A Scary Story (or Two) - The Call

Observing Halloween at work is twice as tricky when you work remotely, and this year we didn't even have a team meeting where we could briefly parade our costume on camera for a bit. But instead, they asked for folks to submit pictures of their costumes or decorations or kids or pets dressed up, and also asked folks to share scary stories.

After a decade-and-a-half of weekly blogging, it is probably obvious I like to write, so I figured I would submit something...but what?

While thinking about things that scare me, personally, I recalled the time ten years back when Glory called me as I drove to pick up Fenya from choir, terrified that there was an intruder in the house. People had commented to me about just how apprehensive my relating the episode on my blog back then had made them feel, and I thought,"well, what if I started with that...and then changed everything else to make it as scary as possible?"

I guess it worked, as my story got the most votes and won the contest, so here it is; let me know what you think!



THE CALL

I’m not supposed to have my personal phone on in the prowl car, but when my own home number appeared on the call display, I pulled over and took the call. “Hello?”

“I’m sorry…” a little girl’s voice – my little girl, who turned eight last week.

“Hi Bethany, what’s wrong sweetie?” I put the phone on speaker and pulled back into traffic, being careful to keep the annoyance and tension out of my voice. “Is Daddy not there yet? He was just picking up supper.”

“No, not yet.”  I noticed now that her normally breathy voice was even lower than usual, barely a whisper. It was just starting to rain and turned up the volume to compensate for the drops hitting the roof; hear breathing sounded ragged, like she was upset.

“Baby, what’s the matter?” I prompted again.

A long pause while I felt sweat condensing on my upper lip, and then a terse whisper, “I’m scared…I thought I heard something upstairs.”

Probably an overactive imagination – but why was I still uneasy? I had locked the door before I left, so I knew there was no real chance someone was in our home.

And yet…

“I don’t think that is too likely baby girl,” I said confidently, “but do you want me to come home?”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Should I come home Bethany? Would you feel better if I did?”

Another whisper, almost a sob of relief, “Yes, please.”

I threw on my signal and pulled a quick U-turn while calculating routes in my head. “Okay sweetheart, I am on my way. I will be home in…six minutes, okay?”

“Okay mommy.”

An unpleasant realization sprang into my mind, and I cursed under my breath. “Now, I am on my way back, but I have to let work know I am going to be late, okay?”

“Okay,” but not really, that tone of resignation in her voice, pushing the guilt button in my brain that was already worn smooth from having to leave her alone in the house for 30 minutes until her father got back.

“Do you want me to call you back?”

The quietest whisper, barely audible: “Yes, please.”

“Okay, I will call you back as soon as I can, okay? Promise,” and hung up. I called dispatch and told them I was going 10-7 for 20 minutes, hoping it wouldn’t get logged, knowing it would be, and began going through an unpleasant interaction with my sergeant later tonight in my head.

The rain was intensifying a bit but traffic around the arena would be ridiculous by now, so I took a left onto the thoroughfare to get a bit of breathing room and depressed the accelerator while asking my phone to call home.

By the third ring I had a knot in my stomach. Why did I think it would be okay to leave her on her own, even for half an hour? What if there actually was someone in the house and she picked up mid-ring? That would be a dead giveaway someone was home. But before I could even chide myself for that thinking, Bethany picked up, but I could barely hear her hesitant “Hello?”

“Hey sweetie, it’s me – where are you?”

“I’m in the basement, underneath the couch. Mommy, I’m scared…”

A sharp pain in my chest. “Why are you scared, honey, what did you hear?”

My tension matched hers as she tersely whispered into the phone, “I saw something out by the back fence before I came downstairs, like a big dog but with weird long legs, and then I heard a thump.”

Picking up speed now, I tried to lighten the mood, “I haven’t given any spare keys to any dogs, honey, so I don’t think one will get in.”

Silence.

I pressed on. “You think it’s a monster, don’t you?”

Her whispered yes sounded like the hiss of a snake, as if fear was keeping her teeth from parting. She had feared the woods behind our house, where the lot backed onto a ravine, ever since we’d moved in last year.

“Bethany, sugar, we’ve talked about this…everyone has bad dreams, and I know you see terrible creatures in yours, but you and I know they aren’t real, right?”

I looked up and saw city workers dragging orange sawhorses onto the thoroughfare up ahead. I threw on the lights and siren and flew over to an offramp I was far too close to, as other drivers braked to accommodate my maneuver as a curse slipped through my lips. A choked sob escaped through the phone’s speaker. “I know mommy, I’m sorry, but I saw it and it looked like last night and I got scared…”

I grimaced and shook my head, “I’m not mad at you baby, just traffic, but I am nearly home. And going to the basement was smart, that is a good place to hide.” I pulled onto an arterial road while a thought occurred to me. “Hey, what’s Scraps doing right now?”

A pause. “I don’t know. I don’t hear her…”

“And would she be quiet if someone was in the house?”

“No, she’d bark her head off…” Was that a trace of confidence entering her voice.

“Well, there you go,” I said assuredly. “I am almost home, honey. I have the siren and lights on and I am going really fast, can you hear me yet?”

“No,” she replied, “but it is really quiet under the couch.” I could hear her grunting as she wriggled out from underneath.

“How about now?” I asked, pulling past a van taking its sweet time to pull over.

She was still whispering, but her voice was less shaky than it had been. “Not yet…when you get here, can you yell ‘I’m home’ really loud so I know you’re here?”

In spite of the accumulated tension, I chuckled. “Of course I can, darling.” I reached down to turn off the siren and lights. “No more sirens now, I don’t want to upset Mrs. Kapour again.” Peering against the glare of the streetlights reflected in the raindrops on my windshield, I said, “I can almost see the house from here and –“

“Mommy, Scraps is sick…”

I immediately became acutely aware of every hair on my body. “What?” I replied dumbly.

“She’s lying at the bottom of the stairs and she isn’t mov-“ her voice cut off, the line silent.

“Hello? Hello? Bethany? Bethany!” I shouted at the phone. Despite being less than a block away, I floored the accelerator and came screeching to a halt directly in front of a suburban split-level. I raced out of the prowl car and vaulted the gate in the short iron fence, sprinting up the front steps, barely noticing the porchlight didn’t come on despite the motion sensor in it.

The front door was locked, and I had to suppress the urge to kick in my own door. Fumbling through my keys, I finally got the deadbolt unlatched and flung open the door. Stepping into the darkened house, I shouted, “Bethany, I’m home!” like I’d promised.

But there was no reply.

I unsnapped my holster and drew my service weapon, reaching behind me for the lights. I found the switch but throwing it didn’t illuminate the entryway.

I pulled the Maglite from my belt, switched it on and steadied my pistol over it. Moving through the living room to the kitchen, I shouted again, “This is the police – anyone here needs to have their hands up if they don’t want to risk being shot!” Bethany really dislikes my police voice, but now I was more scared than she’d been, and I prayed that my fear wasn’t audible.

Making my way into the kitchen, I checked the blind spots reflexively and swept the bright beam towards the door. My heart fell as I saw it wide open in the gleam, the storm door banging against the railing on the step.

Racing to the door, I peered out into the darkness, seeing nothing, crying my daughter’s name, hanging onto the doorjamb like a lifeline as I felt the strength fading from my legs.

Only after my voice started to give out did I finally look down and notice the tuft of matted fur stuck into the splintered doorframe where the deadbolt had been, a good four feet above the ground.

Graveyard Standoff

(What follows is a dramatization of my recollections from a recent Call of Cthulhu session - spoilers for the legendary Masks of Nyarlathotep campaign are contained within!)

"Listen to me," Lawrence Vane shouted, his face dripping. "You can’t just shoot her - that monster is my sister! That is still Eloise!"

The Oxford student pointed behind him to a grey-skinned, bestial creature hunched beside a recently disturbed grave. Pieces of a shattered coffin lid surrounded it, and being on the buisness end of an elephant gun didn't stop it from taking defiant bites from the grisly prize it had torn from the grave.

How did it come to this, thought Bartholomew Jones as he brushed misting rain from his eyes with the back of his free hand. I could be on the savannah, leading pampered Europeans looking to bag a trophy buck or even a lion, but no, I’m looking over the sights of Uncle Dave's Holland & Holland Royal Double at a -what? A ghoul I suppose. A flesh-eating abomination which was a captivating lass when I met her just yesterday...

Vane had brought Jones and his two compatriots, Prof. Greenwald and the bartender Roy Conner, into his trust only the evening before, after dinner at Castle Plum. Lord Arthur Vane, Lawrence's father, had been coy and aloof, but as they returned to the village, Lawrence had confided the truth about the recent deaths in Lower Edale. 

After her 21st birthday three months prior, Eloise Vane had begun transforming at the time of the full moon, and had killed several townsfolk before her family eventually discovered her metamorphosis. Her father and brother had begun sedating her and incarcerating her in the dungeons beneath their ancestral castle during the full moon, but each month, the change is longer lasting and more pronounced.

That same night, Eloise's gaunt but muscular ghoul form had escaped through a hidden passage in the dungeons. The tunnel led her into the family mausoleum, where she attempted to satiate her unnatural hunger on the bones of her ancestors. By the time Jones, Vane, exited the mausoleum and caught sight of their quarry, she appeared to be chasing a townsperson down the road into Lower Edale.

Jones shouldered his immense rifle, and briefly considered letting fly with both barrels, but remembering he had but two bullets in his possession, he opted to conserve ammo. He pulled the first of his twin triggers, the enormous report of the .450 Nitro Express round shocking the others and panicking Lawrence Vane, who turned and screamed in protest.

The shot struck the ghoul below its left shoulder blade, knocking the creature to the ground with what must surely be a killing shot.

But the creature immediately rolled to its feet and loped off in the direction of the graveyard, with no trace of an entry wound.

The three investigators gamely pursued the monster into the church cemetery, Conner gripping his 12 gauge uneasily, and Jones saw Greenwald bringing up the rear. The academic appeared to be on the verge of untethering, trotting along with a giddy grimace on his face, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a bottle of brandy in each hand. Seeing Jones' inquisitive look, Professor Greenwald flashed back a fatalistic grin, and took a long pull from the bottle in his right hand.

Moments later, they'd surrounded Eloise as she prepared to feast, but in the ensuing fracas both Jones and Conner had been bitten by the ghoul, and the American was struggling to avoid going into shock. "Let her feed" shouted Greenwald. "Better dead flesh than ours!"

And so they stood there, eye-to-eye with an unimaginably horrific creature, helplessly watching her charnel feasting while the cold February mist began forming into droplets of frigid rain. As the torn earth around the grave started muddening, Jones pondered his single remaining bullet, not knowing if even it would enough to stop the creature if it attacked, or if he could manage a clean shot past poor Lawrence, still trying to protect whatever of his sibling remained in that gaunt, grey shape.

"What if we just...let her go?" Lawrence queried. "What more harm can she do if she prefers to eat dead things?"

"Don't be stupid," shot Conner, "she's already killed three, and you know she's getting worse."

The brother's shoulders slumped, and Jones struggled to come up with a plan of action, the barrel of his elephant gun never wavering. Conner did his best to keep his shotgun at the ready, but winced in pain as blood poured from the vicious bite in his shoulder. The professor, meanwhile, seemed to be using the two bottles he held to weigh out possible solutions.

Then Lawrence decided for them.

Leaping in front of Jones and thrusting the barrel of the Royal Double into the air, he shouted over his shoulder at the creature that was once his beloved sister, "Eloise, run! Get away!"

The ghoul's head snapped up, and for a moment it seemed she might leap at her brother, either to attack or to aid, who can say. But instead it dropped its grisly trophy and was clearly preparing to flee.

Pulling the barrel away from Vane's grip, Jones stepped into the youth shouldering him aside as he drew a bead on the creature with a coolness of manner and smoothness of motion born out of hundreds of such shots taken in Africa, and pulled the second trigger on his rifle.

The deafening boom of the Holland & Holland forced Lawrence to wince and cover his ears reflexively, so he didnt see the shot hit the ghoul directly in its chest, knocking it on its back. But Jones saw that once again there was no blood, and somehow, impossibly, the creature still seemed to be alive, and struggling to get to its feet.

The hunter looked helplessly to Conner as his comrade fought to overcome his wound and bring his shotgun to bear, but before he could, Delbert strode forward with only one bottle in his hand. 

He had crammed a brandy-soaked handkerchief into the neck of the bottle, and lit the improvised wick with the bright ember of his cigarette. He lobbed the firebomb at the prone creature, and saw it shatter on its chest, enveloping the ghoul in flames.

"Eloise, no!" shouted Lawrence, staggering to his feet and tearing off his jacket. As he moved towards his sister's flaming form, Conner, while yet unsure of the right thing to do, still made an attempt to tackle the youth, but ended up in a heap on the ground instead.

Lawrence flailed at the flames with his jacket, but as they finally subsided, it was clearly too late, and only a charred, barely humanoid form remained.

But as the brother sobbed and the others stood in stunned silence, the charred form slowly reverted to that of the lovely girl they had only hours before. Lawrence draped his jacket over her nearly naked form, and Jones put his hand on the young man's shoulder in commiseration.

"I'm so sorry it came to this, Lawrence," the hunter intoned. "But surely you understand we had no choice."

Vane wheeled on him with red rimmed eyes, full of anger, but his expression softened as he saw Rev. Stratton making his way over to them from the vicarage. He looked deeply into Jones' eyes, before finally letting his chin drop into his chest and nodding in agreement.

"You're probably right," Vane said softly. "But you will never be able to convince my father." He gestured up at the castle on the hill. "You've made a powerful enemy tonight, and I think you should leave Lower Edale straight away."

Jones nodded and stepped away to join Prof. Greenwald in helping Conner off the ground, but Lawrence continued: "And I wouldn't stay in England much longer either, if I were you."

Halbarad the Just

(Yet another miniature-inspired tale as I lack the wherewithal to comment meaningfully on current events! And no, this isn't one of my characters either.)

The tall, lean man awoke with a start but without a sound. Sitting in the pre-dawn twilight, Halbarad steadied his breathing and listened intently for a moment, then chided himself and clambered up from his sleeping mat. 

The air this close to the jungle was humid and lacked the offshore breeze of his homeland that made the air a bit more agreeable and far less sticky. He thought briefly about a trip to the well so he could buy a bucket of water and rinse himself off, but since he would need to dress in order to visit the agora anyways, he decided against it. 

Not agora, he reminded himself again, the market. Sighing, he grabbed his scarlet tunic from the foot of his mat, used the back of it to wipe some of the night's sweat from his face and neck, then pulled it on over his head.

Looking around in the slowly brightening gloom Halbarad found his cuirass, turned the breastplate to face him and kissed the image of Pallas Athena embossed on the left side. Reversing it again, he thrust his head into the gap between the front and back pieces, adjusted the shoulder pauldrons and cinched up the two leather straps on the side. 

I am leaner now, he thought to himself. I may need to punch a new hole in these straps. It simply would not do to have his breastplate shift or pinch in the middle of combat, or even rattle on the march. He resolvcd to go to the docks if there was time and see if he could beg use of an awl.

He turned and caught a gleam or bronze in the corner, revealing where he had left his greaves the night before, and after fastening his well-worn sandals, buckled them onto his calves and flexed his knees to check the fit. All the marching has at least maintained the muscle on my legs.

Gathering up his gauntlets, he paused again to admire the owls that graced the protective plates on the back, with their immense and impassive eyes and intimidating talons. Wisdom and strength, he thought. Goddess grant me both this day, and every day.

Before gathering up his shield, he hefted his warspear, shifting his grip, thrusting it with a grunt into the air at an imaginary foe's abdomen, their unguarded shins, now overhand at the neck exposed by a tired arm hoisting a now-leaden shield. The replacement haft he had made with locally procured hardwood was holding up well, thanks in part to the metal shank he had added to the remainder of the original.

By all rights he should have replaced all the wood and kept only the broad-bladed spearhead itself, but he had not seen a single oak tree since coming to this blighted peninsula a month ago, and knowing that sentimentality was a weakness had not overcome his desire to hang on to that small piece of his homeland.

Again he caught himself listening for a sound that would not come. Your uncle's olive orchard is a long way from here, Halbarad Agonistes, and you will not hear their narrow leaves rustling in the breeze for a long while yet.

With another sigh, he dropped his crested helmet onto his head, turned his neck all the way to the left and then all the way to the right, rolled his shoulders, twisted his hips, and at last picked up his enormous hoplon with Athena's avatar owl painted on it, and made his way out the door.

But not before reminding himself that here it was a shield, not a hoplon.

Music & Menace at the Red Roc Inn

(A big batch of miniatures for D&D that I Kickstarted back in 2020 finally showed up this week, making me very happy. It is a great assortment of common monsters and a nice variety of player character models too. One of them I had only known by a piece of artwork prior to opening the box, but I remember looking at it and thinking, man, I hope the sculpt carries some of the attitude from that drawing - that is a pose that kind of tells a story to me...)

Beliza swung the heavy wooden mallet with a grunt. A short, sharp spray made her flinch a little, and a quick twist of the tap assured her that it was properly seated. She reached her hand back behind and felt the handle of a sturdy wooden mug pressed into her hand. 

Twisting the tap again, she watched the golden stream of rich, brown ale flow into the mug, but scowled as she saw the foam was rising too quickly. 

"Who's this one for now?" she asked over her shoulder as she flung the mug's contents into the slop barrel beneath the bar.

"The tall musician," her server Amna replied. "Says he needs to recover his voice."

The innkeeper snorted. "I've 'eard him sing - 'e'll need more than ale." Beliza finished filling the mug and handed it to the younger woman, then reached up to scratch an itch under her eyepatch. "If 'e 'ad any sense, he'd give it to that lass 'e's chattin' up so she doesn't notice how homely he is."

Amna laughed as she turned to look at the tall stranger who had asked if he could sing for his supper. "Oh, I dunno," she mused, "He's got an odd sort of charm, don't you think?"

Beliza wiped her hands on her greasy apron and looked across the crowded tavern floor. "One of 'is parents is definitely an orc so 'is complexion's nothing to write home about, but 'e keeps 'is 'air tidy and 'as no scars-" and she turned and gave Amna a wink with her one good eye- "none I can see, anyways."

The server mockingly covered her mouth in a scandalized fashion, but Beliza noticed she blushed a little at the same time. "And 'e's tall, I'll grant you that, and the sooner you get 'im that beer the sooner 'e can get back to singin'..."

Amna nodded and took the beer over to the tall stranger in the long coat, his instrument now slung over his shoulder so he could use both hands to talk expansively with a woman wearing a dress and jewelry that really had no business in a place like the Red Roc.

A slummer, Amna thought to herself dismissively. She gently slid her free hand down the minstrel's left arm to get his attention and as he turned, pressed the mug into his other hand and leaned into him as she purred, "your drink, sir."

The stranger's rough features softened significantly when he smiled, but there was no concealing the tusks that stuck out nearly an inch over his upper lip when he did so. "Thank you my dear," he said warmly, "But I am no knight - just one who appreciates their tales of bravery and shares their devotion to beauty."

Amna felt her cheeks reddening and her mind raced through a catalogue of practiced responses, as the half-orc raised the mug to his lips. But before she could formulate the perfect rejoinder and before the entertainer could even take a sip, she heard a rough voice from behind her bark in obnoxious laughter.

"You have got to be joking," the voice growled. Sensing trouble, the nearest patrons took a couple of steps back, revealing a grizzled dwarf in a studded leather jerkin, with axe handles protruding over his shoulders, standing with his hands on his hips. The stranger looked at the dwarf and took a sip of his beer while maintaining eye contact with the belligerent.

"I mean, I thought it was a great trick and all, a hork pretending he could sing and such," the dwarf crowed, prompting a nervous tittering from some of those who had paused their own conversations to see what came of this tense interaction. "And my guess is that's an enchanted mandolin since those green meathooks comin' out of your sleeves couldn't possibly pluck those wee strings."

The half-orc gestured with his mug at the dwarf and said, "I am going to have to insist that you stand up when addressing me." A series of gasps and a choked chuckle could be heard as the dwarf's face reddened. "And I would prefer it if you found a less offensive term to describe my heritage."

"Heritage? Heritage?" the dwarf sputtered. "That's rich! Did your parents even know each other? Or did you just wake up on a rock next to some afterbirth?"

The stranger's nostril's flared and his lip started to curl in an involuntary snarl, but Amna saw him somehow transform it into a derisive sneer. "I knew my parent's pretty well, honestly." A malicious grin, then, "I mean, not as intimately as I knew yours, but..."

This drew hoots and laughter from the crowd as the dwarf's eyes widened in shock and anger. "That tears it!" he shouted, ripping the twin axes from his back and dropping into a fighting stance. "When I saw you talkin' up my boss's wife, I was going to embarrass you a bit before giving you a beatin'. But now you've smart-mouthed yourself straight into the choppery, hork!"

The sneer disappeared from the stranger's face, replaced by a cold, fatalistic expression that the dwarf was surprised to see had no trace of fear in it. The half-orc's right hand reached across his waist and slowly drew a long, sharp falchion from its well-oiled scabbard, and with the tip of the blade dipping languidly before him, he took a purposeful stride toward the dwarf, the mug of beer still clutched in his other hand. 

Somehow Amna, found her voice, and asked, "Did - would you like me to hold your drink for you?"

With no change in his expression, the minstrel shook his head and took a swig of ale before stepping still closer towards the now uncertain dwarf. "No need," he said tersely, "This won't take long."

UPDATE: Months after this a friend rolled up a half-orc bard for our monthly in-person campaign at Polyrhythm Brewing so I had the motivation needed to (hurriedly) paint him up!

Yorrick Grondson

...and his instrument(s)

Spirit of 77- The Ballad of Harvest Gould

Last night we finally got to return to the mean streets of The City for some Spirit of 77, now joined by Audrey's character, Harvest Gould.

Harvest Gould was the tomboy of the family, helping Daddy with his ranch out by Muleshoe TX; riding, roping, fencing, and even seeing off rustlers on two separate occasions. She has a kind heart for the most part, but when the local quarterback assaulted her sister, Rose, leaving her paralysed, she knew that boy Just Needed Killin'. Harvey got Daddy's matched Schofields and took care of him herself...and two linebackers who tried to stop her.

The boy's family and the town officials wanted to sweep the whole thing under the carpet, but Daddy still feared reprisals, and sent Harvey to The City so she could be safe. Harvest Gould misses the ranch, but it seems as though every street and alleyway has some sort of varmint, and Daddy's six-shooters are still wrapped up in a saddle blanket in her apartment...

In game terms, Harvey is a Vigilante from Humble Beginnings looking for Justice. Her Thang is a signature weapon, or rather, two: a pair of Schofield heavy pistols in a custom gun belt that can be worn on the hips or as a shoulder rig. Her theme music is Jim Croce's "I've Got A Name".

Audrey and I started coming up with the character and her backstory on our way to a funeral in Camrose, as a way to get our minds away from tragedy a little while. It began with a series of this or that questions, and then carried on into the wheres and whys that a good character needs in any medium.

She appreciated the esthetic of Spirit of 77 as I had described it to her, and Harvest Gould reflects Audrey' childhood memories of the era, as well as her own rural upbringing. The game works much better without miniatures, but if we had to find one for Audrey's character, I would probably have to figure out a way to putty fringes onto something like this:






When she came up with that name in the car though, I knew we had a winner.




For those of you too young to remember (or are old enough but have successfully managed to repress), Harvest Gold was a trademarked shade, that, as Pete described, was the colour of your phone and appliances in the 1970s, if they weren't Avocado Green.




The ads above (from advertising and design site, The Man In The Grey Flannel Suit) may be the most potent distillation of a maligned decade I have ever encountered. From the font choices to the belted sweater dress of the female figure, it is absolutely and wonderfuly groovy.

Harvey's backstory may seem a little serious for someone named after a favoured colour of dishwashers from a bygone time, or for  character currently embroiled in an adventure entitled "Disco Ambulance", but if you think back to the movies and tv shows of the 1970s, she isn't too far removed from Dennis Weaver's McCloud, is she?

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Serenity Gulch Stories: The New Kid

Beauregard regarded his gang’s newest member uneasily. He sat alone at a corner table, watching the other saloon patrons from over a warming mug of beer, his expression varying only as it shifted from disinterest to disdain. The young man was still dressed for riding, or work on the range, wearing his batwing chaps in the saloon, seemingly oblivious to the looks and snickers it generated.  He was clean shaven except for a carefully trimmed patch on his chin, and a long, dark lock of hair fell across his face, nearly obscuring his right eye. His red linen shirt had probably been considered fancy when he’d bought it, and was still one of the most colourful items worn in the Emporium that evening. Well, worn by men, anyways. 

One of the saloon girls strode over to the table and asked him something, but whether offered a stronger drink or the promise of companionship, he only shook his head.  Rose shrugged and began to return to the bar, but saw Beauregard beckon her over with a subtle raising of his chin.  She sat at his table and reached for the bottle of rye at its centre, pouring a glass for each of them while pointedly ignoring the others already sitting there.

“Doesn't seem like he’s much interested cher,” the gang leader drawled, drawing a snort from his right hand man, Cole.

Rose didn't rise to the bait. “Not in much of anything, so it pays not to take it personal.” She downed her whiskey and pushed the empty tumbler towards the table’s center. “He was talking a little bit earlier.”

“And about what, might I ask?” inquired The Daragh, the thoughtfulness of his question contrasting to the leering grin that seemed a permanent part of his countenance.

“How much better everything is in Missouri, for the most part,” replied Rose. 

Cole nodded.  “Just like Kansas City used to,” referring to their recently deceased partner.

The saloon girl shook her head.  “Not this one, he's from a ranch in East Missouri, out by Chesterfield.”

“Mopey bastard,” chortled Cole.  “The only folks say they’re from Chesterfield are ones what don’t want to say they’re city slickers from St. Louis.”

Rose smiled without showing her teeth. “That’s possible too.”

Beauregard frowned and scratched his jawline under his beard. “I might draw some exception to that remark, less’n you think Baton Rouge is sufficiently rusticated fo' y'self. Or maybe you think I’m soft too, eh?” Two seats to his right, Lafitte, sensing tension, stopped his endless card shuffling and sat back in his chair, hands dropping softly into his lap.

The significance of the other Louisianan’s posture either went unnoticed by Cole, or he wisely decided to pay it no heed.  He raised his glass to his lips saying, “Keep your shirt on, gumbo; everything is tougher in them swamps, present company included,” gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb at Lafitte. This garnered a chuckle from the sharply dressed man, who visibly relaxed but still left the cards untouched in front of him.

After a short pause, The Daragh spoke up. “Sure and does everyone in East Mo’ cut their hair that way then?”

The table erupted in laughter, but trailed off as the kid, who had obviously heard them, stood up from his table, purposefully, but without haste.  Beauregard noted for the first time that the young man wore his Colt in a cross draw rig, cavalry style.  A subtle and familiar click from beneath the table told him that Lafitte had thumbed back the hammer on at least one barrel of Heloise, his trusty sawed-off. Cole regarded the cowboy dismissively, while the grin never left The Daragh’s face as he locked eyes with the kid.

For his part Beauregard was content to see how events unfolded; a man can’t abide willful disrespect, but calling someone out over a comment on their hairstyle was the kind of prideful recklessness the Cajun’s particular brand of ongoing criminal enterprise simply did not need.

Anger was notably absent from the cowpoke’s face as he stared down The Daragh dispassionately, and his drawing hand hung motionless by his side, with nary a movement towards his holster.  When he finally spoke, he didn't even deign to raise his voice, almost whispering, “Don't think you know me,” before slowly walking out the doors of the Emporium and into the street.

The doors hadn't even stopped swinging before The Daragh slapped an open hand on the table in approval.  “Lad’s got some salt, and no one can tell The Daragh different, that's for certain.”

Cole nodded as well.  “Looks like the Missouri Kid is a steady hand at least; that's good.”

“East Missouri,” reminded Rose, prompting more laughter.

“Too long it takes to say, t-il pas?” mused Beauregard, “Reckon I will call him… the E. Mo’ Kid.”

Cole drained his whiskey and started to refill his glass.  “The Emo Kid?”  He paused to consider this, then shrugged non committally.  “Has a ring to it.”

Freedumb In The Woods

Hello there, in the cabin!  Can you hear me?

DON'T COME ANY CLOSER, THIS IS AN EMBASSY.

No problem sir, I'll stay right here.  An embassy, you say?

YES, THIS IS SOVRAN SOIL, AND I HAVE FILED A NOTICE OF UNDER-

I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I've brought a second bullhorn here so you don't have to shout; can I have it brought over to you or anything?

...

Hello?

NO THANK YOU.

All right then, you were saying?

I HAVE FILED A NOTICE OF UNDERSTANDING AND INTENT WITH HER MAJESTY QUEEN ELIZABETH II DECLARING THIS CABIN AND THE CLEARING SURROUNDING IT TO BE THE EMBASSY OF A SOVRAN NATION.

I see.

IT WAS NOTARIZED BY MISTER ISAAC J-

That's quite all right sir, I have no interest in disputing the validity of your claim, but I do have a couple things I need to clear up; can I have your name, please?

DO YOU HAVE A CLAIM AGAINST ME?

Can you explain what that means?

UNDER COMMON LAW I HAVE THE RIGHT TO ASK IF YOU HAVE A CLAIM OF PROPERTY AGAINST ME.

Well sir, this cabin and trapline are registered to a Brian Cogswell, and I need to establish that you aren't him.

THAT'S NOT MY NAME, AND I FILED A LIEN ON THIS PROPERTY PRIOR TO MY NOTIFICATION OF UNDERSTANDING AND INTENT...

I see.

...AND COPIES WERE ALSO FILED WITH PRIME MINISTER STEPHEN HARPER AND THE GOVERNOR GENERAL, SO THIS IS NOW AN EMBASSY.

I'm not a lawyer, but I don't think that actually gives you the authority to take a cabin away from a man who built it with his own two hands.

HIS OWNERSHIP IS A CONTRACT UNDER STATUTE LAW, WHICH IS CONTRACTUAL, AND AS SUCH IS ONLY APPLICABLE TO INDIVIDUALS WHO CONSENT TO BE GOVERNED BY IT.

I'm to assume that you don't, then?

THAT IS CORRECT!  I AM A FREEMAN ON THE LAND, AND I HAVE EMANCIPATED MYSELF BY DISTINGUISHING MY LEGAL PERSON FROM MY PHYSICAL BODY, AND EXEMPTING MYSELF FROM NATIONAL OBLIGATION.

Thank you for clearing that up.  Could I have your name, please?

...

Sir?

MY STRAWMAN  NAME IS JACOB OF THE FAMILY BRONZYN.

Thank you.

YOU NEED TO UNDERSTAND THAT THIS NAME DOES NOT REPRESENT MY LEGAL ENTITY, ONLY THE NAME FROM MY CERTIFICATE OF BIRTH.

That's quite all right Mr. Bronzyn, I am not here to interpret legality, I've just been asked to get you out of Mr. Cogswell's cabin.

NO PEACE OFFICER CAN ENFORCE ADMIRALTY LAW UPON THE UNWILLING! WE ARE PREPARED TO DEFEND THIS SOVRAN STATE BY FORCE OF ARMS IF NECESSARY!

I understand and I do apologize, but there seems to have been a misunderstanding; I'm not a peace officer, Mr. Bronzyn.

YOU'RE NOT?

No sir.

...

Mr. Bronzyn?

YOU NEED TO IDENTIFY YOURSELF.

Of course, sir.  My name is Captain Marc Gunderson, and I am here representing Her Majesty's Royal Canadian Army.

WHAT?

I said, my name is...

WHY IS THE ARMY HERE?

This is only a guess, but I assume it is because you are refusing to leave property that belongs to someone else, and because when the Fish & Wildlife officers asked you to vacate the area, you told them that this was the land of a sovereign nation.

EMBASSIES ARE TREATED AS FOREIGN SOIL AS A MATTER OF INTERNATIONAL TREATY.

Yes sir, and as I said, I am not here to dispute the legitimacy of your claim; my job is to defend Canada against foreign aggression.

WHAT?  WHAT AGGRESSION?

When you unilaterally claimed that soil for your embassy Mr. Bronzyn  you were taking it away from the nation of Canada.  I'm here to get it back.

YOU HAVE NO AUTHORITY TO FORCE MY COMPLIANCE TO LAWS THAT DO NOT APPLY TO ME!

Mr. Bronzyn, we've been over this.  I am not here to arrest you.

THEN WHY ARE YOU HERE?

I'm here to defend my nation's sovereignty.  My job is to remove all uninvited foreign nationals from this area using, and I am quoting from my operational orders here, "any and all means necessary".

...

As such, if I need to use force to accomplish the directive I have been tasked with, there is, unfortunately, a very good chance of you and anyone else in that cabin being injured or killed.  You've stated your willingness to use potentially lethal force to defend what you refer to as your embassy, and I have no intention of risking the lives of my men unnecessarily.

I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN BY THAT.

Well Mr. Bronzyn  I don't know who or what you you might have in that cabin, so in addition to a number of highly trained, highly motivated and well equipped men and women, I have also brought two 'Coyote' reconnaissance vehicles.  Have you ever seen one of these?

ARE THEY LIKE A TANK?

Oh, heavens, no!  They have wheels instead of tracks, and not nearly as big a gun.

OH, GOOD.

Still, I hope you don't think a log cabin will provide much cover against a 25 mm chain-fed autocannon. Now, allowing for the possibility that you may have reinforced your position, I took the liberty of requisitioning a case of armor piercing discarding sabot rounds that we normally use against other armoured vehicles and the like.  Mr. Cogswell will almost certainly have to rebuild from scratch.

THIS IS OPPRESSION!  YOU  ARE GOING TO TURN THIS PATCH OF WOODS INTO A NEW TIANAMEN SQUARE!  I AM RECORDING THIS CONVERSATION SO THE TRUTH WILL BE KNOWN!

Very good sir; my adjutant is doing the same with a high-definition video camera.

HE IS?

Although he is asking me to turn on some of the vehicle spotlights because the cloud cover is apparently impacting his 'white balance'.  Recording these interactions can help to clear up any misunderstandings after the fact, and can also be useful for training purposes. This is not some sort of conspiratorial 'black helicopter' operation; we are doing our level best to keep everything by the book and above-board.

THANK YOU?

Mr. Bronzyn  it is important for you to understand that once I commit my forces, you will be treated as an enemy combatant, and not as a Canadian citizen, which I believe to be in keeping with your wishes. If you should be captured alive, you will be given any needed medical aid, and then treated as a prisoner-of-war.

AND THEN WHAT?

Honestly, I have no idea.  Like I said, sir, I am not a lawyer or a peace officer, so your future disposition is a matter far above my pay grade.  Now, as you clearly feel you are defending your own national interests, I will fully understand if you reject my invitation to surrender yourself into my custody, but formality demands that I give you that opportunity before I give the order to open fire.

...

Mr. Bronzyn, will you kindly come out of that cabin with your hands raised above your head?

CAN WE HAVE A MINUTE TO THINK ABOUT IT?

By all means, take your time.  I'm not in any rush, but some of my men are keen to get back to base before the hockey game starts.

Photo by Colleen De Neve, Calgary Herald

(Author's note: This little tale is not presented as a recommended course of action, and shows a gross oversimplification of military authority as well as almost total ignorance of international law, but I was unable to resist following through on a daydream initiated under the auspices of 'wouldn't it be funny if...?'  

In addition, I take full responsibility for any inaccuracies in my depiction of how our Royal Canadian Army would actually conduct themselves in such a ludicrous situation!)

Derangers Forever

About a two and a half centuries from now, when I was a much younger man, some friends and I signed on for a hitch of off-world military service in the new United Systems Expeditionary Forces.  There had been absolutely no hostile contact with other spacefaring species at that point, but there was always the threat of pirates and cartel militias to the newer, more remote colonies.

The USEF seemed like a great way to travel and gain experience, and maybe even get our post-secondary education paid for when our tour was up.  Well, like the old song says, two outta three ain't bad.

After all the paperwork and drawing our initial gear, we actually needed to take commercial flights out of the gravity well as well as from LaGrange Station to Port Colbourne, where we got to go through Induction and Weapons Training.  The censors got most of the pictures from that time, but I found a couple from one of the demos I managed to squirrel away.

The colonies were protected by Ranger Units, so-named because our extensive patrols saw us 'ranging' all over the place, and also because once we were out in the wilds, we were a handy means for the xenobiology types to collect data on the indigenous wildlife.  We were assigned to Squad D, 22nd Regiment, IV Ranger Division, and quickly developed the nickname 'Derangers' from the colonists we interacted with.

One of the locals, an artist named Dragon Man, offered to do a sketch of us, but after we paid for it, I said, "Hey, that doesn't look like any of us; actually, it looks kinda like you."

D-Man grinned, showing off his elongated canines, and said, "I made 'im good lookin'!  No extra charge."

A standard tour of duty with the USEF runs 36 Earth months, with the first three taken up by Induction and Weapons, then another two for Transit and Orientation.  Orientation was the most interesting, where you learned what you needed to about your new area of operations; gravity differential, length of day, seasonal variances, all that sort of thing.  Then a week with the cultural attache, who brought us up to speed on the different communities we would be working with.  It was (or will be, I guess) surprising how quickly the colonies formed their own identities, coming as they did from a host of cultures and nations.

Our 36 months were fairly quiet, and we only ever discharged our weapons one time, driving off some poachers looking to smuggle out some Hyderan Near-Apes for their stem cells.  We got to work with a Hyderan LRRP (long range reconnaissance patrol) team, who were real pros, but their field toiletry habits took a lot of getting used to.

Partly because of that, near the end of our tour, we got to serve as honor guard at a reception for the new Colonial Administrator.  I'd never believed that stuff about 'men in uniform', but it turned out to have some truth behind it after all.

We never did get our tuition paid for; turns out that was only if you either did at least two tours, ended up in a designated combat zone, or got your commission, which none of us were interested in. Still, I don't regret my time with the USEF; I still keep in contact with most of the Derangers, and some of them are my closest friends to this day. I have a lot of great memories of the places we saw, people and things we met.  

Besides, later on, a bunch of us went and formed a gimmick band together...

The Play's The Thing

As has been said before, I love games.  War games, board games, word games, you name it.  When I play them, sure, I like to win, but I don't need to win; people who need to win are typically not fun to be around at the best of times, and what I appreciate most about games is that they give everyone permission to play.

Only the most intelligent and social of animals are seen to engage in play, at least as far as we can perceive.  It's entirely possible that bees have a rich but secretive tradition of satire, or that ant colonies devote some small measure of their endless efforts towards devising mathematical conundrums, but it doesn't seem likely.  They are too busy following biological imperatives to waste time on frivolities.

Winning is good; winning as a goal gives many games purpose and definition, and tell you when it's over.  Like Mr. Worf says, "If winning is not important, then why keep score?"  But it's never been critical to my enjoyment of a game, which is good, because I would have dropped Warhammer 40,000 years ago if that was the case.

There are probably those out there who would not bother to play a game they couldn't win, or a game in which there is no winner, and this is tragic because they don't give themselves that permission to play, to participate in something just for the sake of doing it.  I remember playing Dungeons & Dragons in my basement as a teen, and how my dad would always regret asking "Who's winning?" as he wandered past.

Think of the games you played in childhood; how did you determine who won a game of tag, or of red rover?  It didn't matter, you got together and you played for the sheer enjoyment of being at play, and lived in that moment until the recess bell rang, or the streetlights came on, or you got called in for supper.  Playing trumps winning just about every time, I figure.

Recently, I used the website They Fight Crime to engage my friends in this sort of play.  The site uses a randomizer to generate a detailed and often bizarre description of two individuals, a male and a female, who fight crime, for example:

He's an all-American guitar-strumming filmmaker fleeing from a secret government programme. She's an elegant extravagent cab driver with a flame-thrower. They fight crime!

It is all to easy to imagine this type of breathless copywriting in an issue of TV Guide, or on the dust jacket of a cheap paperback, and while all of the descriptions are vaguely ridiculous, some of the combinations are absolutely ludicrous.

I sent an e-mail to the attendees of the annual Gaming & Guinness weekend with an example from the site, outlined my proposal, and asked who would be interested in participating; no judging, no voting, no prizes or wagers.  My proposal was that I would give each one of them a different tagline from They Fight Crime, and they would have 24 hours to write something up giving the names of the characters, the medium they would appear in, the title of the book or television series or what-have-you, and an episode description or plot synopsis or back cover blurb.  I would collect them all and then share them with the group en masse.

To my delight, every single one of them responded in the affirmative, even though a couple of them weren't able to submit anything this time around.

It should be explained that all of my Basement Brothers are rather sharp chaps, and all of them are gifted at expressing themselves in one way or another. A couple of them work with words either professionally or recreationally, while others don't give themselves enough credit in that arena, but because this was play and not sport, no handicapping was required.

The results are both delightful in their whimsy, and terrifying in their similarity to shows we either have seen or will see in the 500 channel (and growing) universe we live in.  I have removed their names from their contributions because it might not have been clear that I would share them here, but they can take a bow in the comments field below if they like, and I heartily encourage them to do so.  This is wonderful stuff, and just one example of the rewards of using creativity for its own sake.

My thanks to the Fraternitas Sub-Terra for indulging me in this; I am proud to call such creative and funny men my friends!

He's a war-weary alcoholic rock star with a passion for fast cars. She's a disco-crazy foul-mouthed soap star who can talk to animals. They fight crime!

Medium: animated TV series
Title: Cowboy She-Bop
His name: Ringo Dallaire
Her name: Mary Alice Moore
Synopsis: in the 24th century, animals are full citizens, thanks to the release of the dog-talker virus in 2031. Cows are one of the largest voting blocs, but they still prefer to live in herds, typically in slums called 'calgaries'. The bounty hunters employed by the ANC (Animal Nation Congress) to police these towns are called cowboys. Despite being intelligent, none of the various animals can speak human languages, so specialized telepaths, called "whisperers" are employed to talk to them.

Ringo is a former soldier, who copes with his PTSD with vodka. He was unable to prevent the slaughter of cows by a pig army, and still wakes up screaming at night. He tells the world the story of the cows through his preferred medium of music, and works tirelessly to prorect the people of the calgaries.

Mary Alice works on the soap opera General Animal Hospital. She had a run-in with the law, and was sentenced to help out at a calgary. No one knows that she can talk to animals, but her ability gets found out by the end of the second episode.

Together, they work to keep meat-pirates, smugglers, and others away from their own private Calgary.
In other words, They Fight Crime!!!

He's a short-sighted alcoholic grifter in a wheelchair. She's a vivacious cat-loving stripper from Mars. They fight crime!

HBO SERIES TRAILER SCRIPT

NARRATOR: Coming this fall on HBO - a new original series from Earl J. Woods, the acclaimed creator of Toilet Chase and Blast Zone. Kristen Bell and Nathon Fillion star in...

Spitting Bullets

NARRATOR: By the year 2150 everything has changed. By the year 2150, nothing has changed.

S/FX: Scenes of 22nd century Mars from orbit, ringed with space stations and starships, many festooned with faux-neon lighting in the style of old Film Noir dives and speakeasies. Zoom down to night on the surface, to small settlements with the same 1940s aesthetic under starry skies. Yellow taxicabs grimy with red Martian dust and retro-futuristic design glide down the streets. Surly outcasts and desperate runaways fight for scraps as the rich and powerful sneer down from their gilt hotels.

NARRATOR: Starring Nathan Fillion as Ed Dick, a man with nothing left to lose and nothing left to prove.

Wheeling down the boardwalk comes Dick, chomping on a cigar, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, a fedora and a zoot suit. He spots the Dejah View, Mars' most notorious strip joint, and wheels inside.

DICK (V.O.): After that fateful night, I'd always ask myself: of all the strip joints on all the worlds, why did I hafta roll into this one....

NARRATOR: Kristen Bell stars as Katrina Vixen, an eccentric and exotic Martian beauty with very feline appetites.

As DICK wheels toward the strip joint's main stage, VIXEN (Bell) explodes from behind the curtain, wearing a shimmering liquid metal costume that slithers like a snake all over her body, revealing everything, yet revealing nothing. Burlesque music roars along with the crowd.

VIXEN: When he rolled into my place, I knew those baby blues spelled just one thing: trouble!

Jump cuts of DICK and VIXEN: A hover-limo full of Tommy-gun toting hoods dries to put a hit on DICK and VIXEN, but VIXEN leaps catlike onto the side of a building while DICK unloads the twin laser-gatlings mounted to his wheelchair arms, blowing the limo to smithereens. In a gambling hall full of robot dealers, DICK shows off his card skills. VIXEN grapples with a space octopus on the shores of a Martian lake as her cats howl and hiss. DICK and VIXEN fight back-to-back against little green men, fending them off with kicks and karate chops.

NARRATOR: With Sir Patrick Stewart as Fing Foom Mong, Kingpin of Mars.

MONG, half hidden in shadow on a throne of Martian rock and metal, leans forward into the light and thrusts his index finger at some minions.

MONG: I want that Dick!

NARRATOR: On Mars, love can get you killed. But sometimes, it's the only way out.

DICK and VIXEN in DICK's office, lamplight casting shadowblinds on their faces:

VIXEN: What put you in that wheelchair, Dick? Was it the same thing that put you at the bottom of that bottle?

DICK (hurling bottle to shatter it against the wall): I can quit right now, do you hear me? Right now!

NARRATOR: On a world being buried by old crimes, it takes a new kind of loser to set things right.

DICK (punching a cyborg bruiser): I'm gonna clean up this town one street at a time.

VIXEN (leaning on his shoulder, flipping a huge gold sovereign in the air and catching it): That's if he doesn't rob the whole town blind first.

NARRATOR: A grifter. A stripper. No plan, no chance, one mission: put the hurt on the mob before the mob makes them as extinct as the original Martians.

JUMP CUT of a mobster firing a bunch of bullets at DICK, point blank; but when we cut to DICK, he smiles calmly and spits them onto the sidewalk, one by one.

DICK: I have a hell of a dentist.

NARRATOR: Kristen Bell and Nathon Fillion are...


SPITTING BULLETS!

He's an all-American umbrella-wielding librarian with a secret. She's a disco-crazy extravagant journalist from out of town. They fight crime!

Bumbershoot and Dazzler

TV show

Steve "Bumbershoot" Smith, ex-high-school quarterback and now a broad-shouldered librarian, wields a bulletproof brolly and a quiet right hook. No talking!

Pavarti Dazzler, a foxy momma whose love of the disco beat can only be trumped by her love of the news heat. Her style is wild, her beat is sick, her pen is mightier that your disco stick!

Dazzler rolls into town in her Maserati Grancabrio Sport, hot on the trail of a rumor that could lead to the story of the century. Stopping at the local library for a little local research, she's immediately taken by the large handsome librarian leaning on his unusual umbrella. Sparks fly when their eyes meet, and then literally a few minutes later as unseen arsonists try to burn a few bookworms! The mystery unfolds with links to Spanish underground wrestling, high finance, a new street drug and a 5,000 year old Chinese mummy! Tune in for tonight's episode of Bumbershoot and Dazzler, "The Pain in Spain Shoots Straight Into the Vein", or "Mummy Dearest (Asian Edition)".

He's an oversexed voodoo cyborg on the wrong side of the law. She's an enchanted snooty hooker living on borrowed time. They fight crime!

Mystic Rave, the comic

Cybersocket unit 'XF-88' and 'Sylph' La Familier Fatal, they fight crime!

In their eternal battles against the massive criminal organization P.E.C.K.E.R, XF-88 and Sylph find themselves pull apart trying to rescue the fraternity. Finally having met Dr. Feltch Witherspoon and losing him just as quickly in the ensuing chaos of the riot, will XF-88 find his true identity? Can Sylph bring herself to terms with her addictions?

He's an oversexed crooked vagrant who knows the secret of the alien invasion. She's a wealthy junkie detective with a flame-thrower. They fight crime!

Freebie and the Bean
(TV series)
Suave, smooth, good looking in a rough-hewn way, he could get the ladies any time he wanted, and he always wanted. He moved constantly, always looking for fresh meet (sic), and was willing to do anything to get it. Women couldn't resist his sweet, Latino heat and his suave accent.

He trusted no-one and no-one should trust him as he would turn on them faster than bus crossing behind a 747 at take-off. People would sell their soul for a chance at the promised land, he'd do it for them when they weren't looking.

The news showed his countrymen trying the Rio Grande, but he knew the best way across, the way where you never got caught, the way he brought the freedom fighters in.

Juan Valdez is the one no man can stop and no woman wants to.

Brandi Steele was born into the easy life where it was easy to get bored but Daddy always indulged her. Whatever it took to stimulate his daughter he gave willingly, including a job as the face of the family business. Daddy's eponymous detective firm would always give her the trappings of a job when she felt like doing it. When she didn't, there was always his money. There was no way for this to end well without adult supervision, and that's exactly what happened.

Left to her own devices she fell in with a bad crowd and the progression has been seen before on a dozen Interventions. Huffing and puffing was a dangerous combination, as David Bowie can tell you, but when her "friends" were attacked she was forced to apply her Daddy's training and then combine those elements of her wayward past in the best way she could: into a justice-seeking flame-thrower.

They met in prison. She was charged with assault with a flammable weapon, he was caught leading a squad of mercs across into Texas. As she invoked her father's name for freedom he ditched his countrymen and leapt at the opportunity, entrancing her and winning his freedom. Surfing the free ride by volunteering his street smarts, she burns up the crooks while they burns up the sheets.

Together, THEY FIGHT CRIME!

He's a suicidal zombie shaman moving from town to town, helping folk in trouble. She's a time-travelling wisecracking mermaid on her way to prison for a murder she didn't commit. They fight crime!

Title: Dingo & Splash

TV series

Character Names: Dingo Kadji and Elizabeth Windsor

Copy:
Dingo Kadji, the undead shaman from the vast Australian outback, struggles on in this existence bearing the dark secret of his village’s demise.

Elizabeth Windsor, aka Splash, was born with the gift of time-travel. Raised in the enchanted & hidden Mermaid’s Pool deep in the English Midlands, she left her home to see the world and has a knack for talking her way into trouble.

Dingo and Splash wander middle America trying to do the right thing and helping where they can. It was Dingo who saved Splash when her wise-cracking ways put her on the wrong side of a biker gang and, as a result, the long arm of the law. No slouch herself, Splash has kept Dingo in better…spirits….with her impressive wit and her ability to show her undead mystic friend the past and future lives of the people they encounter.

Yet Another Space Cowboy

I've somehow managed to have something new posted at the start of every work week since I started this blog last year, and rather than break the streak while we prepare to go camping in Banff tomorrow, I thought I would cheat a little with a rerun of sorts.

A few years back, a friend of mine started a science-fiction role-playing campaign set in the universe of Joss Whedon's Serenity. All of us were huge fans of the short-lived Firefly TV series, and rightly so, and leapt at the chance to stretch out the experience of life in the 'Verse just a little longer, and to enjoy hearing those distinctively anachronistic turns of phrase so particular to the show. Plus, any book with a chapter entitled "Gorram Chinese" is a must have by my reckoning.

Unlike a lot of RPGs which follow an 'equip - quest - fight - loot - equip...' cycle pretty much ad infinitum, Serenity encouraged a high degree of drama and mystery, and expected the players to help the game master out with this by giving their characters idiosyncrasies such as a troubled past, a secret weakness or an implacable foe.

My character, Gus Hardy, would typically work as a dealmaker or frontman for a ship or crew looking for work, using his skills as a carny barker to drum up business or talk his way out of trouble. Not a violent man by nature, he is not to be trifled with as he is a very decent shot and (more importantly) incredibly fast on the draw.

I had a backstory worked out for Gus, and decided that the best way to impart it to the referee (and to formalize it for myself) was to write it up as a sort of short story, in the form of a one-sided interview. It's unlikely we will get an opportunity to play again anytime soon, what with the game master having moved out of province, so I thought I would share the story with those of an interest. Let me know what you think.


For the Record

Gus Hardy. Oh, full name? Augustus Chang Hardy. I guess if you’re recordin’ this for more than posterity I oughta keep things proper, huh? That’s a nice deck, can I have a look at it? Not a lot of people use these carts anymore…whoops.

There, it’s working again. Sorry about that.

No, I’m not currently employed, that’s what made me interested in the sign downstairs.

I guess it’s been, what, two weeks or thereabouts? I was working with a theater troupe touring Beaumonde, mostly barking, but occasionally up in the lights. Whassat? Ha, ha! No, no offense, I’m sure no self-respecting actor wants to be told they look like an actor. Kind of defeats the purpose, don’t it? No, it wasn’t that kind of thing at all, more like carny work.

Sure, if you’re having one. I’ve no preference, they all taste pretty much the same to me. Incident with my tastebuds, actually. Got any ice? Ahh, much obliged.

Not hardly Hamlet, mostly just tricks to drum up a crowd, a little light magic to charm the kids and their moms. Between you and me, if you can get a pretty lady to ask, ‘how’d you do that?’, you can pretty much close the box office, know what I mean?

Having a background with sideshows and the like is a good fall back. Seems there is always some group or another droppin’ in or leaving atmo, and I’ve loved the life since I was a tike. No, not to go to, to be in. My daddy’s cousin on Paquin took me in after my folks died back on Boros. Kind of the black sheep if you know what I mean, but he was the only kin what could take me in. I was 11. Helluva strange environ to grow up in, I don’t mind tellin’ you! Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, Beaumonde. No, Mr Cartwright treated everyone respectful, and paid regular enough, which is rare in that line of work. It was just time to go. Time to try something new.

Sure, two fingers.

Yeah, barkin’ is just like sellin’. Ain’t nobody goes lookin’ for a show like that, you need to be convinced, y'know, cajoled. Yeah, I like that word too. I haven’t done any actually sellin’ for a long spell now. Medicine, actually. Didn’t much like it.

Well, that was their idea too. Have a well-spoken individual come out and do a few tricks to raise up a crowd, and then lay into my pitch about the benefits of Elixirase, the wonder remedy of the age. What? No, I’m pretty sure snakes had nothing to do with it. Oh! Ha, ha! I’m surprised you’ve heard of it, actually. Yeah, I’d say ‘unpleasant’ is a gorram polite way of puttin’ it all right.

No, I’m good…well, it ain’t hardly like I’m driving is it? All right.

That was a bad time, and no mistake. Sure I felt responsible, I sold it to to them. Me, personally! But let’s get one thing straight, I never once told them to give that luh suh swei to their gorram kid. I knew the stuff wasn’t all that good, I had no idea at all that it might end up with someone gettin’ hurt, let alone dying. I ain’t much for hurtin’ folk. Well, unless they’re tryin’ to hurt me.

Nope, never went back after that. In fact, I drank the rest of the stock before heading back to my ‘riginal line of work. Hmm? ‘Bout ten days I think. I have trouble recollectin’ exactly, I think it has something to do with the high alcohol content. Everything’s tasted the same ever since. Aw, it ain’t so bad, I save a lot of money buying the cheaper whiskey, and protein bars are as good as a steak now. I only know what you’re serving me is top shelf because I recognize the label. Whoa up, that’s good. Thanks.

And Kersey keeps turning up, and I keep moving on. The kid’s dad, that’s who. Can’t rightly say as I blame him either, but martyrdom ain’t exactly my cup of cha. At least he’s easy to spot now that he walks with a limp. The time before last was a mite closer than you like a feller to get with homicide in his intent. Ha, ha! No, it’s just…of course I could kill him. It’d be easy enough to do, too. I’m a damn sight faster ‘n him, and the reason the room was dark when I shot out his kneecap is because I shot out three candles in the room tryin’ to scare him off. That, and to backlight him and keep it dark enough he couldn’t see me too clear.

No, just the wicks. Any ruttin’ idiot can shoot a candle. How do you think I earned my keep with Uncle Lewis, playin’ ‘is it the eight of clubs?’ with some rube? Anyhow, being able to shoot him ain’t the problem. I could even make a damn good self defense case. It’s just I got enough to answer for with a dead kid on my plate without addin’ a grievin’ parent to the mix. No thanks.

Not as much help as you’d think. Most of them what need a man with a gun are less concerned with how good he is with it, and more concerned with how discrete he is with it, how willin’ he is to use it.

Sure, I’ve shot a few men. Even killed a few when they forced my hand. But they always drew first. I’m not one for dry gulchin’. Which, sure, has cost me the occasional job, but never one I wanted. I’ll work for unsavoury types when the need appears, but I’ll never kill a man for money.

Speaking of jobs, you’ve let me do most of the talkin’ here. Pardon my ramblin’, I don’t usually carry on like this. Must be the liquor. Strange how neither sellin’, speechin’ or shootin’ has prompted you to say much about what you want me to do. I reckon that could mean you’re workin’ for Kersey and wanted some proof I was here on Tonqa, hm? Hey now, no need to get jittery, mister; I understand how it is. We all gotta work, right?

Here’s a proposition: I'll keep that cart I palmed earlier on so you have nothin' for Kersey, and we go our separate ways, call it square, how's that sit by you?

On the other hand, if Kersey is bringing in third parties, he’s probably got a right shiny bounty on me. You've given me a fair amount of whiskey, it’s probably slowed me down some. Is it enough? 

You look like you could be fast. How fast? D’you want to find out?

No?

Much obliged for the drink.