Henry Elias Blackthorne vs. Snakeman
HOMELESS ABDUCTED!
Local homeless advocates have reported an entire encampment on the strip median disappeared overnight. Locals reported seeing weird lights at night around the area. This picture was captured (just a burry mess of rainbow colors on the road) Is it more aliens? Snake people? The necromancer "Tremor" from the future that attacked my very own self at the Rally to remove the Mayor? Devil-women? or more "Sewer Gas?" Report any information you have to The Mystery Times!
*********
A lone figure sits toward the rear of a well-respected establishment on the north side of Harlem. Old Hill’s* is the second reincarnation of one of the most famous jazz clubs in Upper Manhattan; greats like Ellison and Gillespie formed the bebop sound in places like this, and the new owners have sought to recapture the old time glitz and glam of the original playhouse.
A friend of the owners, though, has paid handsomely to have the place to himself for the afternoon; always discreet and happy to take in double their normal afternoon proceeds, the owners obliged their friend. He rarely imposes on them, and brings them a lot of business for someone who professes to be “uniquely inept” with any form of musical instrument.
The figure looks out from his vantage point through the shade-darkened windows at the early afternoon hustle & bustle on the street. It’s a different world than what he knows, even if he does dip into the Harlem nightlife on occasion. The struggles against poverty and prejudice, even by folks like his friends who own this beautiful restaurant. He can only imagine getting up each day to face that struggle, the despair and desperation it can bring.
He hears a door behind him open, followed by soft footfalls coming from behind the stage.
“A clandestine meeting in an empty restaurant,” the silky voice proclaims. “What the hell are you up to, Henry Blackthorne?”
Henry turns and stands to meet the owner of the voice, his trademark mischievous smile on his lips. “You know, the usual cloak ‘n’ dagger. Hello, ‘Nita.”
The pair share a light embrace and a mutual kiss on the cheek. Henry has known Anita Alelia Gamble since college; they met through their significant others and became good friends despite their very different upbringings. He dropped out just before his senior year to begin his “life of adventure” and she went on to graduate and found a dozen homeless shelters and become a true angel of mercy in the city. But they still remained good friends - her mother still sends him her famous peanut butter cookies each year for his birthday, and the Blackthorne Family Foundation regularly gives generously to her organization.
For today, however, Henry has need of her as the angel of mercy. He hopes she can give him some information on the recent disappearances.
He offers the chair across from his and holds it for her to sit. “Seriously, Henry, what is your play today? If Quan knew we were here without him…”
“I’ll make it up to him, I promise,” he says as he gives a nod to the wait staff. Henry has always been fond of ShaQuan, ‘Nita’s husband. He’s a good man who never quite reached the heights as a performer, and instead turned to music producing and carved a nice little niche out for himself in the hip hop scene.
“Nothing untoward, except the bribe, of course,” he continues, gesturing to the lamb burgers being brought out. “I need some information. I’m looking into those disappearances, and I was hoping you or your staff might’ve heard something from your tenants…”
* I’m using Ol’ Hill’s as a stand-in for Minton’s jazz club in Upper Manhattan. The surname Minton comes from a Welsh word meaning “hill,” hence the name.
*~*~*~*~*
A few hours later, as dusk falls over the city, Blackthorne carefully weaves through debris toward a group of tents set up in a back alley. Anita had phoned him after talking to some of the staff at one of her Angel of Harlem shelters closest to the most recent mass disappearance, and said some of her tenants had heard of “strange happenings” in this particular encampment.
He expects to find a few dozen lost souls mostly hiding from him, the stranger in the black outfit and helmet. Blackthorne isn’t prepared for what confronts him; a dozen residents of the camp, some unconscious, some moaning in distress, strewn out in front of him, their bodies twisted like gnarled trees.
And sinister-looking hooded figures in the distance. No - not hooded; snake-men!
This message was last edited by the player at 21:54, Tue 04 Oct 2022.
