school again within a few minutes. She decided that it was probably the best course of action to take the long way home after all.
19220421 15:41:44
Mark didn't have to look back to know that Henry was on his trail - he could hear the gallop coming from behind him. He judged himself to be maintaining distance and knew that he wasn't running at his utmost of speed, so he felt assured of his escape. His premeditated route of weaving through the alleyway behind some stores facing 72nd to make it through the main street seemed to be working as he had planned. The alleyway approached and he banked into it while maintaining speed. Yesterday's rain still sat in puddles and kept the loose gravel of the alley moist, which meant that Mark's footing wasn't as assured. He made it out of the alley and ran through a small parking lot where he had to hold a sharp right turn to dash through the adjoining driveway. A car was pulling up just as he was getting through and Mark planted his hands on its hood so that he could pivot away from it and continue running. His handplant on the car shook the car's body against its shocks and made it lazily bounce. Henry maintained pursuit and anchored his hands on the corner of the same car to jump over its right headlight. Now Mark noticed that Henry seemed to be gaining on him and he forced himself to run harder, which led to his direction becoming unfocussed. Mark was forced to weave his way through the pedestrians in front of him on the sidewalk of 72nd, while Henry kept a linear stride in his wake as the people parted to the sides and gawked. The opposing traffic to the right of them was dense and couldn't be crossed. Mark reached out to grab some trashcans on his right side and pull them down, and Henry responded by simply jupming over the entire canister and not losing a stride upon landing. The gap was narrowing. Mark meandered and dashed in a crazed sprint while Henry ran behind in precise strides and hands pointed at tips and alternating between his steps as if he were running for sport.
The intersection ahead finally put up the red light for to the oncoming traffic to stop, which gave Mark a chance to cross the street. The driver approaching northbound on J and turning into their direction was quick on anticipating the green and began to move out as soon as the cross traffic stopped. The oncoming car slowed to a crawl in order to avoid hitting Mark as he turned hard to his right to avoid the collision. The lack of forward progress at this point was the moment that Henry caught up with him. Before he made it to the southern sidewalk, Henry made a lunge to tackle Mark and caught him by the legs. The two boys tumbled together over the street, and Lilian's bag scattered to the sidewalk gutter after Mark lost his grip. Henry rolled on his back with the momentum and came to his knees before Mark could get up by his back. Henry pounced upon Mark and pinned his knees over his body and held him in place under him. Henry leaned back to swing and connected his fist right into Mark's mouth. The second punch split Mark's lip. The fifth punch dislodged some of his front teeth. The ninth punch splattered red blood over his face and hair, and clung to Henry's fist and clothing. Each strike caused Henry to scream out in a piercing screech which successively increased in volume and pitch. Eleven. The blows were coming less rapidly but still with as much force. Fifteen. No traffic moved on the street, and everyone on the sidewalks froze to watch the beating. Seventeen. Mark's body ceased to spasm in pain. Eighteen. Henry's body heaved in breath as he stared at the shattered face beneath his legs. He tilted his head back and released a primal scream that echoed against the buildings lining the intersection. He then slowly raised himself, his right foot before his left, and walked over to retreive the bag. Henry left the body on the ground behind him and walked back to where he left Lilian.
Lilian made it to the end of the block when she heard the screaming and nothing else coming from her left. Her body cringed in knowing how horrifying her brother would now become. She was too far away to make it stop before Henry was done. She folded her hands demurely into her waist and looked down upon them, unsure of what else to do but wait for the incident to conclude and not draw attention to herself. The wait for Henry to return to her seemed to be interminable. Once by her side, Henry froze in place and extended his bloodied fist which clenched her bag in offering. She quickly took it from him and spun around without saying a word to walk away from 72nd. They walked past the school again within a few minutes. She decided that it was probably the best course of action to take the long way home after all.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
19210422 15:41:44
JF-N-7399
19210422 15:41:44
Lilian was not in a very happy mood as she started to walk home with Henry. It was bad enough that she had to wait so long to leave because of Henry's extra work that he had to do with his class, which meant that their normal bus ride had gone by the time they were ready to go. She was also unsure of how long she'd have to wait for the 72nd Street city bus to come around, and if it would be worth it to wait for it to arrive as opposed to just walking all the way home from here. Her shoes still weren't worn in after a week of little use, and she didn't need or want to imagine how her feet would feel after the trek. She didn't have the luxury of voicing her displeasure to Henry, because her speaking would cause him to stop walking and try to process her speech, despite his inability to give any sort of reaction to it. Lilian had no choice but to simmer over her displeasure to herself. It was then that he called out to them.
"Hey, you!"
Lilian knew it was addressed to either of them, as there was nobody else around on the sidewalk. She turned around to see Mark Voller approaching them. Lilian knew of Mark in passing, mostly because he was in a grade higher than she was, but he was distinctive enough with his large stature and ears which stood out from his short hair. She also heard that he was essentially a bully who seemed to enjoy to throw his considerable weight around. She was perturbed that she didn't notice him before he called out - where did he come from? Did he start following them when they left the school? Was he too far away that she didn't hear him walk in their wake? Was she too distracted with her own displeasure of the walk home that she didn't notice him beforehand? She resolved to try to be more attentive in the future. Mark was finally close enough to address them.
"You're Lilian, right?"
"Yes. And your name is Mark, I believe, yes?"
"Yeah. So uh, I heard that you uh, sell ... stuff."
She gave a wan smile. New customers are always welcome, but she didn't know what to make of him approaching her like this instead of in the school like normal. "Well, what kind of stuff did you mean, Mark?"
"Uh, some cigs, basically, yeah."
"Well sure, Mark. It's a quarter for a score."
"Uh, OK."
With the terms agreed upon, Lilian still felt uneasy about the exchange. He shifted his hands in his pockets haphazardly, in what she assumed was a search for the money. She knelt down to get a pack of cigarettes from Henry's backpack.
This was the confirmation Mark waited for. Before she could get a pack in her hand, he quickly scooped the backpack up and took off running down the street.
"Hey! What-" Lilian started to run after him but only advanced a few steps before she stopped in realization that his speed was considerable and that she couldn't possibly catch up to him. "Hey!" she called out again, unable to think of anything better to do. She felt a wave of coldness sweep over her body. Henry didn't contemplate the situation for long, after seeing his sister's face. He looked at her, read the frowned wrinkles about her eyes, looked up to see Mark running away, and decided what to do. He took off after him.
19210422 15:41:44
Lilian was not in a very happy mood as she started to walk home with Henry. It was bad enough that she had to wait so long to leave because of Henry's extra work that he had to do with his class, which meant that their normal bus ride had gone by the time they were ready to go. She was also unsure of how long she'd have to wait for the 72nd Street city bus to come around, and if it would be worth it to wait for it to arrive as opposed to just walking all the way home from here. Her shoes still weren't worn in after a week of little use, and she didn't need or want to imagine how her feet would feel after the trek. She didn't have the luxury of voicing her displeasure to Henry, because her speaking would cause him to stop walking and try to process her speech, despite his inability to give any sort of reaction to it. Lilian had no choice but to simmer over her displeasure to herself. It was then that he called out to them.
"Hey, you!"
Lilian knew it was addressed to either of them, as there was nobody else around on the sidewalk. She turned around to see Mark Voller approaching them. Lilian knew of Mark in passing, mostly because he was in a grade higher than she was, but he was distinctive enough with his large stature and ears which stood out from his short hair. She also heard that he was essentially a bully who seemed to enjoy to throw his considerable weight around. She was perturbed that she didn't notice him before he called out - where did he come from? Did he start following them when they left the school? Was he too far away that she didn't hear him walk in their wake? Was she too distracted with her own displeasure of the walk home that she didn't notice him beforehand? She resolved to try to be more attentive in the future. Mark was finally close enough to address them.
"You're Lilian, right?"
"Yes. And your name is Mark, I believe, yes?"
"Yeah. So uh, I heard that you uh, sell ... stuff."
She gave a wan smile. New customers are always welcome, but she didn't know what to make of him approaching her like this instead of in the school like normal. "Well, what kind of stuff did you mean, Mark?"
"Uh, some cigs, basically, yeah."
"Well sure, Mark. It's a quarter for a score."
"Uh, OK."
With the terms agreed upon, Lilian still felt uneasy about the exchange. He shifted his hands in his pockets haphazardly, in what she assumed was a search for the money. She knelt down to get a pack of cigarettes from Henry's backpack.
This was the confirmation Mark waited for. Before she could get a pack in her hand, he quickly scooped the backpack up and took off running down the street.
"Hey! What-" Lilian started to run after him but only advanced a few steps before she stopped in realization that his speed was considerable and that she couldn't possibly catch up to him. "Hey!" she called out again, unable to think of anything better to do. She felt a wave of coldness sweep over her body. Henry didn't contemplate the situation for long, after seeing his sister's face. He looked at her, read the frowned wrinkles about her eyes, looked up to see Mark running away, and decided what to do. He took off after him.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
18351003 06:00:00
18351003 06:00:00
Daron's body stood motionless in numbed silence as he watched the embers of the house and barn glow. It wasn't long after the fire began that he felt courageous enough to slowly approach the premises, as he didn't hear the men anywhere nearby. Jesse withdrew from his concealment within the woods and joined him shortly thereafter. The vandals didn't take the time to enclose the barn or the coops, so all of the animals were able to flee from the conflagration without injury. The crackling of the burning wood was all to be heard around them, until a soft hissing began to emit from the burnt wood. The morning's sunrise didn't pierce through the dense gray clouds hanging overhead, and drops of rain now began to fall upon the scene. Neither Daron nor Jesse made any attempt to find any sort of cover from it, as much from paralysis in spectating the horror as from lack of any place they could immediately go to do so. Daron remained still and let the rain melt the dirt over his face and body for some time before he finally began to walk. He took a route to pace around the house, as if he needed to verify that the entirety of the house was indeed consumed by the fire.
The surprise came when he turned around the corner of the house and was able to see past the other side for the first time since he had retreated in the night. In the distance, standing idly by a tree at the edge of the of the road leading North, stood a horse. It had a mostly white coat with patched of brown hair speckled on the bridge of its nose. It still had a bridle attached to its torso. Daron immediately recognized the horse as one of the animals which was kept in the barn. When Daron realized this, an addled smile gave way to a nearly delirious grin and a sputtered laugh.
"He didn't run. He stayed. He stayed. He didn't run." Daron briskly took Jesse by the wrist and began walking towards the horse - slowly at first, but gaining in speed as he became closer until he ran at full stride until he was within arms length of the horse. Jesse had to skip and jump to keep from being dragged in his wake. Daron held a hand out nervously to the horse's nose, and rubbed the side of its face in broad strokes when it brushed against his hand in response. Daron now cackled in glee.
"He stayed! You see, boy! You see! He stayed! We still got him!" Out of exhaustion, Jesse did little more than reach his hands to the top of the horse's side and leaned against it, as if he was trying to hug the creature. Daron became nearly incoherent in his jubilation.
"He stayed, boy. He - the hell is your name, anywho." Daron fumbled at the tags in the middle of the horse's brace until a small circle of engraved brass fell into his fingers. The tag bore the word "RANDALL". "Randy. Randy the God Bless'd Horse. Randy Our Horse. He's here. He stayed. Oh, thank heavens."
Daron's body stood motionless in numbed silence as he watched the embers of the house and barn glow. It wasn't long after the fire began that he felt courageous enough to slowly approach the premises, as he didn't hear the men anywhere nearby. Jesse withdrew from his concealment within the woods and joined him shortly thereafter. The vandals didn't take the time to enclose the barn or the coops, so all of the animals were able to flee from the conflagration without injury. The crackling of the burning wood was all to be heard around them, until a soft hissing began to emit from the burnt wood. The morning's sunrise didn't pierce through the dense gray clouds hanging overhead, and drops of rain now began to fall upon the scene. Neither Daron nor Jesse made any attempt to find any sort of cover from it, as much from paralysis in spectating the horror as from lack of any place they could immediately go to do so. Daron remained still and let the rain melt the dirt over his face and body for some time before he finally began to walk. He took a route to pace around the house, as if he needed to verify that the entirety of the house was indeed consumed by the fire.
The surprise came when he turned around the corner of the house and was able to see past the other side for the first time since he had retreated in the night. In the distance, standing idly by a tree at the edge of the of the road leading North, stood a horse. It had a mostly white coat with patched of brown hair speckled on the bridge of its nose. It still had a bridle attached to its torso. Daron immediately recognized the horse as one of the animals which was kept in the barn. When Daron realized this, an addled smile gave way to a nearly delirious grin and a sputtered laugh.
"He didn't run. He stayed. He stayed. He didn't run." Daron briskly took Jesse by the wrist and began walking towards the horse - slowly at first, but gaining in speed as he became closer until he ran at full stride until he was within arms length of the horse. Jesse had to skip and jump to keep from being dragged in his wake. Daron held a hand out nervously to the horse's nose, and rubbed the side of its face in broad strokes when it brushed against his hand in response. Daron now cackled in glee.
"He stayed! You see, boy! You see! He stayed! We still got him!" Out of exhaustion, Jesse did little more than reach his hands to the top of the horse's side and leaned against it, as if he was trying to hug the creature. Daron became nearly incoherent in his jubilation.
"He stayed, boy. He - the hell is your name, anywho." Daron fumbled at the tags in the middle of the horse's brace until a small circle of engraved brass fell into his fingers. The tag bore the word "RANDALL". "Randy. Randy the God Bless'd Horse. Randy Our Horse. He's here. He stayed. Oh, thank heavens."
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
18351003 02:16:18 Continued.
18351003 02:16:18 Continued.
"We collect here to ensure that you leave at once. You must leave now."
"No." Daron's hands curled into tight fists and he felt his feet press into the wooden floorboards of the porch. "Now what you gonna do?"
One of the men on horseback pulled up a rifle which was holstered in the saddle and trained it on Daron without saying anything else. The only sound which held in the air was the crackling of the lit torches. Daron felt his will quickly shrinking and decided to not try to argue against someone who had an armed gun pointed at him. He immediately turned to run back into the house and heard the men in the group laugh as he scrambled to the bedroom. Upon seeing Jesse in the bed, he yelled "Run away now! Away from me, go go go!", and frantically pulled out the dresser drawer to grasp at the property deed inside. He clenched it in a fist and slammed the shutters of the window open so that he could jump through. He hit the ground and buckled upon impact, but swiftly rose and started running to the field of wheat stalks. He heard Jesse hit the ground after him and ran away at an angle to separate himself. "Away! Away!" Daron yelled as he met the wheat field and began tearing through the vegetation. All he could see was an endless stream of stalks which were swept away from his arms as he braced them by his face so that he could discern where he was going. He was heaving in breath and the pace of running slowed as he became more entrenched in the wheat. Daron eventually met the end of the wheat stalks and dashed to the forest before him, and continued to run through the dried leaves and trees within it. He didn't stop until he found a depression to hide behind and was assured that nobody was following him. He looked around and saw nothing but trees in the moonlight. His heart raced and felt like it was going to explode through his chest.
Daron figured that this would be a good place to hide and knelt to the ground so that he could collect a pile of leaves which he could use to conceal himself. He accumulated the pile on the side of the incline and buried himself with the foliage when he felt he had enough collected. The moist dirt which clung to the leaves made Daron shiver as he panted underneath them. All he could hear was his breath. He remained in this position for nearly an hour in which each minute seemed to last a day. Daron was in a state of panic and had no way of knowing if he was seen running into the woods and if he was going to be persued by the group. He forced himself to remain as motionless as possible under the leaves. Then he smelled smoke. The smell was very faint at first and didn't become substantially stronger over time. Finally, after hearing nothing around him and smelling more smoke in the air, he rose from beneath the leaves and peered over the crest of the slope which he was behind. An orange glow was visibly reflecting off of the trees and the wheat field in front of him. He finally took a few steps up the incline to get a better view, and he saw what he had feared. The house and barn were completely engulfed in flame.
"We collect here to ensure that you leave at once. You must leave now."
"No." Daron's hands curled into tight fists and he felt his feet press into the wooden floorboards of the porch. "Now what you gonna do?"
One of the men on horseback pulled up a rifle which was holstered in the saddle and trained it on Daron without saying anything else. The only sound which held in the air was the crackling of the lit torches. Daron felt his will quickly shrinking and decided to not try to argue against someone who had an armed gun pointed at him. He immediately turned to run back into the house and heard the men in the group laugh as he scrambled to the bedroom. Upon seeing Jesse in the bed, he yelled "Run away now! Away from me, go go go!", and frantically pulled out the dresser drawer to grasp at the property deed inside. He clenched it in a fist and slammed the shutters of the window open so that he could jump through. He hit the ground and buckled upon impact, but swiftly rose and started running to the field of wheat stalks. He heard Jesse hit the ground after him and ran away at an angle to separate himself. "Away! Away!" Daron yelled as he met the wheat field and began tearing through the vegetation. All he could see was an endless stream of stalks which were swept away from his arms as he braced them by his face so that he could discern where he was going. He was heaving in breath and the pace of running slowed as he became more entrenched in the wheat. Daron eventually met the end of the wheat stalks and dashed to the forest before him, and continued to run through the dried leaves and trees within it. He didn't stop until he found a depression to hide behind and was assured that nobody was following him. He looked around and saw nothing but trees in the moonlight. His heart raced and felt like it was going to explode through his chest.
Daron figured that this would be a good place to hide and knelt to the ground so that he could collect a pile of leaves which he could use to conceal himself. He accumulated the pile on the side of the incline and buried himself with the foliage when he felt he had enough collected. The moist dirt which clung to the leaves made Daron shiver as he panted underneath them. All he could hear was his breath. He remained in this position for nearly an hour in which each minute seemed to last a day. Daron was in a state of panic and had no way of knowing if he was seen running into the woods and if he was going to be persued by the group. He forced himself to remain as motionless as possible under the leaves. Then he smelled smoke. The smell was very faint at first and didn't become substantially stronger over time. Finally, after hearing nothing around him and smelling more smoke in the air, he rose from beneath the leaves and peered over the crest of the slope which he was behind. An orange glow was visibly reflecting off of the trees and the wheat field in front of him. He finally took a few steps up the incline to get a better view, and he saw what he had feared. The house and barn were completely engulfed in flame.
Monday, July 30, 2012
19280816 21:08:33
KF-N-7313
19280816 21:08:33
"Jus, jus... mmf frng fuck OK ow. Ow."
Madeline quickly froze in place. "Are you OK? What hurts?"
"Just fucking everything! Sheesh, woman. What's it look like?" Pulaski felt his eyes clench shut as tightly as his lips pressed together while the dull pain coursed through his body. Madeline didn't dare ask what was the source of injury - the particulars of it were the only thing which were different, and asking about it before he was willing to speak of it first was just as likely to cause more grousing. She gingerly patted the pink washcloth over the inch-long gash which lazily oozed blood from the back of the neck. She felt his body tense up in her hands, until he reached for the bottle of whisky on the table and took another generous swig. He finished the intake with a prolonged grumble of exhaustion.
19280816 21:08:33
"Jus, jus... mmf frng fuck OK ow. Ow."
Madeline quickly froze in place. "Are you OK? What hurts?"
"Just fucking everything! Sheesh, woman. What's it look like?" Pulaski felt his eyes clench shut as tightly as his lips pressed together while the dull pain coursed through his body. Madeline didn't dare ask what was the source of injury - the particulars of it were the only thing which were different, and asking about it before he was willing to speak of it first was just as likely to cause more grousing. She gingerly patted the pink washcloth over the inch-long gash which lazily oozed blood from the back of the neck. She felt his body tense up in her hands, until he reached for the bottle of whisky on the table and took another generous swig. He finished the intake with a prolonged grumble of exhaustion.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
18351003 02:16:18
Daron was not fully awake but had his sleep disturbed by noises he heard in the distance. It was unnatural and distinct from the usual sound of dried leaves rattling against the wind. It was a murmur, a gentle echo which came more prescient to his slumbering mind over time. What did wake him, finally, was the sensation of dawn's light against his closed eyelids. He didn't see darkness before rising to wake, but an amber glow in his vision rather than the pure darkness. But he was confused by this, because his body didn't feel like it had a full night's sleep.
"Daron Hoobler!"
The voice that bellowed his name was sharp and pierced the bedroom. It was completely unfamiliar to him. He shot up from his bed and felt his eyes pulsate as he rapidly considered what to do. Would he dare respond to the voice in person, or was that certain death? Was there a crowd? It would explain the noise he heard in his half-sleep. Was he surrounded? Is there any way he could escape?
"Daron Hoobler!"
The words in his name were said with a longer pause and even more force in volume. Jesse was now awake and upright from the floor. His face was frozen in shock. Daron resolved to address the voice directly. If this was his time of death, trying to sneak out unseen would merely prolong it. He approached the front door of the house and opened it to step outside.
"I am Daron Hoober." He stood at the edge of the porch, facing a score of men, some of whom were still on horseback, others standing by steeds, and several holding torches which cast a red illumination to the scene. A portly man with an extraordinary untamed beard addressed Daron, revealing himself to be the one who called his name before.
"This is not your house. You are in the property of a Mister Geofrey Challors. You are a tresspasser and are to leave at once."
"Sir, if I may beg your pardon, he sold this place to me."
"The sale is invalid. No record of the sale was ever made to the county registry." This was a lie.
"Sir, if I may, I can show you the signed deed."
"The deed is invalid. Mister Challors was not of sound mind when the so-called sale occurred. You are currently standing in his property. You must leave now."
"Or else what, you kill me? All you come down here just to tell me to git?"
"We collect here to ensure that you leave at once. You must leave now."
"No." Daron's hands curled into tight fists and he felt his feet press into the wooden floorboards of the porch. "Now what you gonna do?"
"Daron Hoobler!"
The voice that bellowed his name was sharp and pierced the bedroom. It was completely unfamiliar to him. He shot up from his bed and felt his eyes pulsate as he rapidly considered what to do. Would he dare respond to the voice in person, or was that certain death? Was there a crowd? It would explain the noise he heard in his half-sleep. Was he surrounded? Is there any way he could escape?
"Daron Hoobler!"
The words in his name were said with a longer pause and even more force in volume. Jesse was now awake and upright from the floor. His face was frozen in shock. Daron resolved to address the voice directly. If this was his time of death, trying to sneak out unseen would merely prolong it. He approached the front door of the house and opened it to step outside.
"I am Daron Hoober." He stood at the edge of the porch, facing a score of men, some of whom were still on horseback, others standing by steeds, and several holding torches which cast a red illumination to the scene. A portly man with an extraordinary untamed beard addressed Daron, revealing himself to be the one who called his name before.
"This is not your house. You are in the property of a Mister Geofrey Challors. You are a tresspasser and are to leave at once."
"Sir, if I may beg your pardon, he sold this place to me."
"The sale is invalid. No record of the sale was ever made to the county registry." This was a lie.
"Sir, if I may, I can show you the signed deed."
"The deed is invalid. Mister Challors was not of sound mind when the so-called sale occurred. You are currently standing in his property. You must leave now."
"Or else what, you kill me? All you come down here just to tell me to git?"
"We collect here to ensure that you leave at once. You must leave now."
"No." Daron's hands curled into tight fists and he felt his feet press into the wooden floorboards of the porch. "Now what you gonna do?"
Saturday, July 28, 2012
The Story So Far
A compilation of draft entries.
----------
JJ-N-7155
19500806 21:07:15
Vinnie didn't take up a bag of old bread with him to the door as usual, not since he started waiting outside the back door these last few days. It has been four times in the last two weeks, but it felt like it was twice as often. He didn't want to so much as acknowledge the man sitting silently in wait. It depressed him, to see how he would sit there now; thin, pale, unkempt, twitchy. This is what has become of the child who everyone he knew treated with extraordinary kindness in light of his unstated condition. The only common thread from then to now were still the eyes, which were always to the ground, which were always away. The last few times Vinnie gave him some of the garbage, he leaned over the hunched figure as he noisly consumed the bread in ravenous mouthfuls. He looked at his face to see signs of anything - to see if there was suffering he couldn't speak, shame he couldn't hide, gratitude that he couldn't state. There was nothing of the sort on Wolf's face. His brain wouldn't have allowed anything like that to be conveyed, even if he did harbor those kinds of feelings. The lone thought which still remained was The Focus on The Search. Vinnie had no idea about any of this and was merely apprehensive to have him around. He didn't want feeding him to turn into a habit. This is why he stood still and released a deep sigh of exasperation when he slowly pushed the door open and peered around it to see Wolf sitting on the ground, leaning against the fence on the opposite side of the alley.
"Danny... you gotta listen to me some time, you gotta hear me. You're hungry, but I'm not your Dad. I'm not family. You can't rely on me to do this every time. What if you come here and I got nothing to throw away? Then what?"
Wolf responded by turning his head towards Vinnie and anchoring his palms to the ground so that he could bring his legs inward to stand. He walked across the alley without looking up and came to a stop at the base of the stoop upon which Vinnie stood. Vinnie winced and squinted his eyes in response to Wolf's pungent odor.
"Christ, kid, can't they wash you at the fucking church or something? Where do you fucking sleep? Outside?"
Wolf remained silent and motionless in the same spot. Vinnie rubbed his hands over his eyes and cheeks in exasperation.
"Shi.. fuggin sh... hold on, dammit."
He stepped back into the store and quickly retrieved a bag of expired Italian style loaves, then returned to the door. Wolf didn't move an inch, as if he were trying to emulate a statue. He held the bag of bread out to him.
"Here. This's gotta stop, Danny. You hear? This's gotta stop happening." He snatched the bag and pulled one loaf from it, then let the bag drop to his feet as he used both hands to compress the food into his salivating mouth.
"Jesus."
LA-N-0800
The only records which have survived through time give this location as the closest current address where the first farmhouse and barn stood when Daron acquired them in 1837. The barn structure which is currently present at this address is the third barn built here, as the first was burned by the Baltimore Summer Invasion, and the second being the victim of an accidental fire in 1915. Throughout that time, the location served as a central meeting place for everyone of the city, both for it being the oldest location and for the food served to those who frequented the farm house. The tendency for the house to become a common meeting place is what prompted Daron to move out of it in 1853, with the intent for it to evolve into a restaurant (though, considering the amount of alcohol served, perhaps it would be more apt to consider it a pub). After the accidental fire, the decision was made to rebuild the barn in a different orientation as to more conform to the layout of the street grid.
Carbondale immediately believe the fire to be arson and wanted to have the reputation and use of The Old Big Barn to change thereafter. Despite the historical significance of the location and the good quality of food provided, the restaurant was not generally regarded as an establishment to which parents brought their children for a night of fine dining. Though there was no policy which excluded anyone in general, nor was there any sort of exclusive reservation list being maintained, it was generally understood that the restaurant was patronized by the city elite - meaning the judges, politicians, and the Runners. It was this reputation that Carbondale had in mind when he made an official suggestion for the family and friends to congegate elsewhere. Besides doing that, he severed ties officially by signing the rights of the building and property to Nicholas Dranning (later to be known as Hines) in exchange for the greater of $15 per month or 10% of gross proceeds. With the ownership changed, Hines fired most of the staff employed at the time and took two weeks to redesign the restaurant's interior decor. The Barn reopened with a new menu, staff, and accomodations to make the restaurant appear bright, warm, and inviting. A dress code was put in place, but there was no effort made to enforce it until the late 1920's; until then, the restaurant was marketed and perceived as a fashionable place for high quality dining, so many of the customers came in their best attire. For this reason, Sunday afternoons were frequently the busiest days of the week, as a tradition for many families was to dine there after attending church service.
It is because of this shift away from the place imposed by Carbondale that Dequindre decided to treat the restaurant as his public meeting headquarters throughout the late 1950s.
Frederic Allange - Bookseller from France
18350326
Depsite being pinned to the table, backwards, with the edge sticking into the small of his back, Allange kept his gaze forward upon Daron's face, rather than keeping watch on his right fist as it pulsed in the air.
"Do it. Do it quickly." Allange's command was given in a staccato and bristling cough of air.
"You want me to strike you?" Daron was genuinely confused by the statement, but strove to show no signs of indetermination on his face. His torso heaved while his sharp breaths hissed through clenched teeth.
"I... I want res-", he muttered before needed to swallow and focus on speaking, then finished to say, "resolution. I want... it over."
Daron narrowed his eyes to a gleaming sliver before thrusting his hands away to release his grip, which pushed Allange to the table with enough force to make it slide a foot away. He remained tense and stood in the same pose and with the same intent to punch his face.
"Why? Why you sayin so? I thought yous here helpin me just now."
Allange managed to laugh softly before coughing and regaining his composure.
"I am helping you." He looked to his eyes when he said that, then glanced down at the quill which he took between his hands and idly twirled in his fingertips. "I am. You want control. You want real ownership of this house, this farm, this land. I told you - you can't do that with a signature which any child can duplicate. This is important. You need to know how to make a proper signature of your name. It is your only means of making unique distinction here. It is your only way to get control."
"Yeah but that don't mean you gotta touch-"
"It does." Allange said quickly and with more resolution. "It does. I cannot simply tell you how to do it. I have to guide your hand with mine."
Daron shook his head in disgust, but Allange quickly interjected further.
"That. That is why I asked you to do it." He said this by looking at him and pointing a finger towards him, in desire to make him understand. "It goes against you. It riles you. I uh... I don't profess to know a minute of the years which you have endured. But I gather that you don't want to feel another man's hands upon your body, and I believe I don't need to conduct any lengthy interrogation or introspection to deduce why. So I ask for you to do it. If that is how you will react - if doing that will calm the blood and tension raging within your body which I felt before you grappled me, then let it be done so that it is over and we can resume instruction."
"You talkin like I'm some damned wild animal - like I'm a demon of Hell."
"Those are your words, Daron. Not mine. And if that's how you think of yourself, you have the capacity - as a human and Christian brother - to change it." Allange waited for a moment's pause before appending with saying "If you want to change it. That's your choice."
Daron sighed sharply, then pulled the chair back to sit at the table again.
"You tell this to nobody." His words and gaze hung sharply in the air. "Folks hear you held my hand to teach me to write, they think they can run me out and slit my throat. And they come for me, I come for you, even in Hell."
In response, he smiled and nodded, then stood up to face the table and hunched over the paper with the quill in his hand.
"Now, first, just watch me do it again. Just focus on one letter at a time. The D will look like this."
The name "D Hoobler" was written on the newspaper margin repeatedly as the sun set. After several repetitions, the crude lettering from Daron's hand did eventually become inscribed at a quicker pace. Eventually, he did understand what Allange meant - that the cursive lettering meant you let the ink glide along the page. It meant that you put the pen down and didn't stop until it was over. It meant that you gave shape to the words with the flow of ink as it came from the pen in your hand. By dusk, Daron felt like he had gained some control.
MA-S-3388
19180607 15:03:12
The only noise which Tom paid any attention to was the fan which rattled a few inches away from his face. Despite being seated in the shade and having the air flow directly at him, he still sweltered in the late afternoon's head and strained to keep his vision concentrated on the fabric as drops of sweat crept down his forehead and into the corners of his eyes. Each loop through the seam of the seat cover required him to reposition the needle a few times before pulling it through and letting the string follow the guide. He felt himself going slower now. He strove to listen only to the fan, and not any of the other noise which seemed to be come more prominent in his surroundings. The sonorous pierce of heavy metal striking heated metal that once came from the nearby blacksmith is now replaced by the tinny rattle of coins being dropped into and out of machines. The hushed conversations and measured footsteps of fashionable ladies as they arrived and departed from the corner tailor had now given way to younger adults calling for teenagers from the entrances as they dashed down the street. To think that he would actually long for the time when he could hear the elder men spending their idle time in boisterious chatter as they lounged in the barber shop on the other side of the wall. To think that it was all going away for these venues for cheap and frivolous entertainment. Why couldn't these kind of places be build anew on the other side of the river, or further South? Tom remembers what he was told, how the justification mutated with each passing week. The old stores don't make the same money as before. Business would be better if they moved out to where it's less dense so that they could take advantage of bigger spaces. The money being offered to take the stores over was nearly double than what most of the places there bring in now. Tradition didn't pay bills, Tom remembered being told.
He pulled the needle down and then let the pin slip from his fingers, and studied the metal dangle from the thread in the covering. He pinched the side of the seat and the cordring at the edge - everything felt proper and neatly made. Even if it was taking longer to do it today, the work he put in still had good quality. Business was still consistent for him, and he was very thankful that people still at least had some respect for the property which they purchased and maintained for their own home. He was thankful that tradition was still honored in some places. Tom wondered how long something as simple as that could even last.
Rantoul entered the store and held the door open when he noticed Tom sitting in the chair while transfixed by the chair before him.
"Heya Tom, you OK?"
Tom took in a sharp breath of surprise and jerked his head to see him, then nodded with a smirk before looking back at the chair.
"Yeah, Joe, yeah I'm fine. I'm fine. How bout yourself? You gonna sit for a minute?"
"Well actually, I wasn't intending to, in light of last week-"
"Yeah, about that. I've thought about it. Thinking about it now. And I think you'll owe me."
"I owe you?"
"Yeah. Well, you will, that is. I've decided to move out. I'm taking your offer."
Rantoul smiled warmly, then asked to confirm.
"You sure about this now?"
"Yeah - I mean, look around Joe. Look around here and outside. I can look over there and still see Dad pulling out old stuffing from a couch seat and telling me how to look out for the staples in the frame. I can see it like it was yesterday. But that's all it is - a vision. A memory. I can't ... I can't be the only one here from those times, Joe. What's the point. I can sit here and hold out and be mad about how all this shit going up around me is garbage that I don't want to see or know. I could do that. But it's punching a wall. It ain't about to happen; it did happen. So what am I gonna do?"
"All right. Well, I'm glad you come around finally. I was just tryin to help you out in it, you know. You deserve that much."
"Thanks."
"So how long you think you gonna need to close up?"
"Oh I haven't looked that far ahead yet. I just thought of this. It'll be a bit yet."
"Well, OK. I'll let them know." Rantoul offered his hand to Tom for him to shake and end the sentence there. The decision was concluded there. Rantoul was happy to have it come this way and kept the hundred bucks intended for Tom in his suit jacket. The pot didn't need to be sweetened after all.
DF-N-8808
19311124 01:16:02
She kept her hands crossed and felt her body shiver under the jacket, but when she heard the door creak open upstairs, she fixated upon the stairwell and waited to hear the knock upon the hardwood floor. It came - two quarters and two eighths in a quick staccato. Tap-tap-ta-tap. Unhurried foosteps echoed through the empty house and approached the doorway. Ridgeland then opened the door and shuffled down the stairs at a slightly quicker pace. Cicero smiled at him when he reached the basement floor. In response, he nodded and stood still with his arms crossed at the wrists over his waist. The pose did little to conceal that he was supporting something beneath his overcoat.
"Hi Tony."
"Hey." He met her eyes for a brief moment, then nodded to the black velour box which was near the hand that Cicero was using to lean upon the table. "That's it?"
"Oh, yes."
"Good. Whenever you're ready." After saying that, he reached underneath his coat and pulled a glass flask out, which he gently placed upon the table. The vial was cylindrical and roughly the size of a normal wine bottle; Cicero guessed it to be the standard quart in volume. The liquid inside had a dull grey color and cast a strong reflection from the overhead light. Without knowing it was liquid, it could have been mistaken for a solid metal, as it didn't exhibit any visible motion as he set the flask upon the table, nor did it coat the sides like water or oil as he bumped his hunched body against the edge of the table to reach for the drain pan by his feet.
Cicero wondered if he would have offered to assist in the blood letting, but figured that he was gauging her response to the task to form a snap judgment about her toughness, and also figured that he wouldn't feel particularly comfortable in making the offer. She was right on both counts, and it didn't matter because she was prepared to do this regardless. She quickly removed her jacket, draped it over the table, then procured the syringe from the kit box. With the wrist turned up and resting upon the table, she flexed some fingers on her left hand in a pensive twitch before performing the injection. The needle was put into position in the fold of her forearm. Her eyes clenched shut and chest stiffened in a held breath as she pushed the needle through the skin. Luckily, she found a vein in the first attempt and the red liquid filled the vial as she pulled the plunger away. The needle was removed when the blood met the black line marked as 50. Ridgeland used a handkerchief to remove dust from the drain pan, then poured the liquid metal from the flask into it once she was done drawing the blood out from her body. She removed the plunger from the vial and quickly poured the blood over the metal. Though the reaction was subdued, the metal did bubble with an audible fizz as the red blood dissipated throughout the material. After a few seconds, the liquid metal resumed its initial shape and otherwise shown no alteration. Ridgeland then repeated the instruction which he told her last week.
"Picture it changing slowly. Very slowly. A circle becoming a diamond, and growing from there."
Cicero nodded and delicately placed the palm of her right hand upon the surface of the metal. It seemed faintly warm. Her vision was set solely on her hand as she strained in thinking of a simple perfect circle. An O. A perfectly round O. A black O over a field of white nothing. She felt her hand begin to rise in elevation as the metal started to pull away from the edges of the pan and gravitate towards the center of her hand, as if there was a source of gravity coming from her palm. Within a moment, the metal formed a raised dome under her hand, resembling a ball of bread dough.
"Good. Diamond."
She nodded and closed her eyes to further facilitate concentration. The smoothness of the metal started to become more coarse, and the height of the metal didn't seem to change. A pointed edge felt like it was forming under the center of her palm.
"One diamond. One. Flat." His tone was both forceful and somber. "One flat diamond."
She took deeper breaths and leaned forward as the edge slowly melted away from her palm. Her hand was just above the surface of the pan, and the metal underneath formed an oblique linear box within the pan.
"Good. Good. Now - the point."
A corner of the metallic box melted out of its perpendicular angle and became more acute. The edge grew more elongated as the angle narrowed, until it stopped when it found some resistance in the wall of the container. Cicero narrowed her eyes and visualized the point forming a sharp V. After a few breaths, the force of the liquid metal forced the narrow point to slice through the drain pan wall. Ridgeland smiled.
"Good."
KA-S-1621
A row of six structures similar to this dual zone unit were built 1882, and all commerce and residential units comprised of the buildings were prepaid for occupancy before they were completed in construction. This building was adjacent to a corner grocery store and held the accounting office of Keith Nassun. After having a lead time of two weeks to establish his business at this new location, Bowen introduced a way for the office to support a policy wheel. Clients would be able to meet Mr. Nassun here for appointments as usual, but he was required to take on someone of Bowen's choosing to act as a front and secretary for keeping records of played numbers and the prior night's pull. Runners would accumulate bets through the day and submit them here, where the fake employee would make entries of the numbers on an adding machine and print them out. The printouts would be initialed by the runner and returned to the players on demand. Many players of the wheel never bothered to ask for their receipts. One of the initial tenants was a widowed elderly female known as Elaine Hepros. Once the personnel system was conceived for the accounting office below, Mrs. Hepros was approached and offered $5000 by Bowen to immediately move out and relocate. No measures were taken to force the offer and she consented to it after a single day of contemplation. Once she was moved out, the newly formed Ba Ha Ma policy wheel was founded in the apartment. Draws were of three numbers between 1 through 70 and occurred on Tuesday evenings. Immediately after the draw, the workers of the wheel would print scores of copies of the winning numbers so that they be issued to Carbondale for record keeping, as well as given to any winners. Jackpots were allowed to progress to $1000 and had a legitimate hit on average of once every three weeks. When Mr. Nassun retired in 1923, the client records which he had accumulated through his years of service were retained on site, as to maintain an appearance of legitimacy. No accounting service was conducted at the location after the retirement.
All buildings in this block were razed in 1955 to make way for the twenty story Chesepeake Apartment Complex, which has remained there since.
HD-S-1180
18620216 15:06:22
"The other good news I wanted to share with you is that the scientists - they've made something totally new. I never would have dreamed what they had come up with, or at least wouldn't ever think something like that would be possible. But I seen it before me."
"Oh have they now?" Daron asked with a touch of indignation. "What's it this time? A mechcanical fly swatter?" Though his question was laden in sarcasm, he did at least appreciate that the department had managed to come up with a few minor inventions and refinements, most of which helped farm related tasks. But as of yet, there was nothing from them which he would consider miraculous or the like.
"It's a new kind of metal. And what makes it new is that it can change shape at will. In a moment, it's molten and liquid, but not hot to the touch, and it can shift from one shape to another."
"So wait - you sayin that this stuff can go from like a uh, like a ... harness, or something, and then it can change into uh... a sledgehammer? Like that?"
"Basically yes." Cook said this with pride, then nodded while stopping to take a sip from the beer mug. "Though not quite so wildly in use. Right now, the metal is set so that the holder can switch it between a sword and a length of chain links. They'll probably make it more different over time. I hope they do, at least."
"Well, that may prove useful, actually." Daron's eyes shifted in thought of the application of such material. "Yes, it would be a shock to anyone for something which appears to be a chain suddenly being used as a blade. I like it. But ... what about guns?"
"Hah! That was the first thing I asked them when they shown me this stuff in the room." Cook said before laughing. "The very first thing. That's the bad part about it now - seems like they won't be able to do that for some time."
"Well they shouldn't cast doubt and be defeated before even trying!"
"Right, right, but think about it. A gun is more than just metal parts. Guns need oil to work good. This stuff won't be made in a way that if you made a gun out of it, that it would work right. Even for one shot. And after you get that right, you still gotta load the gun somehow. And after you figure out how to get the gun to work right and the bullets in it, the metal still might react to the gunshot and get too hot to hold. So yeah, it'll be a while before they can do a gun with this."
Daron's face soured in initial response. "I don't know if that can work, then.", he said after contemplation. "Havin a secret sword is good and all, real good, but that won't do shit against a gun."
"Yeah, I thought about that." Cook took another pause to drink before continuing. "What if we banned guns? From the city?"
"Jesse, ain't most nobody here gonna give up their guns, least because we said so."
"But you can't put it like that. You gotta make it sound right to them. You gotta say somethin about it bein 'for the safety of our citizens and our children' or somethin like that. And think of it this way - if nobody here has guns and we got the swords, we know anyone here bringin a gun ain't one of us."
"Well, that much is true, yeah. I can see that bein good."
"Besides, Daron, if there's any time you can push something like that through, it's now. Most folks around here aren't too fond of guns lately, right?"
"Heh, yeah, you right about that. Right. Hm." Daron rubbed his hands together and drummed his fingers in the air, piecing the process together in his mind. "Well, maybe we can do that. Maybe."
BA-S-9777
This is the current location of the third Daron High Science Facility. The area alloted for this facility was determined when the island was built, and the first structure built here in 1858 was a simple single-story brick warehouse that was presented as a school. The building was set well within the interior of the property, and the perimeter of it was demarcated with an eight foot fence (made of wood at initial construction and upgraded to heavy wrought iron in 1878). An artificial embankment was built into the side of the fencing within the property, which prevented the facility from being visible at ground level. The initial school structure was said to be named for Henry Simon Forsot, who was reported to be the main benefactor to the facility and had a commencement speech printed in the Daron Beacon. In fact, there was no such person, and the speech featured in the newspaper is a fabrication of one of the editors on the staff at the time (the style of its writing suggests that it was written by then Editor In Chief George Mayfield, but there are no records to verify this with any certainty). For years after this founding, there were annual reports of graduating class rosters, which were appended with photographs of the class as of 1882. The names were also fabricated and the pictures were staged and taken within the First Juvenile Facility (EM-S-6402), using incarcerated children who signed statements to maintain secrecy. This practice continued until 1903. No alterations to the school facility were made on the external portion of the building - the additions to the property were made underground in a series of subterranean halls and rooms. The continuous underground expansion became untenable and stopped completely by 1935. The cessation in expansion and difficult economic environment gave rise to the scientists to begin demanding a new above ground facility. The new facility was approved and reached completion in 1944, and was built to resemble an automobile factory. The facility was reported to be named for the owner of Harold Simon Forsot. A commencement speech was given and recorded for the newscast on May 25 of that year. As before, there was no actual person living in Daron with that name, and the person who gave the broadcast speech was paid to perform the part. The present facility has three main floors and encompasses more than one million square feet of floor space just within the main facility.
EM-S-6402
This has been the location of the First Juvenile Facility since 1898, whose structure is currently in the fourth major incarnation. The first center built here was a simple single story brick structure which was designed to house 200 inmates and not built to the same rigorous specifications as the "Bridewell" built closer inland. In comparison, the walls for this center were a foot thinner, and the iron bars which were used in the windows were built with a lesser grade of metal and in a thinner casing. More effort was put into the perimeter of the property, which was properly secured with a chain link fence and barbed wire enclosure that was basically the same as the aforementioned adult prison. The prison was built in response to the growing number of child street gangs which were forming and becoming a general public annoyance; these came about more frequently in the late 1800's due to the increasing family size and because the manufacturing companies demanded more workers and longer work shifts while not proportionately increasing pay rates. The most common response to this circumstance was for both immediate parents to take on new jobs, which left the children in the care of the elderly or other older siblings. The location was chosen for its remoteness and had no neighboring houses or other buildings for several years. The first center was built to only house males, and received a two story expansion which was completed by 1918. This was razed and cleared to make way for a matching pair of seven story towers which were designed to separately detain male and female inmates. It was completed in 1955. Though not designed with effusive aesthetics or architectural features, the new pair of buildings were built on sound design and more to adult prison specifications. The brickwork and external features were given some detail work as to make the detention center have an appearance which complemented the encroaching houses and commercial buildings. With little fanfare or public notice, the 1955 towers were leveled to make way for a new modern detention facility in 1997, constructed with glass and steel framework.
Halsted and Chene are among the notable former inmates of First Juvenile. Halsted's initial sentence of four months was prolonged after he was the primary instigator in several fights.
AD-S-1640
19430618 10:08:11
"So this is $1600 from the tables and $400 from the wheel. Mack told me he got the vig ready today so I'm going to see to that first before checking down the list." After saying this, Halsted pulled his hand away from the envelope which he placed ont he desk and turned to walk away. "If I go to a game tonight, I'll call to let you know, if you need something."
Ashland looked away from the form between his hands before speaking.
"Actually, you should sit."
Halsted stopped and turned to look back.
"Now?"
"Yeah, yeah, sit."
"What's the matter?"
"Sit."
Halsted obeyed and sat, bracing for whatever was about to be discussed. The persistence in the command and vagueness for the sudden request led him to foresee a problem. Ashland gently folded the racing form down.
"I know that you have arranged Sangamon to be on the lookout for you, and I know he's doing his duty. He's given me his assurances, and I believe him. But as long as there continues to be a ... recurring problem with that lunatic, I've decided that you need to do certain things differently until that gets resolved."
"Well, what else can I do? I don't stay at the same place for more than a few days, and I switch up cars."
"I can't have you come around our usual places as long as that nutcase is alive and stalking you."
Halsted's face lost color.
"What? Like, even here?"
"Here, the game, your tables and wheels - you need to keep yourself separate from all of the rest of us until that gets settled, or else that bullshit could wind up getting us sucked into it. And then what are we supposed to do."
"Then how the fuck am I supposed to give you yours on all that shit?"
"I've spoke with Throop and he will be on-call waiting for you so that you can tell him where to collect. Other than that, make calls from remote locations, or just let him and us run things a bit until you're free of this problem. Do what you gotta do."
"But how am I even going to buy food for myself then?"
"Make arrangements to have things dropped off and picked up separately. Quit making me spell it out for you. Bunker mentality."
"This..." Halsted writhed and curled his lips under his teeth before standing up and stammering over more words. "This is bull. Shit. Bullshit. I'm being tossed off for this bullshit?"
"No, you know what bullshit is? You wanna know?" Ashland pointed at Halsted with the pencil in his hand. "Bullshit is cleaning up your bullshit. Bullshit is me having to pull strings with both the God damned police and the press to mop up the fucking mess you made last week when you got jumped unaware. And last month. And however many other fucking times that I can't even count now."
"The kid is a fucking freak! I'm not holding anything back when he comes at me like that! I know what I gotta do!"
"Then fucking focus and do it. Fucking do it. Away from here. You need to get this settled somewhere that's not here. Or wherever we are. We've done enough for you on this. Time for you to man up."
Halsted huffed large breaths of air through his nose, then turned and walked off in a hurried pace.
"And don't punch any of my fucking walls." Ashland issued this last command just as Halsted left the room, then took a moment to pause and sigh before returning to his racing form.
19750802 ( ( ( cite : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M24_Sniper_Weapon_System ) ) )
HSF Memorandum #117.0633
Research is complete on the Dovetail project, with the resultant item to be titled SR M23 (hereinafter "SR"). Project Captain C17 and Chemist D6 are to be recognized as the primary persons responsible for this projects ultimate and successful fulfillment. The SR is a long range rifle which is designed to provide the fastest set up time for the user. The stock, sight casing, silencer, barrel, and body are each held in a separate state when the SR is in Case Mode. Each component is supported within the case by strands of the polymetal (Type 5) which is the material base of the entire piece. The only foreign property held by the SR in Case Mode are the glass optic lens pieces and the metal base to be converted to the projectiles. When the SR case is opened, there are slots on the right side which are designed to hold common beverage cans, but any metallic material can be used as long as the individual unit supplied has approximately 14 grams of mass. The slender button on the top surface of the case handle allows the user to initiate the metal conversion process. The process has a duration of 4.6 seconds for a full magazine of six shots, equalling 7 and two-thirds of a second per projectile formation. A circular button facing the user's left on the side of the case handle will protrude when the process is complete and the SR is essentially "loaded". This side button will remain flush with the handle until it is in this ready state. Pressing the button will cause the SR to transform from Case Mode to Rifle Mode - the process lasts one second, resulting in the rifle forming in the user's hands. The Case handlebar is designed to be the location of the support hand for the rifle, and will form in direction parallel to a person standing. Clearance of three feet around the SR is recommended when it is activated. Besides the encased trigger, there are two utility buttons to be found on the SR. The first, located where the user's hand will be when supporting the gun, will toggle two support legs to form from the casing. The legs will remain in semi-liquid form while the button is held and solidify upon release, and allow for a maximum length of four feet. The second button is located underneath the rifle's trigger, and pressing it will revert the SR from Rifle Mode to Case Mode. Any projectiles remaining within the rifle in this instance will be jettisoned and expelled directly to the ground surface.
The SR is measured to have muzzle velocity of 850 yards per second and is accurate to two inches at 300 yards.
18840426 11:26:48
For most other families it was Sunday when the best attire was to be flaunted in public, but for Marcus, that day was Saturday. This Saturday began and bore on like so many others before it. There was first the long trip downtown to go to the steam room, where a change of clothes would be waiting for both him and his father, which always included a side visit to the club's manager which had to occur in the seclusion of the manager's office. Then came the walk to a nearby apartment where a man called Louis was there to receive them, as he was today. As he did the last few times, Louis bore an expression of pure delight and greeted with embraces for Carbondale and Marcus, as if they were related. What Marcus found odd was how Louis, nor anyone else who would ever be seen in the apartment, could be considered to live in this place, as it never had no furniture of any kind within it. Marcus would have to stand to the side and remain standing and silent while his Dad would speak with someone like he was with Louis now. The two men discussed something about a wheel and how it "wasn't getting good play", for which Louis asked "how many stickies can we roll in the drum?". Carbondale told Louis that the test that they ran shown it wouldn't work without the balls sticking to each other, and spoke of it more, but Marcus stopped paying attention to the discussion and looked down to the floor in boredom. He did notice before that not only did this apartment not have any furniture, but it didn't have any kind of carpeting as well. The floor was completely fixed with white tile and shown several large streaks of scuff marks and abrasion. The floor bore signs of much more traffic than he would think should happen in a place that nobody seems to really live in. His father speaking the words "All right - until the next time." snapped his attention back to the two men. This was a standard phrase his Dad used and said in a tone that he knew it was intended for a direct end to the discussion. Louis smiled warmly and took up Carbondale's hand with both of his own and shook it vigorously, then patted his hands on Marcus's shoulders before saying, with a laugh, that "Your Daddy always knows those score, mhm. He's always in the know." Carbondale gave a simple and demure smile with a nod in response, then leaned his head to the side while looking at Marcus, signaling him to leave the room first.
One visit after another went essentially like that visit to Louis, and there was one underlying thing about it all which he didn't quite get. The mystery wasn't so much what his Dad did, as far as he was told all while he was raised.
The main thing that Marcus didn't get was that, for all of the secrecy and concealment and coded language which was bantered about, it was all still conducted in public. His Dad ran the operations and met the people and all was settled and discussed in front of him, but it was the same as if any two general guys met up to talk. When they walked together down a street, a seemingly countless number of people would greet his Dad as if their relationship was closer than twin brothers. How could this be?
-continued part 3-
He understood the purpose behind these Saturday tours with his Dad - that it was to show everyone else that he would be part of the business, and that he could be trusted. It was also a way for his Dad to parade him around, to show others what kind of respectful child he has raised. He figured it probable that his Dad also used it all as a way to assess his future potential, by seeing how he would handle himself around these kind of people and the activities being discussed. As far as Marcus could tell, he could see the rationale behind all of this and was playing his part well. But that question still lingered within him. How long could his Dad expect everyone else to keep playing this game?
The more Marcus contemplated about it, the less certain he was that anything would remain as it is now. He knew people to be two-faced - he could see it on faces and hear it in voices. He had seen it when people at school treated him differently from others, and he caught glimpses of it from people who conducted business with his Dad. He was baffled by the duplicity of it all, how the business was a secret which so many people seemed to know about. As the city grew in more population and took in outsiders, the more difficult it would be to keep this secret shared.
It was from these Saturdays and these questions that Marcus came to decide that when he would be responsible to continue the business, he would want to reach out beyond the circle of family and friends to be his associates. But that decision brought another obstacle to answer - who could he trust as associates if not friends or family? Would he be able to simply recruit other men away from rival families? How could he seek them out?
DA-N-1615
19490207 07:16:12
"Just fucking lock the doors and go. Fucking run. Now!"
"But what abou-"
"What, money? Take it! Get it and get the mother of fuck out!" After saying this, Riopelle slammed his fist onto the register keys until the drawer sprang open with a light chime of the bell. He thrust his hand into the drawer and balled a handful of bills into a clenched fist. "If you don't take it I will! Now! Now now now fucking go! Go! Jesus!" He then dashed over to the door and ran up the stairs to the second floor, leaving Anthony to stand there in a daze.
Riopelle sprinted to the locked office door and began to slam the entire weight of his body against the frame, screaming for it to be opened with panic tearing his voice.
"Hold the fucking phone." Dequindre's voice was still collected and his pace unhurried as he walked to the door. When he opened it, he had to quickly dodge out of the way of the entrance.
"It's up. It's all done. It's done. We gotta round up and run and hide now. Now. Prolly best to burn this fucking place to the ground. The papers, the fucking records, they'll take it all."
"Ho, jus, hold on man, hold on. Hold on and breathe. I'm here, I'm still here, we're still here." Dequindre put his hands forcefully on Riopelle's shoulders to stabilize him and to be able to get some immediate answers.
"Now," he said with a pause, then asked, "What is done? What's this about?"
"Everything. Fucking everything. I went to to chambers to pick up orders, and I was locked out. I was told there'd be no more orders and that our family was now locked out. Some cops - fucking cops! - started to approach me with the look like they were gonna cuff me, but I just turned and split. They called after me to get people to lock the front doors but nobody knew why and watched me sprint out. They comin for us now. It's all gone."
Dequindre's lips pursed and blood rushed from his stiffening face. He then walked over to his desk, deliberately, and calmly lifted the phone.
KA-N-0300.
"Daron City Court, how may I help you?" He thought he recognized the voice but didn't instantly recall the name. Irrelevant now.
"Judge Farro's office, please. Tell him it's concerning Case Number 3."
"Yes, please wait."
The wait wasn't long. The answer came with a voice which was dry and robotic with contempt.
"Hello, this is Judge F-"
"What the fuck is this about?"
A long sigh came before a response.
"Listen ... Dequindre."
A second wave of shock washed over his body. That was enough to know. It was true.
"We've made a decision, based on how your family has handled-"
He hung up. The point was clear.
LL-N-4880
This parking lot is the former location of the Greater Baptist Church, the second of which was a lingering presence in the community for several years despite being abandoned. In 1879, a gleaming white temple standing three stories in height and a bell spire reaching an elevation of 200 feet marked the church as one of the more spectacular religious structures in the area, despite its relatively small land area for the site. Unfortunately, the site was chosen as a hiding ground for ministers who were internally known to have sexual proclivities. The theory was that with Daron being relatively cut off from the rest of the country around it, this church would be a place where those priests could be essentially "swept under the rug". An outreach program was initiated in 1881, in which boys from the First Juvenile Center were sent to the church to do community service. Through the years, rumors began to spread that some boys sent to the church in this capacity were molested by some of the ministers there. These rumors, on top of their insistence to not pay any kind of dues to the general city or to the Runners, is what spurred Carbondale to lean heavily upon the ministers. Their refusal gave way to ministers making public sermons which railed against a "secret crime family" within the city on a regular basis. Carbondale felt his hand was forced and decided to have the members dealt with collectively, and did so on January 15, 1884. The day was exceptionally cold within the city and the church had all of its doors and windows securely shut to stay warm. With this situation in place, Exeter was instructed to redirect a stream of noxious gas into their furnace's intake vents, as well as ensure that all points of possible ventilation were secured. Before the gas was piped in, all windows were iced shut from the outside, and the doors were chained shut and put on guarded watch by some of Exeter's men. All six ministers residing in the church died in the early morning, which was reported by the newspaper as an unfortunate furnace exhaust accident. Church members immediately held vigils outside of the church and soon formed a petition to have the church reinstated with new ministers and remain open. The Baptist Church community outside of Daron took this as a sign that their intents might have been compromised and postponed restaffing the church through a series of supposed "interviews" which never actually occurred. After several months without progress in this regard, a movement was made to commemorate the church as a memorial to the ministers who tragically died. While the Daron City Council held public hearings to negotiate the issue, permission was given to allow the Runners to incinerate the church. However, three separate attempts were inexplicably thwarted and the church remained. The faithful congregate took this as a sign that the church must remain on the grounds and memorialized. An official recognition as a memorial or a historically significant structure was never made for the church, but it remained in place and relatively unscathed through several decades. A simple fence was installed around the church, but no elaborate means to secure the building were otherwise made. Despite this, the church never shown signs of decay and remained basically intact over eighty years. Reports began to circulate of the church itself being haunted or otherwise "protected". Public fervor to preserve the church dwindled over time, but there was no pressing demand to remove the church until it was finally razed in a public event which was staged August 8, 1962.
LL-N-4880
19281127 02:13:43
The door offered no physical resistance when he pushed it open, and only emitted a mouselike squeak as he widened the gap enough to allow himself entry. He stood with his fingertips resting upon the handle and laboriously scanned the church's interior. The sparse rays of moonlight which managed to seep into the building did little to help illuminate the barren hall before him. The moment of immobility rapidly grew longer until he realized that the only things which he could hear was his own breath and possibly even his heartbeat. Maybe it was simply an actual onset of nerves. The uncertainty felt foreign, having been absent from him for so long. Upon realizing this, he smirked and huffed a stifled chuckle through his nostrils; he was happy that the rumors did so far seem to have a touch of truth to them. A faint rustle, like a fallen leaf scraping the ground from the wind, snapped his senses back into attention.
A portion of the room made visible by the moonlight shown where a white plastered wall met the ground. He felt compelled to walk towards it, to engulf himself within the void and see if that true feeling of nervousness - or possibly even dread - would return to him, and more strongly. He walked towards the wall and finally stood next to it, and felt the luminous glow surround him within the black. He delicately ran his fingers over the wall, finding the surface to be gritty with dust. He didn't hear the front door shut and close as he did so. But he did hear the whisper. It disguised itself as the wind at first, and it was one word repeated, which still had the timbre of a whisper but rapidly became louder and more distinct. "Well", the wind said. "Well. Well. Well. Well. Well. Well. Well."
"Well here you are, William." He heard the welcome whispered immediately behind him but did not sense a body close to him, nor heard any footsteps approach. He held his breath and felt his body become rigid, but instinctively spun around with the dagger clenched in his hand. A human shape stood before him. Its white composition gleamed in the lunar rays. Its face bore a resemblance to a Greek comedy mask, with the vacant, wide smile, the pupilless eyes tucked behind dimples, and the complexion which seemed much more like a mask than human flesh. It appeared to have arms and to stand upright, but it was clad in a robe which obscured any hands or feet.
"Oh." When the word was said, he once again heard voices whisper and echo it behind him before it seemed to come from the being in front of him. This is the best he could assume, because no features on the beings face made any sort of movement. "Oh. We are unarmed. You don't need that here."
"A. Are y.. are you even fucking human?" William asked the question in unchecked emtion, and only after speaking did he realize that his chest was heaving with each breath. Waves of chills swept over his body, and he specifically exerted himself to remain motionless. The echoes arrived first, again. "Why. Why. Why. Why. Why. Why. Why. Why." William finally turned around to face the whispers which seemed to come from behind. The being was now directly in front of him, again. It stood under no moonlight but still seemed to have some sort of glow emitting from itself. Albeit very faintly, William could see the texture of the wooden floor which it stood over.
"Why are you here."
"I'm. I'm testing myself. I am testing how I handle fear."
"Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. You will handle fear. Let. Let. Let. Let. Let me show you." It lifted a white sheen hand and pressed a finger to the side of William's temple. It was so cold, William thought he felt the heat within his own body seep away.
Instantly, he felt his eyes snap shut but could see images as if being displayed behind his own eyelids. The images were murky but quickly became brighter and more saturated with vivid color. He saw himself, older, holding a sword, standing over men on the ground, blood drained upon the ground and spattered against his clothes. Another flash saw him with his sword raised to be pushing the edge cleanly through a human neck. Another flash saw him standing at a funeral parlor and watching an emotionally devastated wife wail out in sorrow. Visions like this ran through his brain one after another, quicker than he could perceive, and more quickly until the brightness engulfed his vision and all he could see was white.
The memory of the cold touch rushed to his head as he snapped his body upright with a gigantic heave of breath, as if he were just rescued from being drowned in water. He was now sitting on the church ground. The moonlight was gone, and the morning's sunrise bathed the church's interior with a somber orange that shown the room to be completely empty. In the distance, he heard a church bell chime six times.
JC-S-2800
19400117 08:17:06
Judge Carrel entered the steaming water now as he always did when he arrived for these impromptu meetings, with one toe daintily dipped into the surface and easing a leg beneath while clenching the handrail and hissing in exhaled breath. He then said what he usually said upon entry into the water.
"Oh do I need this."
Judge Pria kept his sight fixed in the direction before him and chose to not watch the ritual as it unfolded beside him. His eyes remained set upon the middle of the wall as he reached to pick up a cigar and pull a long drag from it. He wasn't able to return it to the ashtray before half of the burnt tobacco dropped and melted into the water.
"What's the matter this time? Sore from tennis again?"
"No, no. I had to take care of the snow last night. Last time I paid some kids who came around and offered to clear it stiffed me on the job. I give a few bucks out to a pair of 'em standing at my door holding shovels. I walk away to go piss and come back to the window to see how they're doing, and they already took off. Little shits. Sot his time I took care of it myself and now I'm remembering why I don't want to do that ever again."
"The perils of homelife."
"They do exist, sir." Both laughed softly after Carrel said this with feigned conviction.
"Anyway," said Carrel, showing more urgency in getting to business today than usual, "one thing I want to sort out - we gotta press upon them to figure out who's going to pick it up after Torrence. We have freight coming in and other things to do, and we need to know who's running the show. If things don't get settled soon, it's all going to go to shit in a hurry."
"What about uh, that old guy. Western, right? He's been working with them for almost as long as I've lived."
"I'd doubt it. He's not family, and it doesn't seem like he's the kind of guy who is looking to take on the role. To be honest, I think it's probably going to be Ashland."
"Huh, really."
"I'd think so."
"Well, y'know." Carrel paused to reach for one of the cigars in Pria's pack, then pulled his own ashtray closer to where he sat in the bath. "He's not the same kind of involved as the others are. I hear he's squeaky fucking clean and wanted to keep his distance from the business. Made sense before to have Torrence seen as the clear leader, but now."
"Maybe we need to set a patsy for the guy to stick." Pria laughed after saying this with the expectation for Carrel to join in. His response was an aloof shrug.
"Well, how about this." Pria then finally turned to face Carrel to say this directly to him. "What about their sister?"
"Oh, ho, Vic. Vic, you're too full of jokes about this."
"No, really, think it through. I hear that she's done a lot of legwork for all of us and has better ways to reach out to the women business owners than Torrence ever had. She's in the know. More than Ashland, I'd bet. I'd also bet she wants it more."
Carrel's eyes narrowed to drive his subsequent point directly home.
"And she's a broad. You think those kind of people want to listen to a broad? At all? No fucking way. No way in a million years. Broads don't do that shit."
"Yeah, but she has. I'm just saying-"
"And I'm just saying, too." Carrel did seem to be come animated at the mere contemplation of the question in this regard. "No fucking way. They won't suggest it and I wouldn't recognize it if they did. It's just not how it's done. Not with them."
AD-S-1640
19410318 09:48:17
"You're usually not this late." Ashland said this without altering his stance, and only turned to look at Ridgeland after he laid the shot on the table. The angle was hit cleanly and the nine ball sunk in a snap while leaving the cue ball trail to the side with enough momentum to stop just before the two at the other side of the table.
"Who else is here?"
"Nobody now. Why?"
"We need to talk."
"Do we? Heh, this some high school bullshit break up or something? Is it you or me?"
Ridgeland held in a rueful smirk and looked to the ground when he responded.
"Actually, it is. Can we go sit down, please?"
"... no, you can speak about this here and now. Go on." Ashland drummed his fingers over the tightening grip he had on his
"Fine. Your sister has basically recruited me to be part of her crew, and I've agreed to do it. I'll be reporting to her from now on."
Ashland stood silently and could only blink repeatedly while his brain processed this statement. The two men stood silently facing each other for several seconds before he finally spoke.
"Whatever... you think she has running, now, it isn't what we do. You are... you are putting your life in great danger for something that isn't real. Not like this is. Her actions have and will cause calamity for all of us. You are just another part of it, now. You are being manipulated by her to disrupt what little we still have."
"No, I have come to this decision of my own free will. And I want to speak to you now and make this known now so that there is no backstabbing bullshit about what I'm going to do. This is something I think you deserve to know without having it become an issue."
"The issue is this, now! I'm supposed to just turn you loose? Let you walk out the door? Let you tell her things about us that she doesn't know yet? Let you work against me? Let you fight us? Do you hear the shit spewing out of your own mother fucking mouth?"
"I just." Ridgeland sighed and quickly thought of the best phrasing. "I just think this is the right thing to do. I think you're lying to yourself for trying to take the reins that he left behind. We all know that wasn't what you wanted. And it shows. Things are getting more sloppy by the day and it's because they - because we - don't see you cracking down."
"OK so you want me to whoop your ass right now, is that what you're saying?"
"I want you to admit that Grace wants to run it all and has the whole time, and that you truly don't. I want you to help make that happen so that we can all get our shit together and get back to doing what we're supposed to be doing rather than trying to kill each other."
"Help?" Ashland shook his head in wild sweeping convulsions. "Help. Help Grace get into this. Help her get into a role of managing lunatic murderers and crooks, and to help her become a prime target by folks against us. I'm supposed to help her do that? Really?"
"It seems like that's what she wants."
"And who the fuck ever get what he really wants in life, huh? Who!" Ashland marched over to stand directly in front of Ridgeland, but still spoke loudly. "Oh, except you. What I want for the good of my own sister and for the good of what our family does is bullshit. But she wants you to work with her, and off you go. Tell me - what's she offering you? How did she convince you to defect? Defect!" More laughter came, in a higher and more excited pitch "Defection to my own fucking sister for Christ's fucking sake! Well, come on! Money? She offer lots of money to you?"
"You know it's not about money. What good would more money do for me anyway. I got what I need to live."
"Well then what! A pat on the ass?"
"You could say that, yes. I've helped her out in the past and she makes me feel appreciated for the support that I give her."
"Oh fuck this. Fuck! A medal? Awards? You would be staying here if I would've fucking taped your used toilet paper on the fridge door? Gave you a standing O every time you came back with a new fleet of wheels, or for otherwise just doing what we expected you to do? That's what you wanted?"
"What I wanted is to work with people who all understand and appreciate what needs to be done. I'm not seeing that here, now."
F Street Bridge
19490207 18:01:43
Brush was the last to arrive to the meeting spot, and walked towards the rest of the men in a manner as if he had soiled himself. The tirade he grumbled to himself as he approached did reveal that he certainly felt that way in respect of the dirt and mud which were accumulating over his newly purchased shoes and pants. "Gotta walk through this shit, damn it.", and other curses flowed from his mouth like a broken faucet. Finally, he stood under the bridge forming a circle with Chene, Larned, Bagley, Riopelle, and Dequindre, the leader. Court was now in session.
"OK, so this is it." Dequindre said this to them by leaning into the circle, as if he were in the middle of a football huddle. "We are officially out. The Judges have decided that we are no longer the sponsored runners, meaning our former jobs will get us arrested and thrown in the slammer. Seems our families are safe, right?" The men each mumbled affirmatively. "Right. So as far as they doing, they think they can just shove us out and we'll say Okay and let it be. Well, boys, I got a problem with that." Their agreement with that was more vociferous. "My Daddy and his folks fucked it all up, but we shouldn't be gettin spanked like fuckin kids because of their bullshit. Ain't our fault. We were doin things right and now this."
"So how do we get back at them?" Chene's question was quick and forceful. His brain screamed for vengeance to be wreaked upon the Judges.
"Get back at them? No." Dequindre held up a hand and clenched it in the middle of the grouped circle. "What we gonna get back is everything - the whole game and them workin with us. Thing is that now we gotta earn it. Now we gotta show em that we deserve it, and that we can do it right. Hurting the Judges won't do that. If anyone's getting hurt, it's whoever them Judges go to now. We take those fucks out, they know we ain't playin. So that's my first plan." He nodded towards Bagley.
"You need to find out whoever the new runners are now and where they stay." Next he addressed Chene.
"You deal with them enough so that they stay away. Rub if there's no other way." Then he looked to Brush.
"You need to boogie your sweet ass all over this joint and find out who's playing with them, so that you," Dequindre said, pointing to Larned, "can raise hell with em and make em change their minds." He then pointed his finger to Riopelle.
"And you all need to report to him when there's news to be told and to hear my orders from here out, because none of you are comin back to me personally. We won't be seen with each other until this all gets fixed."
The men stated agreement and took turns exchanging handshakes before departing. None of them knew it would be more than a year before they would all be in the same location again.
KF-N-7313
19370517 16:37:14
Madeline quickly snubbed out her cigarette when she heard the car pull into the rear garage. The smoke lingered in the ceiling of the kitchen for a moment before dissipating, and she stood up to return to the sink to resume washing the dishes. She could hear him sing nonsense syllables as he approached the back door, and this helped her relax in knowing that this would be at least one day in recent memory where he didn't come up filled with anger and lashing out over it. When he entered the house, he opened the door with an arm sweep that carried up to the sky after he released the handle, with the intent to give his entry some kind of flourish. Unfortunately, she had her back turned and didn't see it.
"Maddy, my dear! You must see this, this is incredible here." Pulaski unwrapped the coat he had folded over the object in his hands and tossed it over the back of a kitchen chair. It was a small brown box that appeared to her like one for cigars. He held the box on the open palm of his hand and lifted the lid towards himself, revealing the contents to her. Golden rings of all kinds of shapes and intricate engravings were inside, each cylindrical column inside filled with them. She felt her mouth form a grin, and her eyes must have opened more widely than she anticipated, because Pulaski laughed heartily at her reaction to the revelation.
"That's-! How many are in there, even? A hundred?"
"One hundred forty, specifically. Seven rows of twenty. Each one marked with a carat rating. The tens will go for $150, the fourteens will go for $1500, and the twenties - well, some of the good twenties go for more than $40,000."
"Gosh, and none for me?" She smiled largely in asking the question to help indicate she was being facetious. It was important for her to do so.
"They're not all for you, no."
"Aw, okay. Just one maybe?"
"Nah, heh. Well, maybe, but you shouldn't bother." He then placed the box on the kitched table before explaining further. "They're all junk, y'see. It's all fake. Faker than Fool's Gold fake."
"Huh. So how are you going to sell them, then?"
"That's the thing. That's the beautiful thing. See, I guess those geniuses over at the lab figured out how to make a metal that looks like gold, feels like gold, weighs like gold, but it ain't. And it ain't a coat of paint either."
"I see." Madeline then turned her back to resume washing dishes once more.
"Hey!"
"What?"
Pulaski gestured with his hand over the table, then nodded his head towards her with an expecting glare.
"Oh, right." She then walked over to the cabinet and obtained a glass, then poured some water from the faucet into it before handing it to him. He tipped it back into his mouth and took half of it in a single swig. Now she was allowed to resume washing the dishes. "So, how will folks think they're real? Just by you sayin so?"
"And that's the next beautiful part. It's all worked out. We'll test it out in one location first, that new Rizzi's place that opened on C. Big money folks there, so they don't pay attention to things so very much. And if they do, those braniacs made a machine for verification. If you put real gold, it'll show it as real gold. If you put in this stuff, it'll still show as real gold. If you put in anything else, it'll fail the test. All the bases are covered, babe."
"I'd expect nothing less from you, dear."
XL-N-2400 Room 308
19430705 07:01:16
Throop heard the snoring from the other side of the door as he turned the key in the handle to open it. That's another ten minutes wasted just for him to get himself awake and functional. It was bad enough to have to drive all the way out here and have no other business in the vicinity. The bed in the room was still made and empty, and Halsted slept in the couch nearby, with his legs dangling over one of the arm rests. The snores echoed in the silent room. Throop walked to his side, then lightly tapped his cheek with the back of his hand. Halsted's face formed a scowl when he was roused.
"Hey."
Halsted muttered some syllables through a yawn in protest, then asked, with his eyes still closed, "What time is it?"
"Like Seven."
"Seven? Jeezsus stoo fuggin early for this shit already, fuck. Didn't you do anything last night?"
"Why would I? Fourth is just a Sunday for us."
"No shit, but I figured maybe you went out with some friends on account of it being a weekend. Anyway, siddown already, hold on a minute."
Throop sat on the edge of the bed and watched Halsted haphazardly walk over to the bathroom. He didn't close the door before urinating, and let out a loud groan when he did so, as if he was obligated to indicate what he was doing.
"I got a few records found, it's in the envelope over there. He had a few jobs back on far N North Side, when he was a pup. That's probably his stomping ground now, I'd bet." Halsted paused before asking, "Did they ask about me?"
"Nobody asked about you. And they probably won't until I tell them you have your issue with the nutcase resolved."
"Christ. You ever try finding a bum? Anyone realize how that doesn't work? Especially one who's fucking mute? What do I do, ask other bum groups? 'Hey guys, nice oil can you got lit there, have you seen a silent psychopath laying around anywhere here?' It don't work like that."
"Right. None of us have seen nothin either, so I don't know."
"Yeah, yeah. Until then I'm cooped up in here most of my time. Like a damn jail. Hell, I might be better off in jail."
"Yeah, right, heh."
This is when Halsted had the inspiration.
"Hey - maybe. Maybe that's an actual out, out of this." He quickly returned to the couch to sit across from Throop.
"What's that?"
"Maybe I should go to jail. Voluntarily."
Throop sat silently for a moment in contemplation, then said, "Well, it would certainly keep you out of trouble and contact with the thing, that's for sure."
KF-N-6501
19301114 18:06:37
The Elsey Grammar School gymnasium is a drab but roomy brick box, lined with a parquet wooden floor and visibly supported by trussed steal beams across the ceiling. Sound carried in it rather well, and Mrs. Olten's piano arpeggio cues carried a greater pronounced resonance with each repetition. The children on stage, who had spent several weeks in preparation for this event and had never been part of any sort of theatrics, remained frozen in place and darted their eyes around the hall in nervous uncertainty. The teacher finally raised from her position at the piano and mouthed the words "Where is she?" silently to the three children on stage. One of them - the Montague - demurely pointed stage left. She then turned to address the audience.
"Oh it seems someone may have some stage fright, please excuse me." There was some sporatic laughter from the parents in attendance, which gave way to strands of hushed whispers.
Mrs. Olten was ready to race up the set of stairs leading up to the stage, but stopped short when she saw Helen Allegra standing there with her arms crossed and a marked scowl.
"Helen, did you hear my cue? You were supposed to go on stage by now."
"But it's all wrong!" When Helen said this, she ended the sentence with a forced pause and increase in volume.
"What is?"
Helen defiantly pointed towards the stage, identifying one issue after the next.
"Billy's supposed to be over there, Mary's supposed to be there too, and they're both supposed to be off to the side, and Tommy isn't standing on the X that you shown us, and," in saying this, Helen turned to Mrs. Otlen with a hand on her chest, giving another dramatic voice to the word, "my balcony isn't in the middle like you said it would be. It's all wrong. Fix it. You need to fix it, Misses Olten. It's all wrong! Fix it!" With the dramatic finish to the command, she rubbed her fists under her eyes and smeared her tears over her cheeks.
"Oh, Helen, honey ... look. Don't you remember the First Rule I said, when we do a special play like now? Do you remember?"
"'Do Your Part'." She refused to look up from the floor, and spoke barely louder than a breath.
"Right. Do your part. What you need to do," Mrs. Olten knelt down and placed her hands on Helen's shoulders, then peered into her eyes, "What you need to do now, Helen, is do your part. You can't do their part. They're doing their part. Even if it's bad. They're trying to do their part. Now you need to do yours too, OK?"
"But ... but it's not fair! It's still bad! It's still wrong!"
"OK, and ... it will be more wrong if you stay here, Helen. There is no show without you, after all."
Helen's heavy breathing came to a sudden stop, and she stepped back to look directly at Mrs. Olten.
"Really?"
"Well, of course, Helen. You're Juliet, after all. There's no Romeo and Juliet without Juliet, right?"
Helen smiled warmly, then said, "This is my play."
"It's our play, Helen, yes. And we need you to do your part, now."
"You need me now."
"Right, Helen."
Helen looked around the stage and nodded pensively, still sporting the wide smile on her face. "OK, Mrs. Olten, I'm ready now."
"Good!" Mrs. Olten turned and promptly walked back to her piano, her eyebrows raised in thinking about Helen's response to the conversation.
It didn't matter now. Without addressing the audience again, she sat down to the piano, played the fanfare once more, and Helen proudly walked over to the stepstool behind the cardboard depiction of a castle balcony. Helen recited the famous quote with excessive dramatic flair. Romeo kissed the air in front of Helen's face, then told the audience that parting is such sweet sorrow before walking off stage to the right. The curtain closed, and the other classes subsequently took their turns in making short presentations. Each performance was met with warm reception and applause. When the full class was on stage at the end of the night, with the parents standing and cheering loudly for all of the children, Helen broke away from her position amongst the other First Graders and stood center stage in front of everyone else. She blew kisses to the audience, some of whom in turn cheered more vociferously with her flourish. Helen turned to look back at her class group, and saw the other children bearing the same nervous postures and Mrs. Olten looking at her very sternly. KF-N-6501
19301114 18:06:37
The Elsey Grammar School gymnasium is a drab but roomy brick box, lined with a parquet wooden floor and visibly supported by trussed steal beams across the ceiling. Sound carried in it rather well, and Mrs. Olten's piano arpeggio cues carried a greater pronounced resonance with each repetition. The children on stage, who had spent several weeks in preparation for this event and had never been part of any sort of theatrics, remained frozen in place and darted their eyes around the hall in nervous uncertainty. The teacher finally raised from her position at the piano and mouthed the words "Where is she?" silently to the three children on stage. One of them - the Montague - demurely pointed stage left. She then turned to address the audience.
"Oh it seems someone may have some stage fright, please excuse me." There was some sporatic laughter from the parents in attendance, which gave way to strands of hushed whispers.
Mrs. Olten was ready to race up the set of stairs leading up to the stage, but stopped short when she saw Helen Allegra standing there with her arms crossed and a marked scowl.
"Helen, did you hear my cue? You were supposed to go on stage by now."
"But it's all wrong!" When Helen said this, she ended the sentence with a forced pause and increase in volume.
"What is?"
Helen defiantly pointed towards the stage, identifying one issue after the next.
"Billy's supposed to be over there, Mary's supposed to be there too, and they're both supposed to be off to the side, and Tommy isn't standing on the X that you shown us, and," in saying this, Helen turned to Mrs. Otlen with a hand on her chest, giving another dramatic voice to the word, "my balcony isn't in the middle like you said it would be. It's all wrong. Fix it. You need to fix it, Misses Olten. It's all wrong! Fix it!" With the dramatic finish to the command, she rubbed her fists under her eyes and smeared her tears over her cheeks.
"Oh, Helen, honey ... look. Don't you remember the First Rule I said, when we do a special play like now? Do you remember?"
"'Do Your Part'." She refused to look up from the floor, and spoke barely louder than a breath.
"Right. Do your part. What you need to do," Mrs. Olten knelt down and placed her hands on Helen's shoulders, then peered into her eyes, "What you need to do now, Helen, is do your part. You can't do their part. They're doing their part. Even if it's bad. They're trying to do their part. Now you need to do yours too, OK?"
"But ... but it's not fair! It's still bad! It's still wrong!"
"OK, and ... it will be more wrong if you stay here, Helen. There is no show without you, after all."
Helen's heavy breathing came to a sudden stop, and she stepped back to look directly at Mrs. Olten.
"Really?"
"Well, of course, Helen. You're Juliet, after all. There's no Romeo and Juliet without Juliet, right?"
Helen smiled warmly, then said, "This is my play."
"It's our play, Helen, yes. And we need you to do your part, now."
"You need me now."
"Right, Helen."
Helen looked around the stage and nodded pensively, still sporting the wide smile on her face. "OK, Mrs. Olten, I'm ready now."
"Good!" Mrs. Olten turned and promptly walked back to her piano, her eyebrows raised in thinking about Helen's response to the conversation.
It didn't matter now. Without addressing the audience again, she sat down to the piano, played the fanfare once more, and Helen proudly walked over to the stepstool behind the cardboard depiction of a castle balcony. Helen recited the famous quote with excessive dramatic flair. Romeo kissed the air in front of Helen's face, then told the audience that parting is such sweet sorrow before walking off stage to the right. The curtain closed, and the other classes subsequently took their turns in making short presentations. Each performance was met with warm reception and applause. When the full class was on stage at the end of the night, with the parents standing and cheering loudly for all of the children, Helen broke away from her position amongst the other First Graders and stood center stage in front of everyone else. She blew kisses to the audience, some of whom in turn cheered more vociferously with her flourish. Helen turned to look back at her class group, and saw the other children bearing the same nervous postures and Mrs. Olten looking at her very sternly.
18380221
"I must tell you something, Mister Frederic."
"What is it?" He knew Daron to not give his thoughts much pretense, so he now turned his body to directly face him.
"The crime is running this whole place over. I mean, it feels like I can't handle it. Seems like another month or two more of this and I lose it all. I don't know what I'll do with myself if these demons amongst us take this all away."
"Very well. What kind of constabulary have you formed here?"
"Consta-what?"
"Er.. watchmen. Guards. Who is keeping the law here. A sheriff, if you like."
"Besides me? I asked a few people who have been here the longest and I know are good - like Aaron, you met Aaron, big guy - I asked them to help watch over things but they don't care about it like I do. I ain't no mammoth but I've struck a few people who needed it. I do that."
"I see. Perhaps you need to confront them about this directly."
"Well see the thing is that there's so much more of those nasty folks than there are us good guys. I don't know of more good guys to ask to help."
"And there's no way for the so-called 'nasty folks' to see to your reason?"
"I guess not!" In saying this, Daron threw his hands to the air in a deliberate show of sardonic nonchalance. "I get this place, we build it up, they come here because they got no where else to go, and they still pissin in the well they drinkin from. Bastards."
"I should say so." Frederic marked the response with a puff of smoke from his cigar.
"So I got no more good guys. I got bad guys. How do I make some of them be good guys."
"I don't think that's possible, Daron."
Daron instantly reflected on the words which he just spoke. He stared out into the distance of the field past the porch balcony, turning his head slowly to study the gentle breeze sweeping across the tall grass. He said the words again, out loud. "Make the bad guys... good guys. Heh. What if, Frederic. What if that's all there is to it."
"Daron, in my travels and from what I've read, there's many leaders of great nations who are trying to find new ways to control their people. What you are suggesting is something that the most powerful of men in the world are trying to attempt. I fear that you face disaster if you try to change human nature so simply."
"But, Frederic. Frederic. What else can I do?"
OF-N-9210
The Cliffside Brewery was founded on September 15, 1855, beginning as a simple wooden frame shack which housed a few stills and barrels for the purpose of fermenting beer hops and making whisky. The original proprietor was Alfred Tompkins. As it was the first local brewery in the city, it was able to gain a strong customer base in short order and helped Daron's farm establish its own independence from local American cities, as bootleg importing declined sharply. After entertaining covert proposals from Confederate soldiers, Cook convinced Mr. Tompkins to produce whisky for sale to the CSA, on terms that it would only be exchanged for gold specie. The contract proved valuable both for the brewery business as well as the fledgling city in general, as the specie was melted into blank ingots which were promptly used to build credit with the United States and other foreign countries. After the Secession War, the brewery's developed specialty of making whisky exceeded its beer production, and the company currently only bottles beer on special order, despite keeping the Brewery word in its title. Since 1912, it has bottled a special thirteen year aged whisky (known as Cliffside Amethyst) which is considered the finest quality of whisky which is produced in the city and has garnered international acclaim throughout the decades since. The current 50,000 square foot facility was finalized in 1936 and has only seen subtle structural refinements since then.
OF-N-9210
18620313 10:57:03
Cliff Tompkins spent the morning recording notes about the lager barrels which were stored in the basement of the shack. There was only so much which he could visibly see while holding the lantern light next to his face when he peered inside the casks. It would have been too much work to bring them closer to an area with visible light and he didn't want to remove the barriers which had shielded the beer from sunlight all of these months. Because of this, the notes he made were as terse as they were vague. Barrel #1 was "OK", Barrel #2 had "lots of specks left", and so on. He was making a note that Barrel #6 "smelled bad" when he heard footsteps coming down the stairway behind him. The weight and pace of the steps informed him that it wasn't his wife coming down to see him and that there was company. It was Cook, and he had arrived on business.
"Oh, Jesse! I didn't expect to see you at this hour. What's the occasion?"
"Let me tell you." Jesse came over to Cliff and greeted with a brisk handshake while daring his eyes around the dark basement. There wasn't enough light to see any corner of the room, which is what he wanted regardless. "Let's go over to the corner, we need to talk directly." The emphasis on the last word informed Cliff of the severity. When Cliff spoke, it was barely above a whisper.
"So what is it then?"
"We've uh, we've had a business deal made to us. We got a proposition, and I wanted to give you the first chance to act, since I like your business and beer. Thing is though...", when Jesse said this, he hunched over to be closer to Cliff and speak in a sharp whisper, "... it's from the Jeffs." Cliff felt his brow pinch above his nose.
"The - the Confedrits? You sure? They comin to us, now?"
"You've had to hear about it by now. They're in a bind. Spirits are being banned by the companies and the states. Papers are crying and getting them shut down. They're in a knot, and they're comin to us because there's soldiers there by the hundreds who want nothing more than a hard drink. Don't surprise me, really."
"And you want me to exchange my goods - give them the fruits of my labor - because we got the chance? I say we let those assholes starve, Jesse. Fuck em and let em claw at us with withered hands."
"But it's not that simple, Cliff. They're offering coin. Real gold coin. I wouldn't ask you to do this for their shitpaper notes. Shit, someone can probably make their own tender, look better than theirs."
"And what in the hell am I supposed to do with Federate coin? Who here will take it? How can I hold that in my hand with pride?"
"Cliff, look." Daron took the lantern out of Cliff's hand and placed it on the top of one of the beer barrels, then took a step back. Cliff could only see the edge of his face and his eyes in the darkness. "You know we can melt that down to our own, and you know that even their shit money is good money when we clean it. It's not about pride, Cliff. Besides, you can't feed yourself with pride. It don't work like that. And if you don't take this up, all I'm gonna do is find someone else who will. Now they have more money than you, now they can expand faster than you. You with your pride and they with more product and more customers. I'm giving you the chance to make the right choice here, Cliff."
KA-N-0210
18981017 11:12:44
The letter was read aloud by Jay to the other three people seated at the table before him:
"To my dearest sons Brandon and Jason - I have written my final will with the intent to sever any ties to my business which you may have supposed or expected to remain. I have indeed, and in lucid judgment, decreed for the brewery to be liquidated and all assets obtained in doing so to be donated to the Third Baptist Church. My basis in doing so is simply because the entirety of the business should not have remained since the States' War, and it only was my tainted morals and lack of courage that kept it alive. In 1861, I was effectively coerced into producing and selling my product for Confederate soldiers. Though no specific forms of retribution were stated, the implication was clear that my compliance was mandatory and not to be questioned. Turning my hobby into a fruitful business was one of the greatest pleasures I had in life, besides raising you both, and I wanted to ensure that I could raise you both comfortably and not have to endure hardship. However, I must now truthfully confess that the knowledge of how our household's security was kept filled me with a despair and rage which was as frightful as much as it needed to be obscured. I became a man beside myself in knowing where the money used to buy our food came from. I would not wish this kind of burden on any enemy which I would ever have, much less my own sons, so that is why I have set for its liquidation in my final will. Please know that it is my dying wish for both of you to not have to endure this kind of suffering. With my eternal love and affection, your father, Clifford Tompkins."
Jay continued to stand and stare at the paper, as if there was potential for an additional post script to appear. Brandon and their two wives sat in shocked silence.
"I refuse." Upon saying this, Jay placed the paper upon the table and his hands on the backs of two seats which were near him. "This is an unfair thing to ask of us and I refuse to let everything that he built up over all that time just fade away."
"But, it's a will." Brandon said unusually demure in saying this. "You can't just say no to a will. That's Dad's dying wish."
"But the wish is asking us to liquidate our livelihoods too! How is that fair to us? How can he, through all those years, let us help him, teach us how to run the place, get us involved in his work, and then tell us to give that all up on top of everything else? We make good drink, we have loyal customers throughout the city, we have put years of our childhood into keeping the business alive. We're supposed to quit on his word?"
"I don't see why not, Jay, we're well off. We can walk away."
"What if I don't care about his wish! What about my wish? What if I care about the business and that I like keeping it going? So, granted, he got support early on from some lynchin ghosts. Fine. But I can see why he did it, coercion or not. He had a business and a house to keep. Letting that money go probably would have made him, made us, lose it all right then."
"So that's, so you're just gonna ignore Dad's will then? Really?"
"In a word, yes." Jay nodded several times, repeating the terminal word. "Yes, I will. Yes. Now I just-", is all he said, and if he continued to speak out loud, would have stated that he "just needs to figure out how to change the will". In thinking about it, Jay considered it easier to obey a falsified will than ignore an actual one. This meant his next question to answer is how to get that will officially altered. He knew someone he might ask to get that to happen.
BA-S-9777
18580918 14:56:01
Doctor Caden could barely contain his eagerness as he explained the experiment schematic to Henry Millings. He started the verbal tour by pointing to the small cylindrical container which rested in the middle of the switch box.
"This device... this container is what will be the focal point of this exercise. This is what makes this all work. Now, observe that liquid in the middle of the glass container there. That is human blood - my blood. The same is also found in that container in the box here. Now, what I have done is found a compound to add to the blood and infused the state of it in two electrical charge pulses. What I mean is, see those electical lines leading through the plate? This surface acts a conductor of electricity between the two terminals connected to the power source here. The state of the blood now is with the charge of this container being off. Now, watch what happens when I flip this switch."
Caden pulled the handle down, which caused the small cylinder within it to shift downward in position as well. Once in this spot, the blood on the glass plate actually began to move. The shapeless circle slowly took on less of a circular formation and began to form edges, until within nothing more than a few seconds, the circle had become a perfectly angled square.
"Isn't that marvelous!"
"How... how is this happening, Doctor?" Millings was as astonished to see it happen before his eyes as Caden was to explain it to him.
"I used a template. I put the blood into a square frame and then impressed an electrical charge to it through this power source, but additionally, while the blood cylinder in the middle there was activated. In other words, there is something about the way the blood-compound reacts to the electric charge that when the charge is through the blood, it retains a memory of the shape it was in when it had a similar charge before."
"This is unworldly!"
JF-N-7662
19220519 15:08:33
The conclusion of another school week was one of the favorite times for Lilian Manheim, but not because the week long stretch of dreary classwork had come to a close - in fact, this is the specific point in the week when she did the most work. The main entrance to Mainfield School had a short vestibule, the immediate left to which was the Principal's Office, a short hallway to the right led to the gymnasium, and the rest of the school was connected from that center focal point. The majority of students and faculty left through this exit. Each Friday, Lilian would walk down the west hall to collect her brother, then proceed to the main entrance and lean against the corner of the hallway. From this vantage point, she could observe anyone who passed, and people who wanted to seek her out learned to find her there. Cradled in her left arm was the notebook which bore a shade of red only slightly darker than her hair, and this book contained months of intricate records and notes, to which more content was added on days like this. With her little brother standing immediately beside her and rarely looking up from the ground, few felt compelled to form a queue while she addressed one person to the next. Most of the prospective clients gave an appearance as if they were waiting in line to use the neighboring bathroom, or cast glances over shoulders while they idly stood by lockers which lined the hall.
There were never any official rules stated about how she conducted her business. This all simply fell into place over time. Lilian liked it best like that - things worked out for her without her even asking for it. Of course, her detractors would say that she got it all handed to her on a platter because of her father's financial and social clout, and it was because of this that any teacher would speak to her at this time; but her own meticulous work ethic is what enabled her to maintain this service and be successful at doing it.
First in line was Brian Metzo, a seventh grade student who was as pudgy as he was dull witted. He asked if there was someone willing to do the geography project which is due the upcoming 22nd. The task entailed a three page written report with at least three separate references. He was assigned Chile, and offered a quarter for the job. He gave the money over immediately. Lilian flipped to one of the first pages in her book, ran a finger over a list of ten names, and decided upon Alex Silverston to be arranged for the task. She hasn't had a need to ask Alex for extra work in over a week, and his performance was enough to usually warrant a high C or low B grade. She would have assigned Brian Petrach to the job if he had offered a half buck. In the last page of her book, she wrote the line "HW: Metzo, 7th. Geography. Silverston. Paid. 5/19." and promptly snapped the book shut with a pinch of her fingers, while smiling and saying "Thank you." Brian shuffled off in a hurry.
With Brian out of the way, Peter Novak quickly stepped over from the boy's bathroom door entrance. He was a thin, short sixth grader with small black curly hair that rolled out under his hat. "A pack?" Lilian asked as he approached, and he nodded twice to confirm. She knelt to her side to reach into Henry's backpack and pulled out a box of playing cards which were emptied and had ten hand rolled cigarettes inside. The packs were a dime each, and cost a few pennies of tobacco to make. The card boxes came from her father's casino operation, and the teachers never inspected her brother's bag. Her right hand took the dime from Peter while the left passed the cigarettes to Peter. He coninued in stride after the exchange and quickly left the school. She opened her book to one of the front pages and marked another notch next to Peter's name to indicate another pack sold. He had purchased twenty this year, which was the fourth most of any of her customers.
Lilian glanced over the bathroom entrance and noted at least six other boys who seemed to be waiting to speak with her. This Friday would take a while for her to clear out, but she didn't mind.
Late last year in her world history class, Mr. Druff made mention of the adage when talking about the era, telling the class that "all roads led to Rome." After the class ended, one of her classmate friends said that the phrase could be altered now to say "All roads lead to Lilian". On Fridays like this, it certainly seemed true.
KZ-N-4800
19510608 11:06:11
"This isn't the first time that David and I got into a fight." She rubbed her hands over each other in a nervous circular motion while admitting this. "And not the first time outside, neither. This is just how it goes sometimes, but I love him, though, sir."
"Right, ma'am. Just stick to the answer."
"Now David didn't hit me, now, he just held me tight and was yellin and hollerin as loud as can be, and I was yellin back and strugglin because that's how I have to stand up to him, and I was movin' around and he was just yelling about 'Don't make me hurt you' but he didn't do nothin. This was on for like a few minutes or so. We was yellin so much that I didn't see him approach."
"He ws just there?" The Officer asked this without looking up from the small pad of paper where he was writing notes.
"Right, right, we goin, we yellin, then we stop and look and there's this ... guy. Just standing there only a few more steps apart than we are now. And he didn't do nothin right off neither, he just stand there starin. Just starin. Not a word. He's starin David down hard, though. That he did right off. Then David asks the guy what's he lookin at, and that's all it took. David says that, next thing this guy rushes up and tackles him. Pins Davey against the car and holds him against the side by his neck, holdin him down, and starts swinging hard - real, real hard - on his face. If the first hit didn't make blood the second or third did for sure. And he just kept going. He didn't stop until David stopped squirming and went limp. Only then he let him drop to the ground."
"So how would you describe this individual?" Now the Officer took the time to make eye contact with her.
"Oh, I say wild. Looked wild. Hair was a mess, clothes were holy, his face kept moving around, like he didn't want me to see his eyes. He licked his knuckles when he was done doin that. David's on the ground most dead and he just stands over him lickin his fists like a fucking animal."
"Right. What would you say about his physical characteristics?"
"White man, maybe six feet, long matty dark hair - I think it was dark hair. Never said a word. While he's standin there lickin chops, I start to ask why he did that, and he just snorted and ran off."
EA-S-5040
19020719 09:48:55
...
"Thank you for letting me in, Mrs. Walsh. Is your husband still dining upon his breakfast in the kitchen? I'd presume as much on this hour."
"Mhm, I just made some coffee for him and he's having some toast I think. Could you wait here for him to come out?"
"M, no, actually. I'd prefer to go meet him if you don't mind?" Western didn't want to have a scene get ugly in the main front room here. If he did have to take action in this case, he didn't want to have to do it in this main living room at the front of the house. His wife seemed pleasant enoguh and there were a few prized possessions in this area, such as family pictures hung on the wall and framed with intricate silver decor, a sofa and love seat featuring an elaborate fine thread pattern, and an apparently recently purchased upright piano. This wasn't the time for this place to be put in risk. "I am in a rush as I have many things to attend to, you know how Saturdays are, most folks work during the week so that lives precious little time for me to find them! Yes indeed, the days when most of the working class are at rest, are the days which I have the most to do. It's rather taxing, I must say, Mrs. Walsh." He remained standing and holding his hat by the brim while saying all of this.
"OK, well, he's just over there then." She waved to her right with a flip of her hand and quickly returned her attention to Western. His impatience was starting to make her nervous. He nodded silently and immediately proceeded to the kitchen.
Paul Walsh was hunched over the far end of the table with his left hand tightly clenching the newspaper while he vigorously chewed his food. Half of one slice of toast rested before him on a small white plate. He swallowed his mouthful before placing the paper down to address him.
"Hello, who are you?"
"You can call me Chris. Mr. Walsh, forgive my bluntness but my business with you should be kept to a minimum. I'm here on behalf of Carbondale."
Upon hearing the name, Paul angrily tossed the paper to the table's side and quickly walked up to face Western closely. He kept his voice quiet.
"I told him that I needed more time. Six hundred bucks isn't something that I just have lying around, y'know?"
"Oh, I see, and by that you mean you don't have six hundred just lying around now." Western cast his glance away from the wall, out through the kitchen window, and continued. "Because I recall being told that you bet nearly twice that - a cool thou - on that fight last April, with you taking McVey over Sullivan. You recall that, don't you?" He returned his sight forward. "I recall hearing that you got paid for it. We honored our terms, Paul."
"I said that times weren't good now, my bills piled and work ain't paid as much. I'm not runnin scared from you. You're here in my house. I'm not hidin. You'll get your damned money, but only when I got it to give to you."
Western bore a countenance of depression with the answer, and resumed looking out the window when he spoke next.
"Paul, I'm sorry to hear that you don't have six hundred just lying around. It is a lot, yes, but you really should have it. For times of emergency, y'know?" Upon saying this, Western held his right hand up towards the window in a fist, and snapped it open. A silver rod shot immediately from his hand and shattered the window, and retracted into his hand before the shards finished falling to the floor. He then adjusted his hand to the cabinet to the side of the window, over the sink, and the cylinder fired again, tearing a hole through the wooden door and shattering the glassware inside. Paul quickly recovered from the shock of this unexplainable destruction and rose up from his chair to make a dash at Western. In response, Western aimed his right hand and shot the mercuric beam directly at Paul, lodging the blunt end of it directly into his neck. Paul was rendered motionless by the suddenness of the metal being lodged into his throat. He felt the metal vibrate against his skin, and his coarse breath strain against his constricted vocal chords.
"Listen, Paul, just because you don't hide from me doesn't mean that you don't want to pay. We know, OK? We know that you can. So be a man and do it. That's not too much to ask of you, is it? I surely hope it isn't. I definitely hope you don't forestall this concluding in a mature manner."
----------
JJ-N-7155
19500806 21:07:15
Vinnie didn't take up a bag of old bread with him to the door as usual, not since he started waiting outside the back door these last few days. It has been four times in the last two weeks, but it felt like it was twice as often. He didn't want to so much as acknowledge the man sitting silently in wait. It depressed him, to see how he would sit there now; thin, pale, unkempt, twitchy. This is what has become of the child who everyone he knew treated with extraordinary kindness in light of his unstated condition. The only common thread from then to now were still the eyes, which were always to the ground, which were always away. The last few times Vinnie gave him some of the garbage, he leaned over the hunched figure as he noisly consumed the bread in ravenous mouthfuls. He looked at his face to see signs of anything - to see if there was suffering he couldn't speak, shame he couldn't hide, gratitude that he couldn't state. There was nothing of the sort on Wolf's face. His brain wouldn't have allowed anything like that to be conveyed, even if he did harbor those kinds of feelings. The lone thought which still remained was The Focus on The Search. Vinnie had no idea about any of this and was merely apprehensive to have him around. He didn't want feeding him to turn into a habit. This is why he stood still and released a deep sigh of exasperation when he slowly pushed the door open and peered around it to see Wolf sitting on the ground, leaning against the fence on the opposite side of the alley.
"Danny... you gotta listen to me some time, you gotta hear me. You're hungry, but I'm not your Dad. I'm not family. You can't rely on me to do this every time. What if you come here and I got nothing to throw away? Then what?"
Wolf responded by turning his head towards Vinnie and anchoring his palms to the ground so that he could bring his legs inward to stand. He walked across the alley without looking up and came to a stop at the base of the stoop upon which Vinnie stood. Vinnie winced and squinted his eyes in response to Wolf's pungent odor.
"Christ, kid, can't they wash you at the fucking church or something? Where do you fucking sleep? Outside?"
Wolf remained silent and motionless in the same spot. Vinnie rubbed his hands over his eyes and cheeks in exasperation.
"Shi.. fuggin sh... hold on, dammit."
He stepped back into the store and quickly retrieved a bag of expired Italian style loaves, then returned to the door. Wolf didn't move an inch, as if he were trying to emulate a statue. He held the bag of bread out to him.
"Here. This's gotta stop, Danny. You hear? This's gotta stop happening." He snatched the bag and pulled one loaf from it, then let the bag drop to his feet as he used both hands to compress the food into his salivating mouth.
"Jesus."
LA-N-0800
The only records which have survived through time give this location as the closest current address where the first farmhouse and barn stood when Daron acquired them in 1837. The barn structure which is currently present at this address is the third barn built here, as the first was burned by the Baltimore Summer Invasion, and the second being the victim of an accidental fire in 1915. Throughout that time, the location served as a central meeting place for everyone of the city, both for it being the oldest location and for the food served to those who frequented the farm house. The tendency for the house to become a common meeting place is what prompted Daron to move out of it in 1853, with the intent for it to evolve into a restaurant (though, considering the amount of alcohol served, perhaps it would be more apt to consider it a pub). After the accidental fire, the decision was made to rebuild the barn in a different orientation as to more conform to the layout of the street grid.
Carbondale immediately believe the fire to be arson and wanted to have the reputation and use of The Old Big Barn to change thereafter. Despite the historical significance of the location and the good quality of food provided, the restaurant was not generally regarded as an establishment to which parents brought their children for a night of fine dining. Though there was no policy which excluded anyone in general, nor was there any sort of exclusive reservation list being maintained, it was generally understood that the restaurant was patronized by the city elite - meaning the judges, politicians, and the Runners. It was this reputation that Carbondale had in mind when he made an official suggestion for the family and friends to congegate elsewhere. Besides doing that, he severed ties officially by signing the rights of the building and property to Nicholas Dranning (later to be known as Hines) in exchange for the greater of $15 per month or 10% of gross proceeds. With the ownership changed, Hines fired most of the staff employed at the time and took two weeks to redesign the restaurant's interior decor. The Barn reopened with a new menu, staff, and accomodations to make the restaurant appear bright, warm, and inviting. A dress code was put in place, but there was no effort made to enforce it until the late 1920's; until then, the restaurant was marketed and perceived as a fashionable place for high quality dining, so many of the customers came in their best attire. For this reason, Sunday afternoons were frequently the busiest days of the week, as a tradition for many families was to dine there after attending church service.
It is because of this shift away from the place imposed by Carbondale that Dequindre decided to treat the restaurant as his public meeting headquarters throughout the late 1950s.
Frederic Allange - Bookseller from France
18350326
Depsite being pinned to the table, backwards, with the edge sticking into the small of his back, Allange kept his gaze forward upon Daron's face, rather than keeping watch on his right fist as it pulsed in the air.
"Do it. Do it quickly." Allange's command was given in a staccato and bristling cough of air.
"You want me to strike you?" Daron was genuinely confused by the statement, but strove to show no signs of indetermination on his face. His torso heaved while his sharp breaths hissed through clenched teeth.
"I... I want res-", he muttered before needed to swallow and focus on speaking, then finished to say, "resolution. I want... it over."
Daron narrowed his eyes to a gleaming sliver before thrusting his hands away to release his grip, which pushed Allange to the table with enough force to make it slide a foot away. He remained tense and stood in the same pose and with the same intent to punch his face.
"Why? Why you sayin so? I thought yous here helpin me just now."
Allange managed to laugh softly before coughing and regaining his composure.
"I am helping you." He looked to his eyes when he said that, then glanced down at the quill which he took between his hands and idly twirled in his fingertips. "I am. You want control. You want real ownership of this house, this farm, this land. I told you - you can't do that with a signature which any child can duplicate. This is important. You need to know how to make a proper signature of your name. It is your only means of making unique distinction here. It is your only way to get control."
"Yeah but that don't mean you gotta touch-"
"It does." Allange said quickly and with more resolution. "It does. I cannot simply tell you how to do it. I have to guide your hand with mine."
Daron shook his head in disgust, but Allange quickly interjected further.
"That. That is why I asked you to do it." He said this by looking at him and pointing a finger towards him, in desire to make him understand. "It goes against you. It riles you. I uh... I don't profess to know a minute of the years which you have endured. But I gather that you don't want to feel another man's hands upon your body, and I believe I don't need to conduct any lengthy interrogation or introspection to deduce why. So I ask for you to do it. If that is how you will react - if doing that will calm the blood and tension raging within your body which I felt before you grappled me, then let it be done so that it is over and we can resume instruction."
"You talkin like I'm some damned wild animal - like I'm a demon of Hell."
"Those are your words, Daron. Not mine. And if that's how you think of yourself, you have the capacity - as a human and Christian brother - to change it." Allange waited for a moment's pause before appending with saying "If you want to change it. That's your choice."
Daron sighed sharply, then pulled the chair back to sit at the table again.
"You tell this to nobody." His words and gaze hung sharply in the air. "Folks hear you held my hand to teach me to write, they think they can run me out and slit my throat. And they come for me, I come for you, even in Hell."
In response, he smiled and nodded, then stood up to face the table and hunched over the paper with the quill in his hand.
"Now, first, just watch me do it again. Just focus on one letter at a time. The D will look like this."
The name "D Hoobler" was written on the newspaper margin repeatedly as the sun set. After several repetitions, the crude lettering from Daron's hand did eventually become inscribed at a quicker pace. Eventually, he did understand what Allange meant - that the cursive lettering meant you let the ink glide along the page. It meant that you put the pen down and didn't stop until it was over. It meant that you gave shape to the words with the flow of ink as it came from the pen in your hand. By dusk, Daron felt like he had gained some control.
MA-S-3388
19180607 15:03:12
The only noise which Tom paid any attention to was the fan which rattled a few inches away from his face. Despite being seated in the shade and having the air flow directly at him, he still sweltered in the late afternoon's head and strained to keep his vision concentrated on the fabric as drops of sweat crept down his forehead and into the corners of his eyes. Each loop through the seam of the seat cover required him to reposition the needle a few times before pulling it through and letting the string follow the guide. He felt himself going slower now. He strove to listen only to the fan, and not any of the other noise which seemed to be come more prominent in his surroundings. The sonorous pierce of heavy metal striking heated metal that once came from the nearby blacksmith is now replaced by the tinny rattle of coins being dropped into and out of machines. The hushed conversations and measured footsteps of fashionable ladies as they arrived and departed from the corner tailor had now given way to younger adults calling for teenagers from the entrances as they dashed down the street. To think that he would actually long for the time when he could hear the elder men spending their idle time in boisterious chatter as they lounged in the barber shop on the other side of the wall. To think that it was all going away for these venues for cheap and frivolous entertainment. Why couldn't these kind of places be build anew on the other side of the river, or further South? Tom remembers what he was told, how the justification mutated with each passing week. The old stores don't make the same money as before. Business would be better if they moved out to where it's less dense so that they could take advantage of bigger spaces. The money being offered to take the stores over was nearly double than what most of the places there bring in now. Tradition didn't pay bills, Tom remembered being told.
He pulled the needle down and then let the pin slip from his fingers, and studied the metal dangle from the thread in the covering. He pinched the side of the seat and the cordring at the edge - everything felt proper and neatly made. Even if it was taking longer to do it today, the work he put in still had good quality. Business was still consistent for him, and he was very thankful that people still at least had some respect for the property which they purchased and maintained for their own home. He was thankful that tradition was still honored in some places. Tom wondered how long something as simple as that could even last.
Rantoul entered the store and held the door open when he noticed Tom sitting in the chair while transfixed by the chair before him.
"Heya Tom, you OK?"
Tom took in a sharp breath of surprise and jerked his head to see him, then nodded with a smirk before looking back at the chair.
"Yeah, Joe, yeah I'm fine. I'm fine. How bout yourself? You gonna sit for a minute?"
"Well actually, I wasn't intending to, in light of last week-"
"Yeah, about that. I've thought about it. Thinking about it now. And I think you'll owe me."
"I owe you?"
"Yeah. Well, you will, that is. I've decided to move out. I'm taking your offer."
Rantoul smiled warmly, then asked to confirm.
"You sure about this now?"
"Yeah - I mean, look around Joe. Look around here and outside. I can look over there and still see Dad pulling out old stuffing from a couch seat and telling me how to look out for the staples in the frame. I can see it like it was yesterday. But that's all it is - a vision. A memory. I can't ... I can't be the only one here from those times, Joe. What's the point. I can sit here and hold out and be mad about how all this shit going up around me is garbage that I don't want to see or know. I could do that. But it's punching a wall. It ain't about to happen; it did happen. So what am I gonna do?"
"All right. Well, I'm glad you come around finally. I was just tryin to help you out in it, you know. You deserve that much."
"Thanks."
"So how long you think you gonna need to close up?"
"Oh I haven't looked that far ahead yet. I just thought of this. It'll be a bit yet."
"Well, OK. I'll let them know." Rantoul offered his hand to Tom for him to shake and end the sentence there. The decision was concluded there. Rantoul was happy to have it come this way and kept the hundred bucks intended for Tom in his suit jacket. The pot didn't need to be sweetened after all.
DF-N-8808
19311124 01:16:02
She kept her hands crossed and felt her body shiver under the jacket, but when she heard the door creak open upstairs, she fixated upon the stairwell and waited to hear the knock upon the hardwood floor. It came - two quarters and two eighths in a quick staccato. Tap-tap-ta-tap. Unhurried foosteps echoed through the empty house and approached the doorway. Ridgeland then opened the door and shuffled down the stairs at a slightly quicker pace. Cicero smiled at him when he reached the basement floor. In response, he nodded and stood still with his arms crossed at the wrists over his waist. The pose did little to conceal that he was supporting something beneath his overcoat.
"Hi Tony."
"Hey." He met her eyes for a brief moment, then nodded to the black velour box which was near the hand that Cicero was using to lean upon the table. "That's it?"
"Oh, yes."
"Good. Whenever you're ready." After saying that, he reached underneath his coat and pulled a glass flask out, which he gently placed upon the table. The vial was cylindrical and roughly the size of a normal wine bottle; Cicero guessed it to be the standard quart in volume. The liquid inside had a dull grey color and cast a strong reflection from the overhead light. Without knowing it was liquid, it could have been mistaken for a solid metal, as it didn't exhibit any visible motion as he set the flask upon the table, nor did it coat the sides like water or oil as he bumped his hunched body against the edge of the table to reach for the drain pan by his feet.
Cicero wondered if he would have offered to assist in the blood letting, but figured that he was gauging her response to the task to form a snap judgment about her toughness, and also figured that he wouldn't feel particularly comfortable in making the offer. She was right on both counts, and it didn't matter because she was prepared to do this regardless. She quickly removed her jacket, draped it over the table, then procured the syringe from the kit box. With the wrist turned up and resting upon the table, she flexed some fingers on her left hand in a pensive twitch before performing the injection. The needle was put into position in the fold of her forearm. Her eyes clenched shut and chest stiffened in a held breath as she pushed the needle through the skin. Luckily, she found a vein in the first attempt and the red liquid filled the vial as she pulled the plunger away. The needle was removed when the blood met the black line marked as 50. Ridgeland used a handkerchief to remove dust from the drain pan, then poured the liquid metal from the flask into it once she was done drawing the blood out from her body. She removed the plunger from the vial and quickly poured the blood over the metal. Though the reaction was subdued, the metal did bubble with an audible fizz as the red blood dissipated throughout the material. After a few seconds, the liquid metal resumed its initial shape and otherwise shown no alteration. Ridgeland then repeated the instruction which he told her last week.
"Picture it changing slowly. Very slowly. A circle becoming a diamond, and growing from there."
Cicero nodded and delicately placed the palm of her right hand upon the surface of the metal. It seemed faintly warm. Her vision was set solely on her hand as she strained in thinking of a simple perfect circle. An O. A perfectly round O. A black O over a field of white nothing. She felt her hand begin to rise in elevation as the metal started to pull away from the edges of the pan and gravitate towards the center of her hand, as if there was a source of gravity coming from her palm. Within a moment, the metal formed a raised dome under her hand, resembling a ball of bread dough.
"Good. Diamond."
She nodded and closed her eyes to further facilitate concentration. The smoothness of the metal started to become more coarse, and the height of the metal didn't seem to change. A pointed edge felt like it was forming under the center of her palm.
"One diamond. One. Flat." His tone was both forceful and somber. "One flat diamond."
She took deeper breaths and leaned forward as the edge slowly melted away from her palm. Her hand was just above the surface of the pan, and the metal underneath formed an oblique linear box within the pan.
"Good. Good. Now - the point."
A corner of the metallic box melted out of its perpendicular angle and became more acute. The edge grew more elongated as the angle narrowed, until it stopped when it found some resistance in the wall of the container. Cicero narrowed her eyes and visualized the point forming a sharp V. After a few breaths, the force of the liquid metal forced the narrow point to slice through the drain pan wall. Ridgeland smiled.
"Good."
KA-S-1621
A row of six structures similar to this dual zone unit were built 1882, and all commerce and residential units comprised of the buildings were prepaid for occupancy before they were completed in construction. This building was adjacent to a corner grocery store and held the accounting office of Keith Nassun. After having a lead time of two weeks to establish his business at this new location, Bowen introduced a way for the office to support a policy wheel. Clients would be able to meet Mr. Nassun here for appointments as usual, but he was required to take on someone of Bowen's choosing to act as a front and secretary for keeping records of played numbers and the prior night's pull. Runners would accumulate bets through the day and submit them here, where the fake employee would make entries of the numbers on an adding machine and print them out. The printouts would be initialed by the runner and returned to the players on demand. Many players of the wheel never bothered to ask for their receipts. One of the initial tenants was a widowed elderly female known as Elaine Hepros. Once the personnel system was conceived for the accounting office below, Mrs. Hepros was approached and offered $5000 by Bowen to immediately move out and relocate. No measures were taken to force the offer and she consented to it after a single day of contemplation. Once she was moved out, the newly formed Ba Ha Ma policy wheel was founded in the apartment. Draws were of three numbers between 1 through 70 and occurred on Tuesday evenings. Immediately after the draw, the workers of the wheel would print scores of copies of the winning numbers so that they be issued to Carbondale for record keeping, as well as given to any winners. Jackpots were allowed to progress to $1000 and had a legitimate hit on average of once every three weeks. When Mr. Nassun retired in 1923, the client records which he had accumulated through his years of service were retained on site, as to maintain an appearance of legitimacy. No accounting service was conducted at the location after the retirement.
All buildings in this block were razed in 1955 to make way for the twenty story Chesepeake Apartment Complex, which has remained there since.
HD-S-1180
18620216 15:06:22
"The other good news I wanted to share with you is that the scientists - they've made something totally new. I never would have dreamed what they had come up with, or at least wouldn't ever think something like that would be possible. But I seen it before me."
"Oh have they now?" Daron asked with a touch of indignation. "What's it this time? A mechcanical fly swatter?" Though his question was laden in sarcasm, he did at least appreciate that the department had managed to come up with a few minor inventions and refinements, most of which helped farm related tasks. But as of yet, there was nothing from them which he would consider miraculous or the like.
"It's a new kind of metal. And what makes it new is that it can change shape at will. In a moment, it's molten and liquid, but not hot to the touch, and it can shift from one shape to another."
"So wait - you sayin that this stuff can go from like a uh, like a ... harness, or something, and then it can change into uh... a sledgehammer? Like that?"
"Basically yes." Cook said this with pride, then nodded while stopping to take a sip from the beer mug. "Though not quite so wildly in use. Right now, the metal is set so that the holder can switch it between a sword and a length of chain links. They'll probably make it more different over time. I hope they do, at least."
"Well, that may prove useful, actually." Daron's eyes shifted in thought of the application of such material. "Yes, it would be a shock to anyone for something which appears to be a chain suddenly being used as a blade. I like it. But ... what about guns?"
"Hah! That was the first thing I asked them when they shown me this stuff in the room." Cook said before laughing. "The very first thing. That's the bad part about it now - seems like they won't be able to do that for some time."
"Well they shouldn't cast doubt and be defeated before even trying!"
"Right, right, but think about it. A gun is more than just metal parts. Guns need oil to work good. This stuff won't be made in a way that if you made a gun out of it, that it would work right. Even for one shot. And after you get that right, you still gotta load the gun somehow. And after you figure out how to get the gun to work right and the bullets in it, the metal still might react to the gunshot and get too hot to hold. So yeah, it'll be a while before they can do a gun with this."
Daron's face soured in initial response. "I don't know if that can work, then.", he said after contemplation. "Havin a secret sword is good and all, real good, but that won't do shit against a gun."
"Yeah, I thought about that." Cook took another pause to drink before continuing. "What if we banned guns? From the city?"
"Jesse, ain't most nobody here gonna give up their guns, least because we said so."
"But you can't put it like that. You gotta make it sound right to them. You gotta say somethin about it bein 'for the safety of our citizens and our children' or somethin like that. And think of it this way - if nobody here has guns and we got the swords, we know anyone here bringin a gun ain't one of us."
"Well, that much is true, yeah. I can see that bein good."
"Besides, Daron, if there's any time you can push something like that through, it's now. Most folks around here aren't too fond of guns lately, right?"
"Heh, yeah, you right about that. Right. Hm." Daron rubbed his hands together and drummed his fingers in the air, piecing the process together in his mind. "Well, maybe we can do that. Maybe."
BA-S-9777
This is the current location of the third Daron High Science Facility. The area alloted for this facility was determined when the island was built, and the first structure built here in 1858 was a simple single-story brick warehouse that was presented as a school. The building was set well within the interior of the property, and the perimeter of it was demarcated with an eight foot fence (made of wood at initial construction and upgraded to heavy wrought iron in 1878). An artificial embankment was built into the side of the fencing within the property, which prevented the facility from being visible at ground level. The initial school structure was said to be named for Henry Simon Forsot, who was reported to be the main benefactor to the facility and had a commencement speech printed in the Daron Beacon. In fact, there was no such person, and the speech featured in the newspaper is a fabrication of one of the editors on the staff at the time (the style of its writing suggests that it was written by then Editor In Chief George Mayfield, but there are no records to verify this with any certainty). For years after this founding, there were annual reports of graduating class rosters, which were appended with photographs of the class as of 1882. The names were also fabricated and the pictures were staged and taken within the First Juvenile Facility (EM-S-6402), using incarcerated children who signed statements to maintain secrecy. This practice continued until 1903. No alterations to the school facility were made on the external portion of the building - the additions to the property were made underground in a series of subterranean halls and rooms. The continuous underground expansion became untenable and stopped completely by 1935. The cessation in expansion and difficult economic environment gave rise to the scientists to begin demanding a new above ground facility. The new facility was approved and reached completion in 1944, and was built to resemble an automobile factory. The facility was reported to be named for the owner of Harold Simon Forsot. A commencement speech was given and recorded for the newscast on May 25 of that year. As before, there was no actual person living in Daron with that name, and the person who gave the broadcast speech was paid to perform the part. The present facility has three main floors and encompasses more than one million square feet of floor space just within the main facility.
EM-S-6402
This has been the location of the First Juvenile Facility since 1898, whose structure is currently in the fourth major incarnation. The first center built here was a simple single story brick structure which was designed to house 200 inmates and not built to the same rigorous specifications as the "Bridewell" built closer inland. In comparison, the walls for this center were a foot thinner, and the iron bars which were used in the windows were built with a lesser grade of metal and in a thinner casing. More effort was put into the perimeter of the property, which was properly secured with a chain link fence and barbed wire enclosure that was basically the same as the aforementioned adult prison. The prison was built in response to the growing number of child street gangs which were forming and becoming a general public annoyance; these came about more frequently in the late 1800's due to the increasing family size and because the manufacturing companies demanded more workers and longer work shifts while not proportionately increasing pay rates. The most common response to this circumstance was for both immediate parents to take on new jobs, which left the children in the care of the elderly or other older siblings. The location was chosen for its remoteness and had no neighboring houses or other buildings for several years. The first center was built to only house males, and received a two story expansion which was completed by 1918. This was razed and cleared to make way for a matching pair of seven story towers which were designed to separately detain male and female inmates. It was completed in 1955. Though not designed with effusive aesthetics or architectural features, the new pair of buildings were built on sound design and more to adult prison specifications. The brickwork and external features were given some detail work as to make the detention center have an appearance which complemented the encroaching houses and commercial buildings. With little fanfare or public notice, the 1955 towers were leveled to make way for a new modern detention facility in 1997, constructed with glass and steel framework.
Halsted and Chene are among the notable former inmates of First Juvenile. Halsted's initial sentence of four months was prolonged after he was the primary instigator in several fights.
AD-S-1640
19430618 10:08:11
"So this is $1600 from the tables and $400 from the wheel. Mack told me he got the vig ready today so I'm going to see to that first before checking down the list." After saying this, Halsted pulled his hand away from the envelope which he placed ont he desk and turned to walk away. "If I go to a game tonight, I'll call to let you know, if you need something."
Ashland looked away from the form between his hands before speaking.
"Actually, you should sit."
Halsted stopped and turned to look back.
"Now?"
"Yeah, yeah, sit."
"What's the matter?"
"Sit."
Halsted obeyed and sat, bracing for whatever was about to be discussed. The persistence in the command and vagueness for the sudden request led him to foresee a problem. Ashland gently folded the racing form down.
"I know that you have arranged Sangamon to be on the lookout for you, and I know he's doing his duty. He's given me his assurances, and I believe him. But as long as there continues to be a ... recurring problem with that lunatic, I've decided that you need to do certain things differently until that gets resolved."
"Well, what else can I do? I don't stay at the same place for more than a few days, and I switch up cars."
"I can't have you come around our usual places as long as that nutcase is alive and stalking you."
Halsted's face lost color.
"What? Like, even here?"
"Here, the game, your tables and wheels - you need to keep yourself separate from all of the rest of us until that gets settled, or else that bullshit could wind up getting us sucked into it. And then what are we supposed to do."
"Then how the fuck am I supposed to give you yours on all that shit?"
"I've spoke with Throop and he will be on-call waiting for you so that you can tell him where to collect. Other than that, make calls from remote locations, or just let him and us run things a bit until you're free of this problem. Do what you gotta do."
"But how am I even going to buy food for myself then?"
"Make arrangements to have things dropped off and picked up separately. Quit making me spell it out for you. Bunker mentality."
"This..." Halsted writhed and curled his lips under his teeth before standing up and stammering over more words. "This is bull. Shit. Bullshit. I'm being tossed off for this bullshit?"
"No, you know what bullshit is? You wanna know?" Ashland pointed at Halsted with the pencil in his hand. "Bullshit is cleaning up your bullshit. Bullshit is me having to pull strings with both the God damned police and the press to mop up the fucking mess you made last week when you got jumped unaware. And last month. And however many other fucking times that I can't even count now."
"The kid is a fucking freak! I'm not holding anything back when he comes at me like that! I know what I gotta do!"
"Then fucking focus and do it. Fucking do it. Away from here. You need to get this settled somewhere that's not here. Or wherever we are. We've done enough for you on this. Time for you to man up."
Halsted huffed large breaths of air through his nose, then turned and walked off in a hurried pace.
"And don't punch any of my fucking walls." Ashland issued this last command just as Halsted left the room, then took a moment to pause and sigh before returning to his racing form.
19750802 ( ( ( cite : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M24_Sniper_Weapon_System ) ) )
HSF Memorandum #117.0633
Research is complete on the Dovetail project, with the resultant item to be titled SR M23 (hereinafter "SR"). Project Captain C17 and Chemist D6 are to be recognized as the primary persons responsible for this projects ultimate and successful fulfillment. The SR is a long range rifle which is designed to provide the fastest set up time for the user. The stock, sight casing, silencer, barrel, and body are each held in a separate state when the SR is in Case Mode. Each component is supported within the case by strands of the polymetal (Type 5) which is the material base of the entire piece. The only foreign property held by the SR in Case Mode are the glass optic lens pieces and the metal base to be converted to the projectiles. When the SR case is opened, there are slots on the right side which are designed to hold common beverage cans, but any metallic material can be used as long as the individual unit supplied has approximately 14 grams of mass. The slender button on the top surface of the case handle allows the user to initiate the metal conversion process. The process has a duration of 4.6 seconds for a full magazine of six shots, equalling 7 and two-thirds of a second per projectile formation. A circular button facing the user's left on the side of the case handle will protrude when the process is complete and the SR is essentially "loaded". This side button will remain flush with the handle until it is in this ready state. Pressing the button will cause the SR to transform from Case Mode to Rifle Mode - the process lasts one second, resulting in the rifle forming in the user's hands. The Case handlebar is designed to be the location of the support hand for the rifle, and will form in direction parallel to a person standing. Clearance of three feet around the SR is recommended when it is activated. Besides the encased trigger, there are two utility buttons to be found on the SR. The first, located where the user's hand will be when supporting the gun, will toggle two support legs to form from the casing. The legs will remain in semi-liquid form while the button is held and solidify upon release, and allow for a maximum length of four feet. The second button is located underneath the rifle's trigger, and pressing it will revert the SR from Rifle Mode to Case Mode. Any projectiles remaining within the rifle in this instance will be jettisoned and expelled directly to the ground surface.
The SR is measured to have muzzle velocity of 850 yards per second and is accurate to two inches at 300 yards.
18840426 11:26:48
For most other families it was Sunday when the best attire was to be flaunted in public, but for Marcus, that day was Saturday. This Saturday began and bore on like so many others before it. There was first the long trip downtown to go to the steam room, where a change of clothes would be waiting for both him and his father, which always included a side visit to the club's manager which had to occur in the seclusion of the manager's office. Then came the walk to a nearby apartment where a man called Louis was there to receive them, as he was today. As he did the last few times, Louis bore an expression of pure delight and greeted with embraces for Carbondale and Marcus, as if they were related. What Marcus found odd was how Louis, nor anyone else who would ever be seen in the apartment, could be considered to live in this place, as it never had no furniture of any kind within it. Marcus would have to stand to the side and remain standing and silent while his Dad would speak with someone like he was with Louis now. The two men discussed something about a wheel and how it "wasn't getting good play", for which Louis asked "how many stickies can we roll in the drum?". Carbondale told Louis that the test that they ran shown it wouldn't work without the balls sticking to each other, and spoke of it more, but Marcus stopped paying attention to the discussion and looked down to the floor in boredom. He did notice before that not only did this apartment not have any furniture, but it didn't have any kind of carpeting as well. The floor was completely fixed with white tile and shown several large streaks of scuff marks and abrasion. The floor bore signs of much more traffic than he would think should happen in a place that nobody seems to really live in. His father speaking the words "All right - until the next time." snapped his attention back to the two men. This was a standard phrase his Dad used and said in a tone that he knew it was intended for a direct end to the discussion. Louis smiled warmly and took up Carbondale's hand with both of his own and shook it vigorously, then patted his hands on Marcus's shoulders before saying, with a laugh, that "Your Daddy always knows those score, mhm. He's always in the know." Carbondale gave a simple and demure smile with a nod in response, then leaned his head to the side while looking at Marcus, signaling him to leave the room first.
One visit after another went essentially like that visit to Louis, and there was one underlying thing about it all which he didn't quite get. The mystery wasn't so much what his Dad did, as far as he was told all while he was raised.
The main thing that Marcus didn't get was that, for all of the secrecy and concealment and coded language which was bantered about, it was all still conducted in public. His Dad ran the operations and met the people and all was settled and discussed in front of him, but it was the same as if any two general guys met up to talk. When they walked together down a street, a seemingly countless number of people would greet his Dad as if their relationship was closer than twin brothers. How could this be?
-continued part 3-
He understood the purpose behind these Saturday tours with his Dad - that it was to show everyone else that he would be part of the business, and that he could be trusted. It was also a way for his Dad to parade him around, to show others what kind of respectful child he has raised. He figured it probable that his Dad also used it all as a way to assess his future potential, by seeing how he would handle himself around these kind of people and the activities being discussed. As far as Marcus could tell, he could see the rationale behind all of this and was playing his part well. But that question still lingered within him. How long could his Dad expect everyone else to keep playing this game?
The more Marcus contemplated about it, the less certain he was that anything would remain as it is now. He knew people to be two-faced - he could see it on faces and hear it in voices. He had seen it when people at school treated him differently from others, and he caught glimpses of it from people who conducted business with his Dad. He was baffled by the duplicity of it all, how the business was a secret which so many people seemed to know about. As the city grew in more population and took in outsiders, the more difficult it would be to keep this secret shared.
It was from these Saturdays and these questions that Marcus came to decide that when he would be responsible to continue the business, he would want to reach out beyond the circle of family and friends to be his associates. But that decision brought another obstacle to answer - who could he trust as associates if not friends or family? Would he be able to simply recruit other men away from rival families? How could he seek them out?
DA-N-1615
19490207 07:16:12
"Just fucking lock the doors and go. Fucking run. Now!"
"But what abou-"
"What, money? Take it! Get it and get the mother of fuck out!" After saying this, Riopelle slammed his fist onto the register keys until the drawer sprang open with a light chime of the bell. He thrust his hand into the drawer and balled a handful of bills into a clenched fist. "If you don't take it I will! Now! Now now now fucking go! Go! Jesus!" He then dashed over to the door and ran up the stairs to the second floor, leaving Anthony to stand there in a daze.
Riopelle sprinted to the locked office door and began to slam the entire weight of his body against the frame, screaming for it to be opened with panic tearing his voice.
"Hold the fucking phone." Dequindre's voice was still collected and his pace unhurried as he walked to the door. When he opened it, he had to quickly dodge out of the way of the entrance.
"It's up. It's all done. It's done. We gotta round up and run and hide now. Now. Prolly best to burn this fucking place to the ground. The papers, the fucking records, they'll take it all."
"Ho, jus, hold on man, hold on. Hold on and breathe. I'm here, I'm still here, we're still here." Dequindre put his hands forcefully on Riopelle's shoulders to stabilize him and to be able to get some immediate answers.
"Now," he said with a pause, then asked, "What is done? What's this about?"
"Everything. Fucking everything. I went to to chambers to pick up orders, and I was locked out. I was told there'd be no more orders and that our family was now locked out. Some cops - fucking cops! - started to approach me with the look like they were gonna cuff me, but I just turned and split. They called after me to get people to lock the front doors but nobody knew why and watched me sprint out. They comin for us now. It's all gone."
Dequindre's lips pursed and blood rushed from his stiffening face. He then walked over to his desk, deliberately, and calmly lifted the phone.
KA-N-0300.
"Daron City Court, how may I help you?" He thought he recognized the voice but didn't instantly recall the name. Irrelevant now.
"Judge Farro's office, please. Tell him it's concerning Case Number 3."
"Yes, please wait."
The wait wasn't long. The answer came with a voice which was dry and robotic with contempt.
"Hello, this is Judge F-"
"What the fuck is this about?"
A long sigh came before a response.
"Listen ... Dequindre."
A second wave of shock washed over his body. That was enough to know. It was true.
"We've made a decision, based on how your family has handled-"
He hung up. The point was clear.
LL-N-4880
This parking lot is the former location of the Greater Baptist Church, the second of which was a lingering presence in the community for several years despite being abandoned. In 1879, a gleaming white temple standing three stories in height and a bell spire reaching an elevation of 200 feet marked the church as one of the more spectacular religious structures in the area, despite its relatively small land area for the site. Unfortunately, the site was chosen as a hiding ground for ministers who were internally known to have sexual proclivities. The theory was that with Daron being relatively cut off from the rest of the country around it, this church would be a place where those priests could be essentially "swept under the rug". An outreach program was initiated in 1881, in which boys from the First Juvenile Center were sent to the church to do community service. Through the years, rumors began to spread that some boys sent to the church in this capacity were molested by some of the ministers there. These rumors, on top of their insistence to not pay any kind of dues to the general city or to the Runners, is what spurred Carbondale to lean heavily upon the ministers. Their refusal gave way to ministers making public sermons which railed against a "secret crime family" within the city on a regular basis. Carbondale felt his hand was forced and decided to have the members dealt with collectively, and did so on January 15, 1884. The day was exceptionally cold within the city and the church had all of its doors and windows securely shut to stay warm. With this situation in place, Exeter was instructed to redirect a stream of noxious gas into their furnace's intake vents, as well as ensure that all points of possible ventilation were secured. Before the gas was piped in, all windows were iced shut from the outside, and the doors were chained shut and put on guarded watch by some of Exeter's men. All six ministers residing in the church died in the early morning, which was reported by the newspaper as an unfortunate furnace exhaust accident. Church members immediately held vigils outside of the church and soon formed a petition to have the church reinstated with new ministers and remain open. The Baptist Church community outside of Daron took this as a sign that their intents might have been compromised and postponed restaffing the church through a series of supposed "interviews" which never actually occurred. After several months without progress in this regard, a movement was made to commemorate the church as a memorial to the ministers who tragically died. While the Daron City Council held public hearings to negotiate the issue, permission was given to allow the Runners to incinerate the church. However, three separate attempts were inexplicably thwarted and the church remained. The faithful congregate took this as a sign that the church must remain on the grounds and memorialized. An official recognition as a memorial or a historically significant structure was never made for the church, but it remained in place and relatively unscathed through several decades. A simple fence was installed around the church, but no elaborate means to secure the building were otherwise made. Despite this, the church never shown signs of decay and remained basically intact over eighty years. Reports began to circulate of the church itself being haunted or otherwise "protected". Public fervor to preserve the church dwindled over time, but there was no pressing demand to remove the church until it was finally razed in a public event which was staged August 8, 1962.
LL-N-4880
19281127 02:13:43
The door offered no physical resistance when he pushed it open, and only emitted a mouselike squeak as he widened the gap enough to allow himself entry. He stood with his fingertips resting upon the handle and laboriously scanned the church's interior. The sparse rays of moonlight which managed to seep into the building did little to help illuminate the barren hall before him. The moment of immobility rapidly grew longer until he realized that the only things which he could hear was his own breath and possibly even his heartbeat. Maybe it was simply an actual onset of nerves. The uncertainty felt foreign, having been absent from him for so long. Upon realizing this, he smirked and huffed a stifled chuckle through his nostrils; he was happy that the rumors did so far seem to have a touch of truth to them. A faint rustle, like a fallen leaf scraping the ground from the wind, snapped his senses back into attention.
A portion of the room made visible by the moonlight shown where a white plastered wall met the ground. He felt compelled to walk towards it, to engulf himself within the void and see if that true feeling of nervousness - or possibly even dread - would return to him, and more strongly. He walked towards the wall and finally stood next to it, and felt the luminous glow surround him within the black. He delicately ran his fingers over the wall, finding the surface to be gritty with dust. He didn't hear the front door shut and close as he did so. But he did hear the whisper. It disguised itself as the wind at first, and it was one word repeated, which still had the timbre of a whisper but rapidly became louder and more distinct. "Well", the wind said. "Well. Well. Well. Well. Well. Well. Well."
"Well here you are, William." He heard the welcome whispered immediately behind him but did not sense a body close to him, nor heard any footsteps approach. He held his breath and felt his body become rigid, but instinctively spun around with the dagger clenched in his hand. A human shape stood before him. Its white composition gleamed in the lunar rays. Its face bore a resemblance to a Greek comedy mask, with the vacant, wide smile, the pupilless eyes tucked behind dimples, and the complexion which seemed much more like a mask than human flesh. It appeared to have arms and to stand upright, but it was clad in a robe which obscured any hands or feet.
"Oh." When the word was said, he once again heard voices whisper and echo it behind him before it seemed to come from the being in front of him. This is the best he could assume, because no features on the beings face made any sort of movement. "Oh. We are unarmed. You don't need that here."
"A. Are y.. are you even fucking human?" William asked the question in unchecked emtion, and only after speaking did he realize that his chest was heaving with each breath. Waves of chills swept over his body, and he specifically exerted himself to remain motionless. The echoes arrived first, again. "Why. Why. Why. Why. Why. Why. Why. Why." William finally turned around to face the whispers which seemed to come from behind. The being was now directly in front of him, again. It stood under no moonlight but still seemed to have some sort of glow emitting from itself. Albeit very faintly, William could see the texture of the wooden floor which it stood over.
"Why are you here."
"I'm. I'm testing myself. I am testing how I handle fear."
"Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. You will handle fear. Let. Let. Let. Let. Let me show you." It lifted a white sheen hand and pressed a finger to the side of William's temple. It was so cold, William thought he felt the heat within his own body seep away.
Instantly, he felt his eyes snap shut but could see images as if being displayed behind his own eyelids. The images were murky but quickly became brighter and more saturated with vivid color. He saw himself, older, holding a sword, standing over men on the ground, blood drained upon the ground and spattered against his clothes. Another flash saw him with his sword raised to be pushing the edge cleanly through a human neck. Another flash saw him standing at a funeral parlor and watching an emotionally devastated wife wail out in sorrow. Visions like this ran through his brain one after another, quicker than he could perceive, and more quickly until the brightness engulfed his vision and all he could see was white.
The memory of the cold touch rushed to his head as he snapped his body upright with a gigantic heave of breath, as if he were just rescued from being drowned in water. He was now sitting on the church ground. The moonlight was gone, and the morning's sunrise bathed the church's interior with a somber orange that shown the room to be completely empty. In the distance, he heard a church bell chime six times.
JC-S-2800
19400117 08:17:06
Judge Carrel entered the steaming water now as he always did when he arrived for these impromptu meetings, with one toe daintily dipped into the surface and easing a leg beneath while clenching the handrail and hissing in exhaled breath. He then said what he usually said upon entry into the water.
"Oh do I need this."
Judge Pria kept his sight fixed in the direction before him and chose to not watch the ritual as it unfolded beside him. His eyes remained set upon the middle of the wall as he reached to pick up a cigar and pull a long drag from it. He wasn't able to return it to the ashtray before half of the burnt tobacco dropped and melted into the water.
"What's the matter this time? Sore from tennis again?"
"No, no. I had to take care of the snow last night. Last time I paid some kids who came around and offered to clear it stiffed me on the job. I give a few bucks out to a pair of 'em standing at my door holding shovels. I walk away to go piss and come back to the window to see how they're doing, and they already took off. Little shits. Sot his time I took care of it myself and now I'm remembering why I don't want to do that ever again."
"The perils of homelife."
"They do exist, sir." Both laughed softly after Carrel said this with feigned conviction.
"Anyway," said Carrel, showing more urgency in getting to business today than usual, "one thing I want to sort out - we gotta press upon them to figure out who's going to pick it up after Torrence. We have freight coming in and other things to do, and we need to know who's running the show. If things don't get settled soon, it's all going to go to shit in a hurry."
"What about uh, that old guy. Western, right? He's been working with them for almost as long as I've lived."
"I'd doubt it. He's not family, and it doesn't seem like he's the kind of guy who is looking to take on the role. To be honest, I think it's probably going to be Ashland."
"Huh, really."
"I'd think so."
"Well, y'know." Carrel paused to reach for one of the cigars in Pria's pack, then pulled his own ashtray closer to where he sat in the bath. "He's not the same kind of involved as the others are. I hear he's squeaky fucking clean and wanted to keep his distance from the business. Made sense before to have Torrence seen as the clear leader, but now."
"Maybe we need to set a patsy for the guy to stick." Pria laughed after saying this with the expectation for Carrel to join in. His response was an aloof shrug.
"Well, how about this." Pria then finally turned to face Carrel to say this directly to him. "What about their sister?"
"Oh, ho, Vic. Vic, you're too full of jokes about this."
"No, really, think it through. I hear that she's done a lot of legwork for all of us and has better ways to reach out to the women business owners than Torrence ever had. She's in the know. More than Ashland, I'd bet. I'd also bet she wants it more."
Carrel's eyes narrowed to drive his subsequent point directly home.
"And she's a broad. You think those kind of people want to listen to a broad? At all? No fucking way. No way in a million years. Broads don't do that shit."
"Yeah, but she has. I'm just saying-"
"And I'm just saying, too." Carrel did seem to be come animated at the mere contemplation of the question in this regard. "No fucking way. They won't suggest it and I wouldn't recognize it if they did. It's just not how it's done. Not with them."
AD-S-1640
19410318 09:48:17
"You're usually not this late." Ashland said this without altering his stance, and only turned to look at Ridgeland after he laid the shot on the table. The angle was hit cleanly and the nine ball sunk in a snap while leaving the cue ball trail to the side with enough momentum to stop just before the two at the other side of the table.
"Who else is here?"
"Nobody now. Why?"
"We need to talk."
"Do we? Heh, this some high school bullshit break up or something? Is it you or me?"
Ridgeland held in a rueful smirk and looked to the ground when he responded.
"Actually, it is. Can we go sit down, please?"
"... no, you can speak about this here and now. Go on." Ashland drummed his fingers over the tightening grip he had on his
"Fine. Your sister has basically recruited me to be part of her crew, and I've agreed to do it. I'll be reporting to her from now on."
Ashland stood silently and could only blink repeatedly while his brain processed this statement. The two men stood silently facing each other for several seconds before he finally spoke.
"Whatever... you think she has running, now, it isn't what we do. You are... you are putting your life in great danger for something that isn't real. Not like this is. Her actions have and will cause calamity for all of us. You are just another part of it, now. You are being manipulated by her to disrupt what little we still have."
"No, I have come to this decision of my own free will. And I want to speak to you now and make this known now so that there is no backstabbing bullshit about what I'm going to do. This is something I think you deserve to know without having it become an issue."
"The issue is this, now! I'm supposed to just turn you loose? Let you walk out the door? Let you tell her things about us that she doesn't know yet? Let you work against me? Let you fight us? Do you hear the shit spewing out of your own mother fucking mouth?"
"I just." Ridgeland sighed and quickly thought of the best phrasing. "I just think this is the right thing to do. I think you're lying to yourself for trying to take the reins that he left behind. We all know that wasn't what you wanted. And it shows. Things are getting more sloppy by the day and it's because they - because we - don't see you cracking down."
"OK so you want me to whoop your ass right now, is that what you're saying?"
"I want you to admit that Grace wants to run it all and has the whole time, and that you truly don't. I want you to help make that happen so that we can all get our shit together and get back to doing what we're supposed to be doing rather than trying to kill each other."
"Help?" Ashland shook his head in wild sweeping convulsions. "Help. Help Grace get into this. Help her get into a role of managing lunatic murderers and crooks, and to help her become a prime target by folks against us. I'm supposed to help her do that? Really?"
"It seems like that's what she wants."
"And who the fuck ever get what he really wants in life, huh? Who!" Ashland marched over to stand directly in front of Ridgeland, but still spoke loudly. "Oh, except you. What I want for the good of my own sister and for the good of what our family does is bullshit. But she wants you to work with her, and off you go. Tell me - what's she offering you? How did she convince you to defect? Defect!" More laughter came, in a higher and more excited pitch "Defection to my own fucking sister for Christ's fucking sake! Well, come on! Money? She offer lots of money to you?"
"You know it's not about money. What good would more money do for me anyway. I got what I need to live."
"Well then what! A pat on the ass?"
"You could say that, yes. I've helped her out in the past and she makes me feel appreciated for the support that I give her."
"Oh fuck this. Fuck! A medal? Awards? You would be staying here if I would've fucking taped your used toilet paper on the fridge door? Gave you a standing O every time you came back with a new fleet of wheels, or for otherwise just doing what we expected you to do? That's what you wanted?"
"What I wanted is to work with people who all understand and appreciate what needs to be done. I'm not seeing that here, now."
F Street Bridge
19490207 18:01:43
Brush was the last to arrive to the meeting spot, and walked towards the rest of the men in a manner as if he had soiled himself. The tirade he grumbled to himself as he approached did reveal that he certainly felt that way in respect of the dirt and mud which were accumulating over his newly purchased shoes and pants. "Gotta walk through this shit, damn it.", and other curses flowed from his mouth like a broken faucet. Finally, he stood under the bridge forming a circle with Chene, Larned, Bagley, Riopelle, and Dequindre, the leader. Court was now in session.
"OK, so this is it." Dequindre said this to them by leaning into the circle, as if he were in the middle of a football huddle. "We are officially out. The Judges have decided that we are no longer the sponsored runners, meaning our former jobs will get us arrested and thrown in the slammer. Seems our families are safe, right?" The men each mumbled affirmatively. "Right. So as far as they doing, they think they can just shove us out and we'll say Okay and let it be. Well, boys, I got a problem with that." Their agreement with that was more vociferous. "My Daddy and his folks fucked it all up, but we shouldn't be gettin spanked like fuckin kids because of their bullshit. Ain't our fault. We were doin things right and now this."
"So how do we get back at them?" Chene's question was quick and forceful. His brain screamed for vengeance to be wreaked upon the Judges.
"Get back at them? No." Dequindre held up a hand and clenched it in the middle of the grouped circle. "What we gonna get back is everything - the whole game and them workin with us. Thing is that now we gotta earn it. Now we gotta show em that we deserve it, and that we can do it right. Hurting the Judges won't do that. If anyone's getting hurt, it's whoever them Judges go to now. We take those fucks out, they know we ain't playin. So that's my first plan." He nodded towards Bagley.
"You need to find out whoever the new runners are now and where they stay." Next he addressed Chene.
"You deal with them enough so that they stay away. Rub if there's no other way." Then he looked to Brush.
"You need to boogie your sweet ass all over this joint and find out who's playing with them, so that you," Dequindre said, pointing to Larned, "can raise hell with em and make em change their minds." He then pointed his finger to Riopelle.
"And you all need to report to him when there's news to be told and to hear my orders from here out, because none of you are comin back to me personally. We won't be seen with each other until this all gets fixed."
The men stated agreement and took turns exchanging handshakes before departing. None of them knew it would be more than a year before they would all be in the same location again.
KF-N-7313
19370517 16:37:14
Madeline quickly snubbed out her cigarette when she heard the car pull into the rear garage. The smoke lingered in the ceiling of the kitchen for a moment before dissipating, and she stood up to return to the sink to resume washing the dishes. She could hear him sing nonsense syllables as he approached the back door, and this helped her relax in knowing that this would be at least one day in recent memory where he didn't come up filled with anger and lashing out over it. When he entered the house, he opened the door with an arm sweep that carried up to the sky after he released the handle, with the intent to give his entry some kind of flourish. Unfortunately, she had her back turned and didn't see it.
"Maddy, my dear! You must see this, this is incredible here." Pulaski unwrapped the coat he had folded over the object in his hands and tossed it over the back of a kitchen chair. It was a small brown box that appeared to her like one for cigars. He held the box on the open palm of his hand and lifted the lid towards himself, revealing the contents to her. Golden rings of all kinds of shapes and intricate engravings were inside, each cylindrical column inside filled with them. She felt her mouth form a grin, and her eyes must have opened more widely than she anticipated, because Pulaski laughed heartily at her reaction to the revelation.
"That's-! How many are in there, even? A hundred?"
"One hundred forty, specifically. Seven rows of twenty. Each one marked with a carat rating. The tens will go for $150, the fourteens will go for $1500, and the twenties - well, some of the good twenties go for more than $40,000."
"Gosh, and none for me?" She smiled largely in asking the question to help indicate she was being facetious. It was important for her to do so.
"They're not all for you, no."
"Aw, okay. Just one maybe?"
"Nah, heh. Well, maybe, but you shouldn't bother." He then placed the box on the kitched table before explaining further. "They're all junk, y'see. It's all fake. Faker than Fool's Gold fake."
"Huh. So how are you going to sell them, then?"
"That's the thing. That's the beautiful thing. See, I guess those geniuses over at the lab figured out how to make a metal that looks like gold, feels like gold, weighs like gold, but it ain't. And it ain't a coat of paint either."
"I see." Madeline then turned her back to resume washing dishes once more.
"Hey!"
"What?"
Pulaski gestured with his hand over the table, then nodded his head towards her with an expecting glare.
"Oh, right." She then walked over to the cabinet and obtained a glass, then poured some water from the faucet into it before handing it to him. He tipped it back into his mouth and took half of it in a single swig. Now she was allowed to resume washing the dishes. "So, how will folks think they're real? Just by you sayin so?"
"And that's the next beautiful part. It's all worked out. We'll test it out in one location first, that new Rizzi's place that opened on C. Big money folks there, so they don't pay attention to things so very much. And if they do, those braniacs made a machine for verification. If you put real gold, it'll show it as real gold. If you put in this stuff, it'll still show as real gold. If you put in anything else, it'll fail the test. All the bases are covered, babe."
"I'd expect nothing less from you, dear."
XL-N-2400 Room 308
19430705 07:01:16
Throop heard the snoring from the other side of the door as he turned the key in the handle to open it. That's another ten minutes wasted just for him to get himself awake and functional. It was bad enough to have to drive all the way out here and have no other business in the vicinity. The bed in the room was still made and empty, and Halsted slept in the couch nearby, with his legs dangling over one of the arm rests. The snores echoed in the silent room. Throop walked to his side, then lightly tapped his cheek with the back of his hand. Halsted's face formed a scowl when he was roused.
"Hey."
Halsted muttered some syllables through a yawn in protest, then asked, with his eyes still closed, "What time is it?"
"Like Seven."
"Seven? Jeezsus stoo fuggin early for this shit already, fuck. Didn't you do anything last night?"
"Why would I? Fourth is just a Sunday for us."
"No shit, but I figured maybe you went out with some friends on account of it being a weekend. Anyway, siddown already, hold on a minute."
Throop sat on the edge of the bed and watched Halsted haphazardly walk over to the bathroom. He didn't close the door before urinating, and let out a loud groan when he did so, as if he was obligated to indicate what he was doing.
"I got a few records found, it's in the envelope over there. He had a few jobs back on far N North Side, when he was a pup. That's probably his stomping ground now, I'd bet." Halsted paused before asking, "Did they ask about me?"
"Nobody asked about you. And they probably won't until I tell them you have your issue with the nutcase resolved."
"Christ. You ever try finding a bum? Anyone realize how that doesn't work? Especially one who's fucking mute? What do I do, ask other bum groups? 'Hey guys, nice oil can you got lit there, have you seen a silent psychopath laying around anywhere here?' It don't work like that."
"Right. None of us have seen nothin either, so I don't know."
"Yeah, yeah. Until then I'm cooped up in here most of my time. Like a damn jail. Hell, I might be better off in jail."
"Yeah, right, heh."
This is when Halsted had the inspiration.
"Hey - maybe. Maybe that's an actual out, out of this." He quickly returned to the couch to sit across from Throop.
"What's that?"
"Maybe I should go to jail. Voluntarily."
Throop sat silently for a moment in contemplation, then said, "Well, it would certainly keep you out of trouble and contact with the thing, that's for sure."
KF-N-6501
19301114 18:06:37
The Elsey Grammar School gymnasium is a drab but roomy brick box, lined with a parquet wooden floor and visibly supported by trussed steal beams across the ceiling. Sound carried in it rather well, and Mrs. Olten's piano arpeggio cues carried a greater pronounced resonance with each repetition. The children on stage, who had spent several weeks in preparation for this event and had never been part of any sort of theatrics, remained frozen in place and darted their eyes around the hall in nervous uncertainty. The teacher finally raised from her position at the piano and mouthed the words "Where is she?" silently to the three children on stage. One of them - the Montague - demurely pointed stage left. She then turned to address the audience.
"Oh it seems someone may have some stage fright, please excuse me." There was some sporatic laughter from the parents in attendance, which gave way to strands of hushed whispers.
Mrs. Olten was ready to race up the set of stairs leading up to the stage, but stopped short when she saw Helen Allegra standing there with her arms crossed and a marked scowl.
"Helen, did you hear my cue? You were supposed to go on stage by now."
"But it's all wrong!" When Helen said this, she ended the sentence with a forced pause and increase in volume.
"What is?"
Helen defiantly pointed towards the stage, identifying one issue after the next.
"Billy's supposed to be over there, Mary's supposed to be there too, and they're both supposed to be off to the side, and Tommy isn't standing on the X that you shown us, and," in saying this, Helen turned to Mrs. Otlen with a hand on her chest, giving another dramatic voice to the word, "my balcony isn't in the middle like you said it would be. It's all wrong. Fix it. You need to fix it, Misses Olten. It's all wrong! Fix it!" With the dramatic finish to the command, she rubbed her fists under her eyes and smeared her tears over her cheeks.
"Oh, Helen, honey ... look. Don't you remember the First Rule I said, when we do a special play like now? Do you remember?"
"'Do Your Part'." She refused to look up from the floor, and spoke barely louder than a breath.
"Right. Do your part. What you need to do," Mrs. Olten knelt down and placed her hands on Helen's shoulders, then peered into her eyes, "What you need to do now, Helen, is do your part. You can't do their part. They're doing their part. Even if it's bad. They're trying to do their part. Now you need to do yours too, OK?"
"But ... but it's not fair! It's still bad! It's still wrong!"
"OK, and ... it will be more wrong if you stay here, Helen. There is no show without you, after all."
Helen's heavy breathing came to a sudden stop, and she stepped back to look directly at Mrs. Olten.
"Really?"
"Well, of course, Helen. You're Juliet, after all. There's no Romeo and Juliet without Juliet, right?"
Helen smiled warmly, then said, "This is my play."
"It's our play, Helen, yes. And we need you to do your part, now."
"You need me now."
"Right, Helen."
Helen looked around the stage and nodded pensively, still sporting the wide smile on her face. "OK, Mrs. Olten, I'm ready now."
"Good!" Mrs. Olten turned and promptly walked back to her piano, her eyebrows raised in thinking about Helen's response to the conversation.
It didn't matter now. Without addressing the audience again, she sat down to the piano, played the fanfare once more, and Helen proudly walked over to the stepstool behind the cardboard depiction of a castle balcony. Helen recited the famous quote with excessive dramatic flair. Romeo kissed the air in front of Helen's face, then told the audience that parting is such sweet sorrow before walking off stage to the right. The curtain closed, and the other classes subsequently took their turns in making short presentations. Each performance was met with warm reception and applause. When the full class was on stage at the end of the night, with the parents standing and cheering loudly for all of the children, Helen broke away from her position amongst the other First Graders and stood center stage in front of everyone else. She blew kisses to the audience, some of whom in turn cheered more vociferously with her flourish. Helen turned to look back at her class group, and saw the other children bearing the same nervous postures and Mrs. Olten looking at her very sternly. KF-N-6501
19301114 18:06:37
The Elsey Grammar School gymnasium is a drab but roomy brick box, lined with a parquet wooden floor and visibly supported by trussed steal beams across the ceiling. Sound carried in it rather well, and Mrs. Olten's piano arpeggio cues carried a greater pronounced resonance with each repetition. The children on stage, who had spent several weeks in preparation for this event and had never been part of any sort of theatrics, remained frozen in place and darted their eyes around the hall in nervous uncertainty. The teacher finally raised from her position at the piano and mouthed the words "Where is she?" silently to the three children on stage. One of them - the Montague - demurely pointed stage left. She then turned to address the audience.
"Oh it seems someone may have some stage fright, please excuse me." There was some sporatic laughter from the parents in attendance, which gave way to strands of hushed whispers.
Mrs. Olten was ready to race up the set of stairs leading up to the stage, but stopped short when she saw Helen Allegra standing there with her arms crossed and a marked scowl.
"Helen, did you hear my cue? You were supposed to go on stage by now."
"But it's all wrong!" When Helen said this, she ended the sentence with a forced pause and increase in volume.
"What is?"
Helen defiantly pointed towards the stage, identifying one issue after the next.
"Billy's supposed to be over there, Mary's supposed to be there too, and they're both supposed to be off to the side, and Tommy isn't standing on the X that you shown us, and," in saying this, Helen turned to Mrs. Otlen with a hand on her chest, giving another dramatic voice to the word, "my balcony isn't in the middle like you said it would be. It's all wrong. Fix it. You need to fix it, Misses Olten. It's all wrong! Fix it!" With the dramatic finish to the command, she rubbed her fists under her eyes and smeared her tears over her cheeks.
"Oh, Helen, honey ... look. Don't you remember the First Rule I said, when we do a special play like now? Do you remember?"
"'Do Your Part'." She refused to look up from the floor, and spoke barely louder than a breath.
"Right. Do your part. What you need to do," Mrs. Olten knelt down and placed her hands on Helen's shoulders, then peered into her eyes, "What you need to do now, Helen, is do your part. You can't do their part. They're doing their part. Even if it's bad. They're trying to do their part. Now you need to do yours too, OK?"
"But ... but it's not fair! It's still bad! It's still wrong!"
"OK, and ... it will be more wrong if you stay here, Helen. There is no show without you, after all."
Helen's heavy breathing came to a sudden stop, and she stepped back to look directly at Mrs. Olten.
"Really?"
"Well, of course, Helen. You're Juliet, after all. There's no Romeo and Juliet without Juliet, right?"
Helen smiled warmly, then said, "This is my play."
"It's our play, Helen, yes. And we need you to do your part, now."
"You need me now."
"Right, Helen."
Helen looked around the stage and nodded pensively, still sporting the wide smile on her face. "OK, Mrs. Olten, I'm ready now."
"Good!" Mrs. Olten turned and promptly walked back to her piano, her eyebrows raised in thinking about Helen's response to the conversation.
It didn't matter now. Without addressing the audience again, she sat down to the piano, played the fanfare once more, and Helen proudly walked over to the stepstool behind the cardboard depiction of a castle balcony. Helen recited the famous quote with excessive dramatic flair. Romeo kissed the air in front of Helen's face, then told the audience that parting is such sweet sorrow before walking off stage to the right. The curtain closed, and the other classes subsequently took their turns in making short presentations. Each performance was met with warm reception and applause. When the full class was on stage at the end of the night, with the parents standing and cheering loudly for all of the children, Helen broke away from her position amongst the other First Graders and stood center stage in front of everyone else. She blew kisses to the audience, some of whom in turn cheered more vociferously with her flourish. Helen turned to look back at her class group, and saw the other children bearing the same nervous postures and Mrs. Olten looking at her very sternly.
18380221
"I must tell you something, Mister Frederic."
"What is it?" He knew Daron to not give his thoughts much pretense, so he now turned his body to directly face him.
"The crime is running this whole place over. I mean, it feels like I can't handle it. Seems like another month or two more of this and I lose it all. I don't know what I'll do with myself if these demons amongst us take this all away."
"Very well. What kind of constabulary have you formed here?"
"Consta-what?"
"Er.. watchmen. Guards. Who is keeping the law here. A sheriff, if you like."
"Besides me? I asked a few people who have been here the longest and I know are good - like Aaron, you met Aaron, big guy - I asked them to help watch over things but they don't care about it like I do. I ain't no mammoth but I've struck a few people who needed it. I do that."
"I see. Perhaps you need to confront them about this directly."
"Well see the thing is that there's so much more of those nasty folks than there are us good guys. I don't know of more good guys to ask to help."
"And there's no way for the so-called 'nasty folks' to see to your reason?"
"I guess not!" In saying this, Daron threw his hands to the air in a deliberate show of sardonic nonchalance. "I get this place, we build it up, they come here because they got no where else to go, and they still pissin in the well they drinkin from. Bastards."
"I should say so." Frederic marked the response with a puff of smoke from his cigar.
"So I got no more good guys. I got bad guys. How do I make some of them be good guys."
"I don't think that's possible, Daron."
Daron instantly reflected on the words which he just spoke. He stared out into the distance of the field past the porch balcony, turning his head slowly to study the gentle breeze sweeping across the tall grass. He said the words again, out loud. "Make the bad guys... good guys. Heh. What if, Frederic. What if that's all there is to it."
"Daron, in my travels and from what I've read, there's many leaders of great nations who are trying to find new ways to control their people. What you are suggesting is something that the most powerful of men in the world are trying to attempt. I fear that you face disaster if you try to change human nature so simply."
"But, Frederic. Frederic. What else can I do?"
OF-N-9210
The Cliffside Brewery was founded on September 15, 1855, beginning as a simple wooden frame shack which housed a few stills and barrels for the purpose of fermenting beer hops and making whisky. The original proprietor was Alfred Tompkins. As it was the first local brewery in the city, it was able to gain a strong customer base in short order and helped Daron's farm establish its own independence from local American cities, as bootleg importing declined sharply. After entertaining covert proposals from Confederate soldiers, Cook convinced Mr. Tompkins to produce whisky for sale to the CSA, on terms that it would only be exchanged for gold specie. The contract proved valuable both for the brewery business as well as the fledgling city in general, as the specie was melted into blank ingots which were promptly used to build credit with the United States and other foreign countries. After the Secession War, the brewery's developed specialty of making whisky exceeded its beer production, and the company currently only bottles beer on special order, despite keeping the Brewery word in its title. Since 1912, it has bottled a special thirteen year aged whisky (known as Cliffside Amethyst) which is considered the finest quality of whisky which is produced in the city and has garnered international acclaim throughout the decades since. The current 50,000 square foot facility was finalized in 1936 and has only seen subtle structural refinements since then.
OF-N-9210
18620313 10:57:03
Cliff Tompkins spent the morning recording notes about the lager barrels which were stored in the basement of the shack. There was only so much which he could visibly see while holding the lantern light next to his face when he peered inside the casks. It would have been too much work to bring them closer to an area with visible light and he didn't want to remove the barriers which had shielded the beer from sunlight all of these months. Because of this, the notes he made were as terse as they were vague. Barrel #1 was "OK", Barrel #2 had "lots of specks left", and so on. He was making a note that Barrel #6 "smelled bad" when he heard footsteps coming down the stairway behind him. The weight and pace of the steps informed him that it wasn't his wife coming down to see him and that there was company. It was Cook, and he had arrived on business.
"Oh, Jesse! I didn't expect to see you at this hour. What's the occasion?"
"Let me tell you." Jesse came over to Cliff and greeted with a brisk handshake while daring his eyes around the dark basement. There wasn't enough light to see any corner of the room, which is what he wanted regardless. "Let's go over to the corner, we need to talk directly." The emphasis on the last word informed Cliff of the severity. When Cliff spoke, it was barely above a whisper.
"So what is it then?"
"We've uh, we've had a business deal made to us. We got a proposition, and I wanted to give you the first chance to act, since I like your business and beer. Thing is though...", when Jesse said this, he hunched over to be closer to Cliff and speak in a sharp whisper, "... it's from the Jeffs." Cliff felt his brow pinch above his nose.
"The - the Confedrits? You sure? They comin to us, now?"
"You've had to hear about it by now. They're in a bind. Spirits are being banned by the companies and the states. Papers are crying and getting them shut down. They're in a knot, and they're comin to us because there's soldiers there by the hundreds who want nothing more than a hard drink. Don't surprise me, really."
"And you want me to exchange my goods - give them the fruits of my labor - because we got the chance? I say we let those assholes starve, Jesse. Fuck em and let em claw at us with withered hands."
"But it's not that simple, Cliff. They're offering coin. Real gold coin. I wouldn't ask you to do this for their shitpaper notes. Shit, someone can probably make their own tender, look better than theirs."
"And what in the hell am I supposed to do with Federate coin? Who here will take it? How can I hold that in my hand with pride?"
"Cliff, look." Daron took the lantern out of Cliff's hand and placed it on the top of one of the beer barrels, then took a step back. Cliff could only see the edge of his face and his eyes in the darkness. "You know we can melt that down to our own, and you know that even their shit money is good money when we clean it. It's not about pride, Cliff. Besides, you can't feed yourself with pride. It don't work like that. And if you don't take this up, all I'm gonna do is find someone else who will. Now they have more money than you, now they can expand faster than you. You with your pride and they with more product and more customers. I'm giving you the chance to make the right choice here, Cliff."
KA-N-0210
18981017 11:12:44
The letter was read aloud by Jay to the other three people seated at the table before him:
"To my dearest sons Brandon and Jason - I have written my final will with the intent to sever any ties to my business which you may have supposed or expected to remain. I have indeed, and in lucid judgment, decreed for the brewery to be liquidated and all assets obtained in doing so to be donated to the Third Baptist Church. My basis in doing so is simply because the entirety of the business should not have remained since the States' War, and it only was my tainted morals and lack of courage that kept it alive. In 1861, I was effectively coerced into producing and selling my product for Confederate soldiers. Though no specific forms of retribution were stated, the implication was clear that my compliance was mandatory and not to be questioned. Turning my hobby into a fruitful business was one of the greatest pleasures I had in life, besides raising you both, and I wanted to ensure that I could raise you both comfortably and not have to endure hardship. However, I must now truthfully confess that the knowledge of how our household's security was kept filled me with a despair and rage which was as frightful as much as it needed to be obscured. I became a man beside myself in knowing where the money used to buy our food came from. I would not wish this kind of burden on any enemy which I would ever have, much less my own sons, so that is why I have set for its liquidation in my final will. Please know that it is my dying wish for both of you to not have to endure this kind of suffering. With my eternal love and affection, your father, Clifford Tompkins."
Jay continued to stand and stare at the paper, as if there was potential for an additional post script to appear. Brandon and their two wives sat in shocked silence.
"I refuse." Upon saying this, Jay placed the paper upon the table and his hands on the backs of two seats which were near him. "This is an unfair thing to ask of us and I refuse to let everything that he built up over all that time just fade away."
"But, it's a will." Brandon said unusually demure in saying this. "You can't just say no to a will. That's Dad's dying wish."
"But the wish is asking us to liquidate our livelihoods too! How is that fair to us? How can he, through all those years, let us help him, teach us how to run the place, get us involved in his work, and then tell us to give that all up on top of everything else? We make good drink, we have loyal customers throughout the city, we have put years of our childhood into keeping the business alive. We're supposed to quit on his word?"
"I don't see why not, Jay, we're well off. We can walk away."
"What if I don't care about his wish! What about my wish? What if I care about the business and that I like keeping it going? So, granted, he got support early on from some lynchin ghosts. Fine. But I can see why he did it, coercion or not. He had a business and a house to keep. Letting that money go probably would have made him, made us, lose it all right then."
"So that's, so you're just gonna ignore Dad's will then? Really?"
"In a word, yes." Jay nodded several times, repeating the terminal word. "Yes, I will. Yes. Now I just-", is all he said, and if he continued to speak out loud, would have stated that he "just needs to figure out how to change the will". In thinking about it, Jay considered it easier to obey a falsified will than ignore an actual one. This meant his next question to answer is how to get that will officially altered. He knew someone he might ask to get that to happen.
BA-S-9777
18580918 14:56:01
Doctor Caden could barely contain his eagerness as he explained the experiment schematic to Henry Millings. He started the verbal tour by pointing to the small cylindrical container which rested in the middle of the switch box.
"This device... this container is what will be the focal point of this exercise. This is what makes this all work. Now, observe that liquid in the middle of the glass container there. That is human blood - my blood. The same is also found in that container in the box here. Now, what I have done is found a compound to add to the blood and infused the state of it in two electrical charge pulses. What I mean is, see those electical lines leading through the plate? This surface acts a conductor of electricity between the two terminals connected to the power source here. The state of the blood now is with the charge of this container being off. Now, watch what happens when I flip this switch."
Caden pulled the handle down, which caused the small cylinder within it to shift downward in position as well. Once in this spot, the blood on the glass plate actually began to move. The shapeless circle slowly took on less of a circular formation and began to form edges, until within nothing more than a few seconds, the circle had become a perfectly angled square.
"Isn't that marvelous!"
"How... how is this happening, Doctor?" Millings was as astonished to see it happen before his eyes as Caden was to explain it to him.
"I used a template. I put the blood into a square frame and then impressed an electrical charge to it through this power source, but additionally, while the blood cylinder in the middle there was activated. In other words, there is something about the way the blood-compound reacts to the electric charge that when the charge is through the blood, it retains a memory of the shape it was in when it had a similar charge before."
"This is unworldly!"
JF-N-7662
19220519 15:08:33
The conclusion of another school week was one of the favorite times for Lilian Manheim, but not because the week long stretch of dreary classwork had come to a close - in fact, this is the specific point in the week when she did the most work. The main entrance to Mainfield School had a short vestibule, the immediate left to which was the Principal's Office, a short hallway to the right led to the gymnasium, and the rest of the school was connected from that center focal point. The majority of students and faculty left through this exit. Each Friday, Lilian would walk down the west hall to collect her brother, then proceed to the main entrance and lean against the corner of the hallway. From this vantage point, she could observe anyone who passed, and people who wanted to seek her out learned to find her there. Cradled in her left arm was the notebook which bore a shade of red only slightly darker than her hair, and this book contained months of intricate records and notes, to which more content was added on days like this. With her little brother standing immediately beside her and rarely looking up from the ground, few felt compelled to form a queue while she addressed one person to the next. Most of the prospective clients gave an appearance as if they were waiting in line to use the neighboring bathroom, or cast glances over shoulders while they idly stood by lockers which lined the hall.
There were never any official rules stated about how she conducted her business. This all simply fell into place over time. Lilian liked it best like that - things worked out for her without her even asking for it. Of course, her detractors would say that she got it all handed to her on a platter because of her father's financial and social clout, and it was because of this that any teacher would speak to her at this time; but her own meticulous work ethic is what enabled her to maintain this service and be successful at doing it.
First in line was Brian Metzo, a seventh grade student who was as pudgy as he was dull witted. He asked if there was someone willing to do the geography project which is due the upcoming 22nd. The task entailed a three page written report with at least three separate references. He was assigned Chile, and offered a quarter for the job. He gave the money over immediately. Lilian flipped to one of the first pages in her book, ran a finger over a list of ten names, and decided upon Alex Silverston to be arranged for the task. She hasn't had a need to ask Alex for extra work in over a week, and his performance was enough to usually warrant a high C or low B grade. She would have assigned Brian Petrach to the job if he had offered a half buck. In the last page of her book, she wrote the line "HW: Metzo, 7th. Geography. Silverston. Paid. 5/19." and promptly snapped the book shut with a pinch of her fingers, while smiling and saying "Thank you." Brian shuffled off in a hurry.
With Brian out of the way, Peter Novak quickly stepped over from the boy's bathroom door entrance. He was a thin, short sixth grader with small black curly hair that rolled out under his hat. "A pack?" Lilian asked as he approached, and he nodded twice to confirm. She knelt to her side to reach into Henry's backpack and pulled out a box of playing cards which were emptied and had ten hand rolled cigarettes inside. The packs were a dime each, and cost a few pennies of tobacco to make. The card boxes came from her father's casino operation, and the teachers never inspected her brother's bag. Her right hand took the dime from Peter while the left passed the cigarettes to Peter. He coninued in stride after the exchange and quickly left the school. She opened her book to one of the front pages and marked another notch next to Peter's name to indicate another pack sold. He had purchased twenty this year, which was the fourth most of any of her customers.
Lilian glanced over the bathroom entrance and noted at least six other boys who seemed to be waiting to speak with her. This Friday would take a while for her to clear out, but she didn't mind.
Late last year in her world history class, Mr. Druff made mention of the adage when talking about the era, telling the class that "all roads led to Rome." After the class ended, one of her classmate friends said that the phrase could be altered now to say "All roads lead to Lilian". On Fridays like this, it certainly seemed true.
KZ-N-4800
19510608 11:06:11
"This isn't the first time that David and I got into a fight." She rubbed her hands over each other in a nervous circular motion while admitting this. "And not the first time outside, neither. This is just how it goes sometimes, but I love him, though, sir."
"Right, ma'am. Just stick to the answer."
"Now David didn't hit me, now, he just held me tight and was yellin and hollerin as loud as can be, and I was yellin back and strugglin because that's how I have to stand up to him, and I was movin' around and he was just yelling about 'Don't make me hurt you' but he didn't do nothin. This was on for like a few minutes or so. We was yellin so much that I didn't see him approach."
"He ws just there?" The Officer asked this without looking up from the small pad of paper where he was writing notes.
"Right, right, we goin, we yellin, then we stop and look and there's this ... guy. Just standing there only a few more steps apart than we are now. And he didn't do nothin right off neither, he just stand there starin. Just starin. Not a word. He's starin David down hard, though. That he did right off. Then David asks the guy what's he lookin at, and that's all it took. David says that, next thing this guy rushes up and tackles him. Pins Davey against the car and holds him against the side by his neck, holdin him down, and starts swinging hard - real, real hard - on his face. If the first hit didn't make blood the second or third did for sure. And he just kept going. He didn't stop until David stopped squirming and went limp. Only then he let him drop to the ground."
"So how would you describe this individual?" Now the Officer took the time to make eye contact with her.
"Oh, I say wild. Looked wild. Hair was a mess, clothes were holy, his face kept moving around, like he didn't want me to see his eyes. He licked his knuckles when he was done doin that. David's on the ground most dead and he just stands over him lickin his fists like a fucking animal."
"Right. What would you say about his physical characteristics?"
"White man, maybe six feet, long matty dark hair - I think it was dark hair. Never said a word. While he's standin there lickin chops, I start to ask why he did that, and he just snorted and ran off."
EA-S-5040
19020719 09:48:55
...
"Thank you for letting me in, Mrs. Walsh. Is your husband still dining upon his breakfast in the kitchen? I'd presume as much on this hour."
"Mhm, I just made some coffee for him and he's having some toast I think. Could you wait here for him to come out?"
"M, no, actually. I'd prefer to go meet him if you don't mind?" Western didn't want to have a scene get ugly in the main front room here. If he did have to take action in this case, he didn't want to have to do it in this main living room at the front of the house. His wife seemed pleasant enoguh and there were a few prized possessions in this area, such as family pictures hung on the wall and framed with intricate silver decor, a sofa and love seat featuring an elaborate fine thread pattern, and an apparently recently purchased upright piano. This wasn't the time for this place to be put in risk. "I am in a rush as I have many things to attend to, you know how Saturdays are, most folks work during the week so that lives precious little time for me to find them! Yes indeed, the days when most of the working class are at rest, are the days which I have the most to do. It's rather taxing, I must say, Mrs. Walsh." He remained standing and holding his hat by the brim while saying all of this.
"OK, well, he's just over there then." She waved to her right with a flip of her hand and quickly returned her attention to Western. His impatience was starting to make her nervous. He nodded silently and immediately proceeded to the kitchen.
Paul Walsh was hunched over the far end of the table with his left hand tightly clenching the newspaper while he vigorously chewed his food. Half of one slice of toast rested before him on a small white plate. He swallowed his mouthful before placing the paper down to address him.
"Hello, who are you?"
"You can call me Chris. Mr. Walsh, forgive my bluntness but my business with you should be kept to a minimum. I'm here on behalf of Carbondale."
Upon hearing the name, Paul angrily tossed the paper to the table's side and quickly walked up to face Western closely. He kept his voice quiet.
"I told him that I needed more time. Six hundred bucks isn't something that I just have lying around, y'know?"
"Oh, I see, and by that you mean you don't have six hundred just lying around now." Western cast his glance away from the wall, out through the kitchen window, and continued. "Because I recall being told that you bet nearly twice that - a cool thou - on that fight last April, with you taking McVey over Sullivan. You recall that, don't you?" He returned his sight forward. "I recall hearing that you got paid for it. We honored our terms, Paul."
"I said that times weren't good now, my bills piled and work ain't paid as much. I'm not runnin scared from you. You're here in my house. I'm not hidin. You'll get your damned money, but only when I got it to give to you."
Western bore a countenance of depression with the answer, and resumed looking out the window when he spoke next.
"Paul, I'm sorry to hear that you don't have six hundred just lying around. It is a lot, yes, but you really should have it. For times of emergency, y'know?" Upon saying this, Western held his right hand up towards the window in a fist, and snapped it open. A silver rod shot immediately from his hand and shattered the window, and retracted into his hand before the shards finished falling to the floor. He then adjusted his hand to the cabinet to the side of the window, over the sink, and the cylinder fired again, tearing a hole through the wooden door and shattering the glassware inside. Paul quickly recovered from the shock of this unexplainable destruction and rose up from his chair to make a dash at Western. In response, Western aimed his right hand and shot the mercuric beam directly at Paul, lodging the blunt end of it directly into his neck. Paul was rendered motionless by the suddenness of the metal being lodged into his throat. He felt the metal vibrate against his skin, and his coarse breath strain against his constricted vocal chords.
"Listen, Paul, just because you don't hide from me doesn't mean that you don't want to pay. We know, OK? We know that you can. So be a man and do it. That's not too much to ask of you, is it? I surely hope it isn't. I definitely hope you don't forestall this concluding in a mature manner."
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