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.

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.

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?"

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."