*saxaphone plays in the background*

Uatu lights a cigarette as he stares up at the starry skyline, now clear after a quick thunderstorm.

"I almost got my ass fired for that ice cream trick, but I still managed to squeak by."

He stares up at the full moon and inhales deeply.

"That was a close call. But it was worth it. I got a great couple of great stories to send back. And I made sure these guys will still be around. Can't stay in business if there's no planet left, can I? You think I want to be stuck counting asteroids for the next millennium? Now, let me get back back to what I'm best at doing..."

He taps his cigarette, but the embers seem to vanish before they hid the thin sheen of water on the pavement. The rubber soles of his wingtipped shoes make no ripples as he wanders to the end of the street..

"And that's watching."

He tips his fedora and winks at the camera. There's a flash from distant lightning, and buy the time the thunder slowly rolls through, you realize he's gone.

It hadn't started out with a leggy femme fatale. No big verdant eyes and long lashes, hadn't started out with a leggy femme fatale. No big verdant eyes and long lashes, no hushed breaths and fiery mane. Just a plump Minnesotan hausfrau and her tiny little sparrow of a mother-in-law. The middle-aged woman had trouble getting her story across but things got along a lot more smoothly once he and Granny Steinsvik had gotten to conversing in Norwegian. The old bird was a lot more to the point, just as exasperated and exhausted as her daughter-in-law but she had bones of flint.

His rough exterior concealed a cold, predatory interior. Logan believed that more surely than the Pope believed in God. At the same time, he wasn't capable of blinding himself to others. To his eyes people were rather slow and deliberate, so every little tic and twitch spoke volumes. He could pick out the individual heartbeats in a room the way a conductor knew every note of every instrument in a symphony. Scent was a whole other world of detail. They had a damn sad story. And photographs. He was honestly eager to take the job, not so much out of righteousness, though there was some, or avaraice, he didn't see this one being his windfall, but to keep from hearing any more. When Logan thought to himself that he'd rather be shot than endure the company of two sorrowful women, he wasn't using the slightest bit of hyperbole.

Finding the kid hadn't been the challenge. The city was a dizzying scentscape but he navigated it with ease. Even amidst the hosts of carcinoma angels cast up by exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke he was able to prowl around the likely arrival points to pick up a trail. The boy was only seventeen, hadn't eaten or slept in days. He caught up to kid making a brisk pace for downtown. Keeping to the alleyways and sidestreets. Smart, he couldn't have been sure that his mother and grandmother hadn't called the cops to bring him in.

Not smart enough to keep the safety on, though. "Hey. Sam." Logan saw the kid turning, which was the point. He knew about the gun, had smelled it while he was tracking the boy. There was more than enough time to charge in and dismember the boy before he got a shot off, which was his first instinct. The shot got him square in the forehead, the slide hadn't even retracted before he caught the pistol and tore it free. The bullet was flattened, the shallow hole in his forehead sealing up.

The question of what to do with young Sam to persuade him to come along was settled by the young man, who promptly fainted backwards.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:39, Sat 23 Mar 2019.

Tandy had picked the perfect place for their first real date. Harlem's Lenox lounge. It certainly was no Cotton Club, but it was no dive ether. Low lighting, low key, but with real talented music and a dance floor. Not to mention couple's booths where the two could blend into the shadows in near total privacy. Something that Ty needed, given he could not change clothes very easily.

Despite that, Ty and Tandy had saved quite a lot of people, both at the hotel and during the lizard investigation. The papers had overlooked them both due to the flashier heroes like the Richards Family and Mr Stark's group of friends. Granted, given who Ty was he rather suspected they overlooked them both on purpose-but truth be told they did not help for fame.

Despite that humble approach, they still had a decent group of admirers among the people of this city. Enough where they would not bother them on the dance floor, their booth, and even comp their dinner. Ty did not mind, after all-it was not like he ate food. As far as he was concerned, every one of Tandy's needs should be met and them some. Tandy felt a bit bad about it, but quickly got over it when they had been told any of tonight's leftovers could be donated to the orphanage.

As Duke Ellington's smooth sounds drifted through the room, Tandy leaned her head on Ty's now-solid shoulder. For her, he was an actually physical being, even if it looked like he was wearing nothing but shadow under that cloak. One could barley make out arms and a torso, considering they where wrapped round Tandy was they both swayed and spun on the dance floor.

She glanced up, and actually caught Ty smiling. He tried to keep a serious expression almost all of the time. Both to keep others away from him and to not look 'weak'. She knew better. She knew the real Ty under all that darkness and hunger. The void could not obscure him from her. She smiled at him, and leaned her head back against his shoulder as he held her to him on the dance floor.

Places like this where one of the few places in New York they could dance like this...and not just because they where somewhat inhuman. Black boys don't dance with white girls in public. Expect they did of course, but usually there where very harsh consequences. In the Jazz clubs however, they where just another couple.

Sam woke to a dim, smokey room, looking at the man he'd killed. For a moment he could have been forgiven for thinking it was hell. The flame was just a match. The end of the man's cigar glowed cherry red with a few puffs. The smoke had a finer aroma than the cigarettes his grandmother had smoked.

"Drink your beer, kid." Logan's voice was deep and rich, it had a harsh edge and a purring, growling timbre. "I ain't old enough to drink. Sir." It was an instinctive reaction, but also the sanest possible thing to say in the situation. Nothing else that came to mind would have sounded right to speak aloud.

"Ain't old enough to go shooting folks, neither. That ain't stopped you." Logan had a whiskey bottle and a glass in front of him. Whatever was in the bottle was clear and the air above the bottle wavered with fumes that would likely strip paint. The glass was bone dry. "Sorry about that." Apologising meant it had really happened. Whatever else, he at least hadn't killed the man. Having murder in one's heart was one thing, it wasn't the same just gunning down anyone he met. He still wasn't sure if the man was a cop.

Logan waved his hand, making an arc of blue smoke with his cigar. "It's fine. Good shot, though. You're awful good for someone who's never killed someone." A shadow loomed over the table in the already gloomy bar. A monolithic slab of a man loomed over them. He sported a wild array of tattoos from his heavily scarred knuckles all the way up to and beyond his shirtsleeves, reappearing from beneath his neatly starched collar. He placed a plate of sandwiches down in front of the young man, eyeing him cautiously. "Vic, hold on to this for the kid. Family heirloom. He can give you an address to mail it to when he's back home."

Sam looked from the one man to the other. The guy with the voice like a chain-smoking tiger scared him but he didn't exactly fancy his chances of snatching the gun from the shovel-sized hand of the giant behind the counter. "I need that. Please."

"If you're gonna kill someone, using your daddy's gun the day after the cops know you got into the city ain't exactly the way to go about it."

When the Empire State building had opened its doors it had been a laughing stock. The tallest building in the world and they could only find tenants for 20% of it. They kept the lights on throughout just to trick people into thinking the thing was in use. Of course, how could the architects have predicted the Great Depression? How would they have known that the market would dry up overnight?

Fisk knew. He had seen the writing on the wall. Ironic that the Great Depression made him one of the wealthiest people on the planet. Of course, he couldn't have done it without Prohibition. Such nonsense. How could the government of the United States of America know so little about the people it governed? No matter, Fisk understood.

The Italian mafia was his. The docks were his. The construction companies were his. The waste management companies were his. The police were his. The politicians were his. And everything above the 70th floor of the Empire State building was his. He didn't need the whole thing. He didn't want the whole thing. He had made a fortune building it, and now he claimed the greatest power offered by the building for pennies on the dollar. Soon the airwaves would be his as well. Already his people were drafting lease agreements to a number of radio broadcasters. He would ensure that the words being transmitted to millions of homes were on message, his message.

At a desk in his penthouse office on the 74th floor Fisk met with his inner circle.

"Sir, the zoning adjustments have been passed. Roxxon's power plant and stadium in Hell's Kitchen will soon have their permits revoked and will be forced to dismantle their investments there. We expect a court challenge, but that should only delay the eviction by 6 months or so."

"Good." Fisk said simply. Though, what he wanted to do was tear the stadium down with his bare hands. Roxxon and Victor Von Doom had embarrassed him. Him! IN HIS CITY!!! The dragon, the disease, and the increased attention from both the Avengers and the Fantastic Four. Though Fisk would not admit it to anyone, he had lost control. And he hated losing control. But now that Latveria had overplayed their hand he could deal with them. Roxxon was about to find itself almost incapable of doing business and Von Doom was going to quickly find out that the dissidents in his little kingdom were now much, MUCH better armed.

See, that's what made him different. These self-aggrandized maniacs only drew attention to themselves. Their sense of self importance was too high and their patience was too low. This rose up only to be struck down.

But the events of the past month had drawn attention to a weakness within his organization; one he intended to erase. See, the "hero" response to both the Roxxon Stadium and Fritz-Charleston Hotel had been... robust. It wasn't that he didn't know how many freaks were running around in his city, it was how effectively they had worked together that bothered him. He needed to find a way to increase the friction between them, turn them on each other. He also needed a few on his payroll in case his hand was forced and he had to be more direct that strictly desirable.

"Reduce all illegal enterprises by 50%. Fall back into our strongest bases."

"Sir?"

"I want to create a power vacuum, and I want the other gangs fighting over it. I want them gunning down each other in the streets. I want our local heroes to mobilize to deal with it. And I want everything they do tracked. I don't care who you have to bribe to do it. I will pay every homeless man in New York $50 to learn where Spider-man or Daredevil or any of those others rest their heads. I want to know where they live, who they interact with, what their names are and who their families are. But more than that, I want to know their secrets and their vices. Watch, listen, report. We will take back what is ours soon enough."

"Yes sir!"

Camera slowly zooms in through the New York skyline, floating over the city's rooftops and slowly heading towards a 2nd story room, of an inappropriately maintained red brick brothel. Silouethe of a fit, young woman sitting on the edge of her bed, back facing the camera, dominates the frame, with an exhausted 30 something year old, muscular man playing the second fiddle to the dominating figure. After few failed attempts to reach her beaded clutch purse on the nightstand next to her, Danielle finally manages to do so, taking out a fresh pack of her trusty Luckies, fiddling a bit with the cellophane wrapper before taking a ciggarete out and lighting it with gusto.

"Whoever said a cigarette after sex is one of the Earth's greatest delights, definitely wasn't lying."

She takes several puffs and exhales above herself with her head slanted back, fully enjoying every bit of the smoke intertwining with the morning sunlight. With sky blue bed sheets draped loosely around her body, Danielle rises and heads toward the bathroom with a lit cigarette still in her right hand, a little glimpse of her derriere stinging the camera. The man next to her was Nikolai Sokolov, a Russian mob affiliate who ran a speakeasy down the street. He was a regular client and Danielle knew both his mind and body intimately, all of his wishes and his fears. At that moment in particular he was yearning for more influence and power..... but at the same time he was deeply skeptical if he was a big enough man to wield them. An innsecure man, pathetic. While he was asleep, Danielle rummaged through his pockets, as she usually did with clients, but this time instead of banknotes she found a letter, from his boss... With no time to fully read the letter, she stashed the letter away, behind a loose ceramic tile, knowing it would fetch a great price to the right buyer. As Nikolai slowly woke up, and put his clothes on, the lovers enjoyed a cigarette together, reminiscing of how much fun they had the night before. Danielle then gave him a kiss and escorted him out of the brothel, giving the Madam her part of the share on her way back inside.

She returned to the rented apartment afterwards, to pack up few of her things and to do a little touch up, when suddenly she heard knocking on the door, increasing in volume gradually. After minutes of no response, the door buckled under the pressure of three men pushing against it. Nikolai stood there with his two lap dogs, holding lead pipes in their hands, with no fear of using them.

"Если вы не вернете украденное письмо, вы умрете!"

Russian was never her forte, but judging from Nikolai's tone, he wasn't back for another quick rendezvous. She was never afraid of the "wise" guys, she didn't consider them to be that wise in the first place, which made the upcoming conflict easy to deal with in her mind. As she began walking slowly towards the group, she took out a  hidden pocket knife out of her stockings. With the weapon in her hand, Danielle began projecting herself as having multiple limbs, and began her dance of death. Her enemies lost posture as the fight drew out, as punching into thin air and parrying non-existent attacks proved to be disorienting and tiring. Danielle finally saw an opening, and had the blade of her saw tooth pocket knife slash open the mobster's carotid arteries, painting the walls of the apartment blood red. Then she threw the pocket knife at the other lap dog with a precision of a circus knife thrower, puncturing his heart and ending his life on the spot. Relishing in this impressive triumph quickly ended as a direct punch sent Danielle crashing into the bed frame. On her knees, desperate and out of breath, Danielle issued a, what she thought will be, her final plea, or a veiled threat.

"Nikolai.... if you think selling me off to your taskmaster will become your shortcut to power and success... I hope your soul rots on the way there."

There she found herself, on the floor, stunned by this new turn of fate, Was it worth leaving her parents behind for this, was her life in the apple coming to an unforeseen end. Nikolai didn't think much of Danielle's words, he was too busy imagining the life of luxury that was waiting for him upon Danielle's handover. He landed several punches to make sure that Danielle was incapacitated to act. As she drifted into unconsciousness, she wondered about the letter, were it's contents that confidential to warrant a murder of a prostitute. Where was the Madame while she was getting attacked, did she let them in? Hopefully she will be able to find revenge and answers to all these questions once she wakes up from her unconscious state.
This message was last edited by the player at 07:19, Sat 13 Apr 2019.

It was more a New York kind of cold than a Siberian kind of cold, and that was just about all that could be said about it.  The city had changed since he'd left, and Bucky was still adjusting to the change.  New York in the teens had been rollicking and wealthy, but unemployment gripped over 1 in 4 people, and most people didn't have enough work, and what was once a rollicking city now seemed one giant Hoovertown.

He was at the Lower East End waterfront, where a series of wharves had been abandoned and a makeshift city had emerged.  Thousands of people and he was one of them.  Some radicals had created a little order, and there were daily meals of a sort, but overall it was a hard place to get by - theft and violence were commonplace.  Sexual assault, too.  Women and kids were vulnerable, and there were a lot of grass widows - families where the father had just taken off, vanished to who knows where to do who knows what.  Bucky wished he could get those sonsofbitches.

He was better off than most at the camp.  He was physically fit - physically impressive - and he could get day labor.  He always made sure to wear long sleeves and gloves to hide the arm of St. Ilia.  But he could usually get day labor, enough so he ate well enough, enough that he could chip in so others could also get decent food.

The worst of it, though, were the gangsters.  They shook people down, these, who had nothing.  He told himself to keep his head down....

He came back from dock work, day labor, bullshit pay, but enough to buy a couple of chickens - he'd finish one off, himself, and put the other in the communal pot - and he walked towards the center of the camp when he saw the goons.  They were straight from central casting - suits and slicked back hair.  He wondered if Hollywood copied their look and suspected they copied the look Hollywood created.  The gunsels were shaking down a new family to the place - a pretty young woman with two kids, and Bucky knew what they wanted.  There was always work for a pretty girl in the speakeasies.

Bucky said, "Why don't you mugs leave the lady alone?"

The head goon said, "Scram.  This doesn't concern you, palooka."

The second goon said, "Beat feet, punchy."

Bucky set down his bag with the chickens.  He cursed himself as he did it, but he wanted to do it.  Not just because it was notionally the right thing to do, but because he wanted to do it, that their insults made it easy to do.

Bucky: "Beat feet before I do things to you that you didn't even know could happen to someone."

The goons stopped harassing the woman.  She ducked inside her shelter, pulled the curtain closed.

The head goon faced Bucky.  "We've got a wise guy here."

The goon lead with the move that almost all untrained fighters used - an overhand right.  It was obvious and slow.  Bucky countered with a hip throw that drove the goon's skull into the ground.  He didn't know how to break his fall, so the asphalt cracked open his skull.  The second goon went for his piece, actually got it out before the arm of St. Ilia clamped itself over the gun, and it stopped moving, and Bucky drove a knee into the thug's groin, completed the disarm and drew a bead on the thug's skull.

The man was gasping from the groin shot.  He was angry, but also frightened.

"That was a bad idea!  You got no idea who you're dealing with here!"

Bucky ignored the braggadocio.  He said, "Take what's left of your friend and get out of here.  Don't come back.  If I see you, again, I won't be so nice."

The goon grabbed his friend, tried to get him up, couldn't, but someone came to help him.  Even after all they'd done, someone would help these criminal thugs.

Then Bucky looked at the gun in his hand.  It had been a while since he had one - a good Colt .45 semi-automatic.  Reliable.  Powerful.  It brought back memories of a different time when he was a different person and the possibility that he could be something else, too.

"Shit," he said.

From a nearby roof-top, Captain America saw the whole thing. He was about to intervene, but the Russian seemed to be handling himself just fine. Cap had his shield in hand and was ready to knock the gun from the Russian's hand, but he had a feeling the guy wouldn't shoot. Something about him seemed familiar. Something about the way he fought and how he carried himself.

Was he an old friend or an old enemy? He had the feeling this guy was one or the other. Cap couldn't see the Russian's face from this angle and he was too far away to identify the voice clearly. Heck, he could barely hear enough to make out the accent. He wasn't absolutely certain that accent was even Russian.

He was about to go down there and confront the guy, when the call came over his helmet radio. "Captain America, we need you at headquarters. Where are you?"

"I'm patrolling the docks," responded Cap, "but there's nothing going down that the locals can't handle. I'm on my way."

Cap put his shield back on his back, turned around and headed for his motorcycle. The mystery man could wait.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:43, Wed 17 Apr 2019.

The Athena Center for Psychoanalysis occupied the whole of the third floor of a stately brownstone, right at the intersection of Alabaster and Sunset Lane.     A privately owned firm under the auspice of the American Psychoanalytic Association, the office had not only survived the economic slump of recent years, but had managed to do so with reasonable prosperity. Psychoanalysis was beginning to dig a toehold here in the US -- as it already had over in Europe. A gentler, less extreme option for the emotionally troubled, contrasted to the harsher, asylum contained rigors of psychiatry.

And in these times, there were enough harrowed professionals -- worn and weary from fighting the good fight to hang onto what they had, and keep their families in the life they deserved -- as well as their overworked, ever-worrying wives -- to supply a niche of clientele for the Athena Center.  Results helped as well, and Athena employed a small number of people whom were very talented at what they did.

For her own office space, Karla Sofen eschewed the so-called streamline moderne look that had become popular of late, and gone for something softer, more classical.    The natural woods and less strict lines made for a more soothing atmosphere, one that tended to put her clients more at ease, especially the women.    One of whom she was sitting with now, having a brief chat at the end of a session, both because she had time to kill, as well as because it tended to draw clients closer to her, when she didn't penny and nickel them to death.    Beyond the room's window, a drape of grey clouds pleasantly mellowed the noonday light, and there was just the vestige of rain, bespeckling the glass. Practitioner and patient were each enjoying a cigarette, Karla's favored Medina milds.   Karla smiled slightly, head faintly cocked, as her client praised her work:

"I'm so grateful for the work you've done with me, Karla," said Mrs. Bowler, with whom Karla was on a first name basis, as most of her regulars, "I didn't think I'd ever begin to figure it all out, begin to really get on top of it.    I was afraid I might have to spend my life on a prescription, something I'd certainly rather not do."

"Oh, I well understand, Miriam. I certainly prize my own clarity of thought --    I wouldn't want that for myself, and it's not something I want for my clients, when there are other avenues of therapy that are viable.   I'm pleased to be able to help you  --  of course, it helps when a subject is as serious about improving as you are." 

"Yes, yes; My husband and my children need me to be stable for them. It's so, so important to me to be the best wife and mother that I can."

Karla nodded.  "That's very, very commendable.  And I'm thinking that before too long, the odds are decent that you will --  "  A knock at the door interrupted.

"Yes - ?"

"Miss --  Miss Sofen, I -- I ... there's a man here,who - who must see you ...   "

The receptionist's anxiety was plain. 'A man'  -- clearly, not a patient.  A patient would have been named.

"Excuse me," she told Miriam, placed her cigarette in the tray, arose, went to the door and opened it.     The receptionist's anxiety was even more plain on her face.

"What does he want?  An appointment?   He must schedule one, the standard way, like anyone else."   

Terri, the receptionist, shook her head. "No...no, it's other business.  Please Miss Sofen... I - I think he needs to speak with you."     

She thought rapidly over what to do.     And then decided...

"I see.  Send him in, then.    But after Mrs. Bowler leaves.   Miriam... my apologies, we'll continue our little chat another time, yes?  I hope your daughter's recital goes superbly."   

Miriam Bowler nodded.    "Thank you.  Yes, yes, of course.   I understand.   See you next week, then."       

Karla stood, arms folded, gazing out at the grey, misty day and frowned, and waited. Should she be worried?    Not so much --  she was never defenseless, after all. Soon enough, another knock.    But, this time the one knocking didn't bother to await invitation.

A man of some three decades age -- not over average height, but over averagely broad shouldered and deep chested, entered.    He wore a black homburg hat, which he didn't bother to remove, and a beige trench coat, open to reveal presentable shirt and trousers.    The face was everyman, nose a bit broader than most, a very faint scar along the right cheek.    The eyes, though --   that flat, direct gaze -- led her to surmise what sort of man she was dealing with.    The question of course --  why? 

"Karla Sofen.   But, you must know that.  And you are -- ?"

"Call me Mr. Strongarm."

Well, that was sufficiently blatant.  "And what is it I can do for you...Mr. Strongarm?   Would you care to have a seat?"   she made a vague gesture toward the comfortable furniture.

He shook his head. "Nope. This is gonna be short & sweet.   My employer is a great admirer of your work, Miss Sofen."   

"How nice.  Is he a prospective patient --  or is there some other sort of interest?"   

"Not your psycho...whatever it is.    Your other work."

She momentarily froze inside, did her level best to present a surprised demeanor.

"Other work?   I'm afraid that I don't --  "

"Dobs Morrow. You was workin' with his niece.    Awhile before he went into the cooler." 

Ah, it wasn't what she'd dreaded most.    Enough of a problem, however...

She shook her head.   "What are you inferring, exactly?  Pedophilia is such a loathsome sort of crime.   It was only a matter of time before someone..."

"Jake Andrews.   Big Hand Collins.   Tommy Worchester...  they all had dirt spilled on'em.    To people willin' to fork out lettuce for it.  They all had someone they knew, or were related to, comin' to see you."   

God - damn - it!    She was very aware of the talisman, where it rested above her bosom, underneath her blouse.

"You have evidence?   Of course, you don't. I'm bound by strict confidentiality, which I happen to take very seriously, and I can tell you that --  "

"Put a sock in it, sweetcheeks.  Didn't come here to get boondoggled by a big mouth frail.    I came to let you know you're gonna have a new gig.     Like I said --  my boss admires your work.   So, your gonna be workin' for him."   

She shook her head more emphatically, not giving up yet.    "Look, this is all a mistake!  I'm sure I can prove to your boss that --  " 

"You start in three days.  Some time before that, you'll get the info on where to go, what time.  That all clear to you, dolly?   

She hesitated just a moment.    Then-  "Yes."

"Fantastique.  Won't disrupt your day any longer, then.  See ya 'round, Sofen."

Karla watched him go. The narrow eyed look that she gave his back on the way out did not bode a happy employer/employee relationship.   Not at all...
This message was last edited by the player at 16:45, Sat 20 Apr 2019.

He had bought a new suit, a rather fine one that had cost a fine penny. Wearing clothes was always a burden, they served him no use but to fit in among humankind. Logan wasn't really sure what he was but he clearly wasn't one of the fold. The perfumery on 5th avenue stood out to him like a pyre, the intricate scents managing to carve through the smut and smog of New York City. It was a bit of a relief to walk into the olfactory maelstrom.

Jean-Baptiste Grenouille was the city's finest perfumer, a short, squat man with the complexion and countenance of a lazy toad. He was bright and cheerful, however, chatting with a young couple who had entered to buy a token for the young lady of the pair.

Grenouille's sensitive nose picked up something that most people only sensed in the most atavistic parts of their brain. While others had only a subconscious sense of menace as their inner animal urged them to get clear of the obvious predator, the perfumer was aware that the newcomer didn't smell quite right. The man stayed by the door, smoking a cigar while the young lovebirds made their purchase and left.

"You sold a scent. Jasmine, orange blossom, vanilla orchids, wild honeysuckle with a persimmon base. You rounded it out with a type of crocus I don't know the name of." The man walked slowly towards the counter. The bell above the door chimed as the young couple left. "Monsieur, I could not possibly divu-ulghkh!"

The hirsute chap moved faster than a human eye could follow. The perfumer's stout legs danced a merry jig on empty air as he was hoisted up by his throat. His long, elegant fingers, so unusual on such a fat, squat frame, struggled to prise away Logan's hand from his throat.

Watery blue eyes were wide with terror as the man's other hand rose. The flesh between the knuckles of the middle and ring finger split open around an ivory point, blood failing to flow as the flesh grew taut around the scimitar of bone that emerged. The edge of one nostril was slit.

"You get me the name of the man you make it for. Whether I carve your nose off before you do is up to you." Grenouille could feel the blade against his face, felt his lungs burning, his throat aching. It was practically a relief to be tossed onto the floor like detritus. It was a mark of a strong survival instinct that he scrambled on all fours towards his ledgers, feeling the glacial spikes of those cold blue eyes digging into his back.

The end of Prohibition in the previous year had deprived many entrepreneurs of their formerly lucrative operations.  Impelling them to fall back upon old, trusty standbys  -- the likes of gambling and prostitution, as well as new opportunities in loan sharking, labor racketeering and drug trafficking.

William "Boar" Guillory was one such entrepreneur. And, he prided himself on flexibility -- that which was flexible was able to bend in a gale, which that which was rigid broke.   At least, so some fancy pants, off the cob, would be philosopher had told him before he'd had to bump him off. And, while he did miss the opportunity that the Prohibition had provided, he wasn't exactly crying over spilled milk.    Other business was good, with solid plans in place to make it even better.

The sparse rain that had lingered through much of the week had become a proper shower, pattering down upon the Victorian style home that had been the choosing of the original Mrs. Guillory, some years prior to her untimely passing.   And while it had never been to Boar's tastes, his second wife likewise adored it, and so here he'd stayed.   Certainly, the place did hold some dandy memories, by this point.   The most exciting and rewarding part of his career arc had taken place while he'd resided here.

Jimmy Durante's "Inka Dinka Doo" played on the gramophone --  Boar loved the tune, fancying that he too had his own symphony, just like the guy in the song. The strains of which were the sounds of cash registers, bean shooters, and enemies pleading for mercy.   He took a deep drag from his Thompson's Panama, slowly exhaled a cloud of pure contentment;  he was working only leisurely on the gin Rickey that sat off to his right.  His feet propped up, he'd no need to work too quickly at anything tonight.    Boar'd had quite the physique during his youth, in his days as a trigger-man --  but the good-life had gotten him fat, and he was usually pretty beat by the end of a week.

It's just a beautiful strain that keeps caught in my brain constantly
It's my melody, it's my symphony
Ink a dinka do, a dinka dee, a dinka doo
Oh what a tune, what a tune or crooning
Ink a dinka do, a dinka dee, a dinka doo
It's got the whole world spooning...   

Boar's brow furrowed a moment  -- uncertain if he might have just heard...something, beneath Durante's crooning.    No, it wasn't the rain -- more of a faint "thump" sort of sound. Had he imagined it --  ? Like he was going to sit here and wonder that..!

"Myers!"  he called out to the guardsman who stood sentry in the room beyond his den.

The only other voice to be heard was Durante's:

Eskimo bells up in Iceland are ringing
They've made there own there own paradiseland singing...

Boar was on his feet immediately. Nearly as quickly his .38 special was in his hand, drawn from his shoulder holster.      He stood stock still a time, heart already beating more rapidly than normal.

Inka dinka do, a dinka dee, a dinka doo
Simply means Ink a dinka dee, a dinka doo...

The door was reinforced with steel plating, no one could shoot through it.  So he waited it out, waiting for someone to try, or else the telltale noises of someone trying to jimmy the lock open.  When there was neither, he started for the telephone, to holler for backup.

Listen to that melody!
Listen to that melody!
Why I would add class to any concerts
You know I resent them playing my symphony in jazz...

"Hello."

A broad's voice ...  from behind --  he whirled ---

And saw nothing like anyone he could have ever expected.

She was clad in a grey silk robe, sash-bound at the waist -- a dame on the taller side of average, locks of blonde hair visible with the robe's cowl, her features obscured by a silver, filigree Venetian mask. It might have been encouraging that she wasn't holding a gun... but then these days, there were people who didn't necessarily need a gun.

"Who the hell are you - ?  H- how did you get in here?"

"Would you believe I came through the floor?  'Boar' Guillory... what sort of man thinks it clever to name himself after a swine?"   

Boar opened fire.    Beneath the robe, just over her bosom, there glowed a small circle of soft, white light...

One - two -  three --  the shots passed through her, as if she wasn't there at all, blew holes in the wall beyond.  Frustrated, fearful, he fired a fourth to the very same result.

"W - what are you??   A freakin' ghost??"  he yelled impotently, gun trembling in his beefy hand.

She too raised a hand, and something struck him, sent him crashing back against the door behind, with enough force to knock the wind out of him, gun dropping from his grasp.   Reflexively, he grabbed for it --  but the same something sent it skittering out of reach.

He got up, turned, frantically turned the door latch, began to open the door --

And the something latched onto him, yanked and dragged him backward, as if he were no bigger than a child.

"Who am I?  I'm so hurt you don't know -- after all, you were the one who insisted I come and meet you."   

"H - huh, I don't know, I didn't -- "

"Still can't figure it out?  A perceptive fella like you?   I'm your new employee."

"S- Sofen?"

"I prefer Moonstone."

"Oh, jeez --  what are you?"

"There is an intriguing story.  But, nothing you're going to hear."  She smiled wryly.    "I don't cast my pearls before swine."

"Listen to me!!  I - I wanted to work with you --  you're gettin' this all wrong!    All wrong!     I can help you, get you what you want --   "

"Indeed so? I treasure silence. And, I know of just one thing that guarantees it."

The fear within him seemed to rise, then --  increasing and roiling in like a smothering, darksome cloud -- the same sense of atavistic horror instilled by a cloudy, moonlit midnight -- when the world was open to things inimical to human beings.

Boar screamed and begged more intensely than any of his organization's victims...  until there was silence.    Save for the soft scraping of the gramophone's needle, having come to the end of the song.

: : : : : : :

On the drive back through the rainy night, Karla had time to reflect.     The fear she'd instilled in him wasn't of itself lethal. But in a man his age, as obese and out of shape as he was, it had done the trick. Since Boar's wife was out of town, his own people would discover him with that look of maddened terror he'd died with.     And, hopefully -- it would make his successor think twice before messing with Karla Sofen again, since someone was watching out for her.   She let go a sigh, hoping this warning would be enough, and her life could just be as it was.  Mostly. She was going to have to be more cautious.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:34, Tue 30 Apr 2019.

Logan really hated cars. For most of his long life people had managed to get by with human, camelid, canine and equine power. Clean, reliable and you could eat your means of conveyance if need be. The automobile had been around just a few decades and they'd already started to ruin everything. The stench, the noise, the crowding. It annoyed the hell out of him.

Granted, dogs, llamas, camels, horses and mules were far, far smarter than most people, since they saw Logan for what he was and would have nothing to do with him. Granted, he was faster than Dan Patch and sturdier than Bucephalus so it had never been a big problem to him.

Getting across the city was a lot easier at an elevation. Logan could leap clear across 5th avenue with a running start, he had no trouble bounding from rooftop to rooftop with unnatural grace. He was what humanity would have been had they evolved as predators rather than farmers.

It took him little time to get to the American Museum of Natural History, a place he knew well. He spent a lot of time wandering around the building. He let himself in without doing any damage. It was a sacred place, he had taken the care to pick the lock when simply ramming a claw through it would do.