RP: Prohibition in Serendipity City
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Shock Trooper
Member # 3022
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written Monday, February 16 2004 14:01
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Serendipity City, New Britain was a thriving town. Crime was low, and the factories ran hot and busy with the promise of work and fair wages for all. Trade boomed, and ships left port daily carrying goods for export. Workers were drawn in from all around the nation, and in glad response the city expanded. Migrants too came from all parts of the British Empire, and the government of Serendipity, seeing their willingness and efficiency, approved a policy of tolerance. It was a happy time, a good time. Even the Great War of '18 did little to dampen their spirits, as the progressive mayor approached the task of rebuilding with relish. Britain, France and Germany, long New Britain's colonial masters fell into her shade, as the growing nation became a focus of the world economy. New British loans went out around the world, and the city of Serendipity grew fat with accumulated wealth. The General Gage memorial drew in tourists, and crime fell to an all time low. The unemployed were safely forgotten, as men embraced the capitalist vision. People lived free, their doors unlocked, and in triumph they accepted the Gun Control Act of '20, which promised a bright future of safety for all. And then, in '21, they passed the Prohibition Act. The people of Serendipity were law-abiding folk. Few were drinkers in the first place, and so for a time they were spared the turmoil that beset cities. Amidst the panic of the federal government, the setting up of the Agency, the riots of New York, things stayed quiet. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, and over time, a number of illegal smugglers appeared, stealing alcohol from police warehouses, brewing in underground vaults, hiding barrels on ships. Over time, they coalesced, grew in scale and organisation. Speakeasies opened up in dark alleyways, in hidden cellars. SCPD officers were bribed, corrupted. The city officials were confused. They did not see how they could be doing anything wrong. So they dealt with the problem the only way they knew - they ignored it. The police turned its blind eye to the blatant crimes, let it grew unchecked. They did not wish to mar the city's reputation by violence. For a time, it worked. Then, it drastically failed. On June 3, 1921, a high-level government official called John Fish was knifed in the back by a masked assassin. Fish died later, and the peace in Serendipity was shattered. No one claimed responsibility. No one came forth as a witness. But the government was driven into immediate action. Recriminations and scapegoating filled the press. Lurid tales began to circulate, and in them was enough of the truth to make people afraid. In the people's fear, crime exploded. Some sided with the criminals, agreeing with their direct means, their agressive capitalism. Some set up vigilante groups. Caught in this whirlwind, the side of law was also fast to act. Operatives from the fledgling Agency were dispatched. The local police began a concerted effort to root out the inner enemy of corruption. It was a mix that could only end in blood on the streets of Serendipity City. --- Factions: Moonlighters: Although it is one of the largest crime organazations in Serendipity City, the Moonlighters are more reminscent of a High Middle Age guild than a gang. They protect their collective interests in keeping speakeasies operating. With this banding together comes a monopoly on the illegal alcohol market. They are able to easily bribe police with their vast wealth and, though such an interfering act is rarely done by the guild itself, it is possible for the Moonlighters to exclude any person(s) from purchasing their alcohol, a large bargaining point, since it happens to be the main fuel source for shady activities in Serendipity City. Sharks: Unfettered by any real cause, the urge to earn money lies at the heart of the Sharks. They saw an opportunity, and they decided to take it. Who can argue against their right to make money how they wanted? They were the first to appear in Serendipity, they were the first to conduct their business of crime with strict proffessionalism. Many legitimate stores were quickly bought up and used as fronts for their businesses, and ships sneak in almost everyday, loaded with bootleg alcohol from Europe, smuggled tobacco from Mexico, opium from Turkey. Unlike the Kingz, they saw little need for extortion and blackmail. Money brought power, and power brought respect. It is rumored that their aspirations reach to the high echelons of government. Kingz: Serendipity City lifelong residents with a penchant for street and tavern brawls. Not satisfied by the Serendipity City Police Department, the Kingz have been known to take the law into their own hands to protect the ethnically New British. Their vigilante justice is interrupted by brutal conflict with the Sharks, shady men of indeterminable origin who sell themselves to the highest bidder and peddle their drugs on the streets of Serendipity City. Rodina: Serendipity City has a fairly large ethnic Russian population. About fifty years back an uprising occured in a neighboring Communist country. When the Soviet Union sent troops to help the besieged government deal with the problem, many defected and crossed the border into Serendipity. Although their firearms were long ago confiscated, they retain their trained fighting skills which are passed down from generation to generation. The Rodina gang owns a few speakeasies, but are mostly concerned with protecting ethnically Russian business interests in the city. The Agency: When the troubles in Serendipity City started, with the assassination of John Fish, the federal government of New Britian sent the newly formed Agency to deal with the problems. David Hammond was made the leader of the agents in SC for his innovative methods and his strong leadership abilities, but this position has gone to his head. Now, instead of working with the SC Police Department, Hammond and his agents are completely ignoring the officers and dealing with the gangs as they wish. Public opinion is strongly in favor of the Agency rather than the Police Department, and this, along with the arrogance of the agents, has caused resentment to grow among many of the police officers. Hammond and the Agency will do whatever they feel is necessary to restore peace to the city, and the SCPD and the various gangs are not happy. The SCPD: The SCPD was led by a retired general called Captain Jules Granger. Granger had achieved a reputation of fairness and justice in past years, during more peaceful times. He had no intention of letting a bunch of anti-socials ruin his city, and when he obtained permission from the mayor to finally act, he swore that he would personally bring to justice each and every member of an illegal organisation in the city. But he faces a problem within. His policemen, though well trained and equipped for fighting with batons, are of doubtful loyalty, many being in the pay of the various gangs. Thus while his forces have the most visible resources, it is unknown how far he can rely on his subordinates. It is even unknown how far the municipal government can rely on him. Posts: 269 | Registered: Saturday, May 24 2003 07:00 |
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Lifecrafter
Member # 585
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written Monday, February 16 2004 14:17
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In a musty room on third floor Sam Freight read the Serendipity Herald. A new Chief of Police. His agents would have to look into this. It seemed that every story on the front page had to do with Sam Fisher's death. Even the new Chief was simply a reform shot into action by the incident. He knew little about how that man was murdered, although the reasons were clear. A hardline on criminal activity, the fledgeling gangs of the City despised him, especially for his hand in the formation of the Agency. As counter intuitive as it was, business had actually shot up not only for him, but for the rest of his speakeasy manger colleagues. He didn't know much about this new Chief, but it probably wasn't good news. He put out his cigarette and descended the stairs for a drink with his faithful customers. OOC: I'm in the Moonlighters if that's not clear. [ Monday, February 16, 2004 18:22: Message edited by: Logalot^2 ] -------------------- The many faces of Logalot -------------------- Polaris Roleplaying and Debating Board- 'Nuf said -------------------- Democracy is a device that ensures we shall be governed no better than we deserve. George Bernard Shaw Posts: 780 | Registered: Friday, February 1 2002 08:00 |
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Bob's Big Date
Member # 3151
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written Monday, February 16 2004 16:14
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"...or the abridged version thereof." The line was funny, but it was about something that wasn't. The entire article had a more tongue-in-cheek quality that had the smugness of someone who had been against the entire idea of the war from the beginning. John Halsen had just come back from Beringova; the Civil War was shaping up to be bigger than the international one that sparked it, and most of Beringova's population was either Quebecan settlers or refugees from one big progrom or another on the other side of the world. Lately that had changed; Vladivostok had, after one big surge of refugees riding anything that could float, fallen into Red hands. Beringova was bad enough without direct Red support to Russian militants in the area. Quebec would, of course, roll over on the issue. Doing otherwise would have lead Germany to sit on Britain some more for the fun of it. Next to all that, Halsen had thought the prohibition issue small potatoes -- what was a little corruption against the collapse of Western civilization? The explosion that took out the office of the local Southern Sunshine changed around his priorities a bit. He thought fast: he had exactly five hundred and fifteen stirling and a loaded pistol locked up in a wall safe. Had he been five minutes faster, he wouldn't have to worry about how to keep eating dinner next week. That he wasn't, at least, he could be thankful about. -------------------- In a word, gay. --Bob the Impaler Posts: 2367 | Registered: Friday, June 27 2003 07:00 |
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Triad Mage
Member # 7
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written Tuesday, February 17 2004 03:32
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Emilio Randolfi strolled down Prince Boulevard alone, but everyone he passed gave him a wide berth. Most residents of this quarter of Serendipity City knew that he was one of the highest-ranking members of the Kingz, and nobody wanted to tangle with him. Mio didn't mind all the muttering that went on as he went by, and he knew that he stood up for the people of this quarter when the police didn't or were bribed to look the other way. His walk took him down to Serendipity City's penitentiary. He gave the guard a quick glance and headed down one of the side hallways. He stopped at a small cell at the end of the hallway, sitting on a stool looking in the cell, talking with the dejected man lying inside. Quentin Randolfi was serving in the second year of his five-year sentence for killing two police officers in a car crash. What most people didn't know was that in the back of the car was Shark deputy Nené Perez, who had bribed the cops to help him escape from the scene of a brutal shooting that had killed Edwin Randolfi, their father. Why was Mio here? Reassurance, for sure. Family ties, too. But that was why he came every week. Today was special. Today Quentin would be able to join the rest of his friends and family as they organized their plans to take back the streets. -------------------- "At times discretion should be thrown aside, and with the foolish we should play the fool." - Menander ==== Drakefyre's Demesne - Vahnatai Did Do It desperance.net - We're Everywhere The Arena - God Will Sort The Dead ==== You can take my Mac when you pry my cold, dead fingers off the mouse! Posts: 9436 | Registered: Wednesday, September 19 2001 07:00 |
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Lifecrafter
Member # 585
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written Tuesday, February 17 2004 12:37
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OOC: FZ, didn't you say there was some sort of gun control? So let's try to keep that in mind before we shoot everything. Plus that official guy was knifed in the back, not shot. -------------------- The many faces of Logalot -------------------- Polaris Roleplaying and Debating Board- 'Nuf said -------------------- Democracy is a device that ensures we shall be governed no better than we deserve. George Bernard Shaw Posts: 780 | Registered: Friday, February 1 2002 08:00 |
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Shock Trooper
Member # 3022
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written Tuesday, February 17 2004 13:18
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The young private laughed at all the Captain's jokes. It was only polite to do so, and there was no reason to get on the boss' bad side so early. He passed the first few tests, and now peered inquisitively at the large figure standing at the back of the room. There was a faint smell of tobacco in the air, and a mug on the table. Old rifles, probably decommissioned, decorated a wall. Granger sprang. "So, tell me, are you Internal Affairs?" He watched the face of the private carefully as he searched for a response. Of course, he knew what the answer would be. They would all say no, these days - no one wanted to be labeled a snitch in times like this, and certain rumors had been circulating about Captain Granger himself... "No, sir. Why do you need to know, sir?" The kid was either a very good liar, or an honest one. He wondered if he was old enough to have served with him in the Great War. Back then, they taught you how to lie convincingly. "The trick is to believe in the lie yourself." He muttered out of earshot, and shrugged in something that could be relief, or could be frustration. At length, he retrieved a polished baton from a drawer, and walked to the door. "Start them at the deep end is always the best. Come, kid, and I'll show you the opposition. The enemy in our war against the scum of the world." Without a look back, he started walking and the private hurried behind. "Just a minute's ride away. Man by the name of Quentin Randolfi. We had him in there for ages now, and he hasn't spoken. But word on the street is that there is some big business to do with his brother." As he got in the car, the private asked. "So, sir, why are you bringing the baton?" "He's a cop killer," Granger said, and slammed the door. Posts: 269 | Registered: Saturday, May 24 2003 07:00 |
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Law Bringer
Member # 2984
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written Tuesday, February 17 2004 14:30
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OOC: I just can't figure out a new character... Taron will do. With... *chuckles* a new 'outfit'... And a new name. It's John Gregor Ratmer.  IC: John G. Ratmer, called Greg by everyone he knew, was not an assassin, as he often stressed. True, on occasion he had had to kill to perform a certain 'task' posed him, but it was not the objective, and to be avoided. Ratmer liked to think of himself as an independent spirit, but he was as dependent on the bosses of the Kingz as one could be. His experience was valuable of course, and his knowledge of firearms had been until guns were restricted to the point of being outlawed. Ratmer, being well over fifty years old himself, had been in his business for years, long before crime in the city had come to the level it was at now. In those days, his actions had been far less criminal, though he had not been a law-abiding citizen for as long as he could remember. Right now, he was sitting in a small basement bar, less for the drinks than for keeping an eye on the local underground: His standing orders as long as he had no other jobs to do for the Kingz. OOC: The bar is Logalot's. -------------------- "And all should cry, Beware, Beware! His Flashing eyes, his Floating hair!" S. T. Coleridge --- "It is as if everyone had lost their sense Consigned themselves to downfall and decadence And a wisp it is they have chosen as their beacon." Reinhard Mey. --- Quote of the Week: "I have a high opinion of myself, which makes up for my total lack of intelligence." Anon. Posts: 8752 | Registered: Wednesday, May 14 2003 07:00 |
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Triad Mage
Member # 7
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written Tuesday, February 17 2004 16:22
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(OOC: Logo, the reason it was so brutal and shocking was because it was with guns, which are extremely rare.) Mio looked Quentin in the eyes and saw the desperate look of a man with no life to live. And when he told him about their plan to take back the streets, he saw a spark again. A spark that spoke volumes about Quentin's feelings. Nobody could read him like his brother, and Mio knew that the Randolfi brothers would be reunited again. A door slammed at the front of the station, startling the guard next to them. "What is it?" he called down the hall. A hurried voice shouted back, "Granger's on his way - something about Randolfi." Mio turned to the guard, handed him a wad of bills, and whispered softly, "Double the original payment if we make it out alive." The guard turned wordlessly to the cell and slid open the door, unlocking Quentin's handcuffs. Handing Mio and Quentin extra police uniforms, one far too tight and short to be his, three police officers walked out of a side door into an alley. Just as they were about to leave, the guard called back, "I thought they transferred Randolfi to Plymouth County this morning." Stepping outside, they stood in the cold alley, surrounded by garbage and the stench of disease and smiled. The Randolfi brothers were together again, and the guard had just made a handy £8,000, nearly a year's pay. As they were standing on the curb, a police cruiser drove past, splashing snow up onto the three men. They hurried down the street, off to York Avenue and towards Prince Boulevard. Granger got out of the cruiser and walked up to the doors of the station, preparing to confront Quentin Randolfi. -------------------- "At times discretion should be thrown aside, and with the foolish we should play the fool." - Menander ==== Drakefyre's Demesne - Vahnatai Did Do It desperance.net - We're Everywhere The Arena - God Will Sort The Dead ==== You can take my Mac when you pry my cold, dead fingers off the mouse! Posts: 9436 | Registered: Wednesday, September 19 2001 07:00 |
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Bob's Big Date
Member # 3151
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written Tuesday, February 17 2004 17:57
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"Viva Florida! Viva Florida! Viva Florida!" The chanting had gotten out of hand. There was liable to be a 'riot', just like there had been yesterday -- the police cracking New Spanish heads for the fun of it, in other words. Now the day before, the day that the Southern Sunshine had gotten blown up, that was a riot. Turns out the Cajuns were at it again; they were awful fond of going out and cracking any Mexican heads they could find for revenge's sake. There was too much revenge for revenge's sake going on in Serendipity, which sat in one of the worst possible locations for a civilized city, at least in John's opinion: at the bend of the Mississipi and Red rivers. How the Russians got the idea to flee Quebec this far south was beyond him; perhaps they had heard of all the Germans in New England and all the Swedes in the midwest, and wanted no part of either. That left Serendipity with riots coming north from Florida, New Orleans, and occasionally Tejas, which had always resented being part of Mexico proper and was now further galled by being surrounded by Spanish land. Ever so often, you got a riot caused by 1907-vintage Russian reds, or a string of violent actions against anyone the Roundheads didn't find white enough. Every day, he thanked God that the Roundheads had been crushed by police in Louisville, even though they still held Cleveland and some of the southern seaboard. He looked out the window of the bar. He hadn't shaved since the bombing, and only briefly noticed the beginnings of a beard. "Viva Florida! Viva Florida!" There were, sure enough, plenty of blacks in evidence. The Floridans split off from New Spain with the Spanish conquest. The capital, Dos Reyes, was named for the battle there -- back when it was named St. Augustine -- which killed both Napoelon and the Spanish monarch. And then Florida had sent a filibuster north, which quickly claimed the swampy marsh of Georgia and soon swept as far north as Delaware, taking slaves back as freedmen as they went. A generation later, Florida surrendered itself to the Spanish crown, but the slaves stayed free. Many Serendipitans would have considered the number of rights the Floridans gave their rather large black population absurd and backwards; John was not inclined to think that way. "Florida! Florida!" The cry had been constant since the Spanish reorganization under the increasingly martial King Pedro, calling much territory which had been a stone's throw from independence Mexico and putting a colonial government in Oaxaca rather than Mexico City as the only compensation. The Floridans were enraged, naturally, and they wanted to get the New British enraged. "Florida! Florida!" Not this crowd, he realized with a flash, before diving under the bar. A year in Beringova had taught him that. Nothing taught the bartender, as his screams said. The grenade nearly caved in the front half of the bar, and it looked like it was about to cave real soon. He looked around -- a few people thrashing and screaming, a few not moving, a lot of people in less pain and more confusion. The Floridans were, sure enough, flying a yellow saltire on black with a red spiderish-looking seal in the center. "Florida! Florida! Florida!" The banner said that they were members of the Frente Caribe, a group of affiliated rebels who resented being called Mexicans. The rifle shots and explosions said they were playing for keeps, too. A large olive-skinned man with a rifle walked confidently into the bar. John Halsen stood up quickly. The man with the rifle didn't even turn to look at him; even Beringova experience had taught him that this person wouldn't have lasted two minutes in the War. The first shot killed the Floridan. That left him with nine shots and whatever was in the rifle. Screams and white flags flying over buildings, as well as scruffy-looking hispanics pouring out of buildings in bathrobes and pajamas -- it was early, after all -- some carrying clubs, some with knives, machetes, and other instruments of short-range destruction, and a couple with revolvers. A question went out -- from what French Halsen had learned from veterans, he could tell it was a question about the War -- and some hands shot up. They got rifles, which confirmed that. "Viva Florida! Viva el Frente! Viva Libertad!" John Halsen looked at the rifle he was holding, and collected his thoughts. He would die shooting unless Serendipity acted fast -- fat chance of that; there was an army of green but earnest rebels here, as liable to take half the city as anything before the police or intelligence agency could react with full force. He took a shot and scampered under a pile of debris left by the bomb before the rebels could fire back. Vigilantes could try and fight back, but they wouldn't get far; the core of the group had smuggled rifles north from Mexico. This time three toughs approached the building. He cursed silently. One of them probably had a pistol, and all of them looked as if they knew what they were doing. Halsen worked the bolt somewhat ineptly; fortunately, the look of experience was deceiving, as the toughs didn't notice him until he had popped the one with the bulge under his shoulder in the left cheek. He dropped his rifle and, quickly drawing his pistol, caught the other in the leg. The third tough ran like hell, having lost a leader and a comrade in arms and apparently feeling like easy meat himself. A voice from behind him boomed in Spanish; he got momentarily frightened, then he heard another booming voice from the rebel lines. There was a brief back and forth, and then it stopped abruptly with what sounded like curses. "So, Halsen, you feel up to being a sergeant with a decoration for valor at the Seine today?" "Do I have any choice?" The bartender chuckled with the grim tone that belied some minor but annoying injury, and behind the bar came the sound of shotgun shells clicking into a well-oiled but seldom-used chamber. Either he'd come out of this a hero for taking a hostage from the losing side or a corpse for taking one from the side that could overwhelm Pinky's. Either way, he felt somewhat luckier than he did when the entire mess started. And at least he didn't have to worry too much about paying the bills until later. (OOC: To clarify a few points: 1. John Halsen didn't serve in the war, and if he had, he'd have been on the wrong side; the 'war' was, by and large, a Schleiffen-esque bulldozer into France. Britain held in Paris for weeks, and was finally forced to surrender after the Russian military uprising that would end with the Russian civil war, still going strong today. Italy and Spain took Germany's side, and there was little consequence for Serendipity. Farther east, people are spitting mad about it, but here the majority of veterans fought in the south of France under the Spanish flag. Rumors abound about a plan to invade Serendipity, but the farthest that got was the red light district being shelled three times during the last weeks of the war. 2. The Floridan fighters are a large enough force that they're going to manage to take and barricade a good portion of the city before the army comes in, and will likely begin taking hostages if they can establish a route to Mexican soil across either river. 3. The Red River is what we would call the Arkansas River, which puts our adventure in what is basically the southern extreme of New Britain. (Generally, to the south is Mexico and to the north is Quebec, which is more or less Canada.) 'Florida' consists of much of the American southeast, up to the border somewhere within the Carolinas. 4. New Britain ends at the Rockies, and south of that is the American Republic, a little rump state created half a century ago, whose borders are indeterminate and whose status as an independent nation is even more so. Suffice to say that they don't particularly like or trust the NBers. 5. Contrary to previous statement, I don't think there's any particularly sane way for Germany to hold North American colonies at any divergence which would leave history anything resembling what we have now, so I'm going to effectively remove that. The backstory for the Russians is horrendous, and I've taken the liberty of changing it. History will usually tell you that the Soviet Union was not really a going concern in 1868. (Or 1921, for that matter; the term is only now beginning to catch on as Trotsky gains power. The other contenders for rule of the Reds -- who have won the war west of the Urals and consider the east only a matter of time -- prefer variants on 'Communist Russia'.) 6. The Kingz may or may not have any affiliation with the Roundheads, who are an unpleasant political party with mounting strength in the industrial areas of England and New Britain... and we shall certainly meet them later. They're also acting for the interests of the English, but whether the Kingz will want anything to do with their methods or their divisive nature is entirely up to the people in that outfit. 7. John Halsen is a journalist; the fact that he speaks no Spanish save by proxy of other romance languages is a dead giveaway to the fact that he's from farther north, as every native of Serendipity should know at least enough to swear in. He's not a member of any faction, although he most likely appreciates some's aims more than others, and this may change as time goes on. )) [ Tuesday, February 17, 2004 22:34: Message edited by: Full Frontal Nudity Custer ] -------------------- In a word, gay. --Bob the Impaler Posts: 2367 | Registered: Friday, June 27 2003 07:00 |
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Lifecrafter
Member # 3320
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written Tuesday, February 17 2004 22:03
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IC: Casetti Medalivich Vokovsky sits in a chair behind the polished, though somewhat stained oak counter littered with the tools of trade that any typical tobacconist like him would have. He sits reading the Serendipity Herald, waiting for his first customer of the morning. A light rain had been falling before daybreak, making the day seem even colder than it was and positively damp everywhere in the city. His shop suddenly starts to feel slightly nippy from the cold, and looking down at his dull dark blue dress shirt, he decides that he had better put something else on to keep from catching a chill. Getting up and resting the paper on the counter, he takes the gray suit coat from the rack next to him, and after putting it on, closes it to keep himself warmer. He curses to himself about the workman that was supposed to have come and fixed the faulty gas jet in his shop. He sits back down, picks up the paper, and resting it on his light brown pants, starts reading it again. The paper is filled with page after page of the story concerning the assassination of a city official named Sam Fisher by an unknown assailant. He sets the paper down on his lap and chuckles as he thinks about it the curious events surrounding it. ‘Heh heh, Casetti. You pulled that one off well. Those cops will never figure it out. Who would ever suspect that an old man visiting the establishment had shot that man and gotten away fast enough to avoid being captured?’ (Begins looking through the newspaper again) ‘Oh, I see a new chief has been hired. Hmmmm. A name I never heard before, but with a ring of strong authority to it. That could bring trouble. I’d best be on my guard. I can’t afford to let anyone discover my identity. Good thing I have friends in different parts of society.’ (Chuckles to self again) ‘I can just see the papers now if I were caught. My criminal past would make an excellent headline. “Serendipity police arrest ‘Case Closed’, the assassin, master forger, arsonist, crack thief, and master of disguise for hire. He was living under the assumed name of a respected tobacconist. He got the name ‘Case Closed' from his short temper and quickness to solve all his problems with violence. It seems he will be locked away indefinitely if any crime can ever actually be traced to him.” ‘Heh Heh. That would be a laughing riot with the uh…oh, a potential customer.’ He looks out his right eye, the left being covered with an eye patch from an injury sustained while he was in the Soviet Army, through his emerald green glasses at the figure walking slowly down the other side of the street. The individual is looking at each shop sign, apparently for a particular one. When the figure notices his, Vokovsky's Smokes, it turns, and heads almost stealthily across the street towards his shop. As the figure reaches his side of the street, features can finally be discerned more clearly in the aurora of his shop lights. They belong to a female customer. A ringing of a bell marks the entry of a young lady into his shop, and reaching into her purse, she approaches his counter. She is an example of an average service woman who comes from one of the many respectable households of the aristocracy. He can tell that she is obviously a servant woman, possibly a cook, from her simple adorning garb, and is on her way to the marketplace, as he can see by her empty grocery basket. She holds out a cigarette to him and brandishes a brand name at the same time. He gets up from his chair, extends to her polite civility, and attends her with the quickness and precision of any man of his profession. He examines it, services her with a new package of cigarettes, and she pays the stated price for them. Then with a simple thank you combined with nods and smiles between them, she briskly leaves the shop, and shuffles down the street in the direction of the market. After adjusting his marketable items on the counter a little, he sits back down in his chair once more. He pulls out his pipe and upon lighting it, wispy blue curls of smoke emanate from it and his lips. He props his feet up on a nearby stool and continues reading the paper while he waits for his next customer. [ Thursday, February 19, 2004 20:07: Message edited by: Sherlock Holmes - MSW ] -------------------- Mrs. Peacock: "Everything all right?" Colonel Mustard: "Yep. Two Corpses. Everything's fine." "Keep your wits about you, the game is afoot!!" - Sherlock Holmes Posts: 935 | Registered: Friday, August 8 2003 07:00 |
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Bob's Big Date
Member # 3151
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written Tuesday, February 17 2004 22:38
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It's late 1921; the Red Army won't be an official outfit for half a year or more, and the Russians and Swedes have been on notoriously poor terms since the Crimean War (around the 1850s, where the Swedes wringed quite a bit of Finland out of Russian hands). They were on opposite sides of the Great War, to be sure. It's a little muddy, but it'll be all right. -------------------- In a word, gay. --Bob the Impaler Posts: 2367 | Registered: Friday, June 27 2003 07:00 |
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Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!
Member # 919
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written Wednesday, February 18 2004 09:42
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What don't you people understand about this? First of all, very few (read: almost no) guns or explosives. That means no hidden revolver, MSW, no grenades, no rifles, no pistols - didn't you read the intro posts? Alec, there is no rebellion, there is no army, there is no blockade. This is an RP about prohibition and gang warfare, not full-scale revolution and international war. If you want that kind of RP, start your own. Let's use FZ's post as a basis, and please, people, try to stick to it. IC: The screech of brakes shattered the midnight silence, but the neighbors were getting used to that. A few faces appeared at windows, anxiously searching the pavement below, but most who heard it just groaned, rolled over, and hoped it wouldn't affect their route to work the next day. A shadowy figure knocked on the wooden door; three times, slowly, then a fourth and fifth in quick succession. The door opened slowly, and the figure disappeared inside. The neighbors shrugged and climbed back into their beds; another gang had moved in, apparently, but life would go on. For the neighbors, at least. "Who are you?" the doorman demanded, knife held at ready. "Relax," the newcomer answered. "You want help against Rodina, and I can give you that. Put away your knife, please, and take me to Frederick." "It's midnight, he's not seeing anyone," the doorman answered, wary. The newcomer sighed. "I am Jack Brown, alright?" He saw the recognition in the man's eyes, and smiled. "Frederick told me to come at midnight, do you think I wanted to? I'd much rather be at home in my wife's arms." "Right, right, I meant no offense. Come on, then, he's waiting for you." The two men walked through the dark hallway, and through the door into a small, smoky room. "You're late," said the man sitting at the table. Frederick was old and fat, and a pang of regret quickly passed through the newcomer's heart. "I was delayed at the door," he replied, his hand withdrawing into his sleeve, as if to take the coat off. "I'm here now, that's what matters. May I sit?" "Of course, of course. Sit there, it's the best chair I have. You have the papers?" "Right here," he said, moving his hand into the front of his coat, withdrawing a folder. "You see, Rodina is here, where I've marked the X's - the information that you gave me regarding your breweries, I've marked in red, for your convenience. Here are the papers." "Where are - what - what's this -" 'Jack Brown' smiled grimly. "Oh, did I say I was going to help you? That's not exactly what I meant." Drawing the knife from his coat sleeve, he jumped forward and plunged the blade into Frederick's chest. Before the doorman could act, he was on the ground, the Agent's arms around him. The brief struggle that followed ended in the Moonlighter's hands and mouth bound, and both his knife and the Agent's knife securly inside he Agent's coat. "'Jack Brown'. Jack brown is dead, my good man," the Agent gloated. "I am none other than Shane Hannigan, and you'd better remember that. You, and all you treacherous gangs, can do [i]nothing[/i against the Agency - nothing." Chuckling to himself, Agent Hannigan dragged the doorman behind him back to the car, waiting just around the corner. "Send someone to retrieve the body, there's just the one," he told the driver. "Just one, for now." The neighbors were relieved, the next morning, to see that the screech marks were on the street a block away, and nothing, apparently, had changed. -------------------- And though the musicians would die, the music would live on in the imaginations of all who heard it. -The Last Pendragon TEH CONSPIRACY IZ ALL Les forum de la chance. Incaseofemergency,breakglass. Posts: 3351 | Registered: Saturday, April 6 2002 08:00 |
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Bob's Big Date
Member # 3151
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written Wednesday, February 18 2004 12:17
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I'd argue with you, but I don't feel up to RPing if I'm going to have a strident, domineering idiot riding my ass the entire time. Congratulations: the signal to noise ratio just dropped by a factor of one. -------------------- In a word, gay. --Bob the Impaler Posts: 2367 | Registered: Friday, June 27 2003 07:00 |
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Lifecrafter
Member # 585
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written Wednesday, February 18 2004 12:56
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Look, Alec, there's no reason to get overly worked up 12 posts into this RP. David's right, explosions and rifles dont exactly fit in with the RP. It's not like he was being patronizing about it either. IC: 'Bartender!' Sam was not the Bartender, although it was certainly his bar, and he was happy to return to his old job, if for just a second. 'What can I get you?' Sam smiled politely. He didn't know who the man asking for service was. 'I'll have a (Err... Not sure what kind of drink would fit your character, Aran.)' 'Certainly' Sam prepared the drink slowly. He had not seen this customer before, but if he was a cop, he could be bribed off. Corruption was a wonderful thing. 'That'll be a quarter.' The man fished around in his pocket and handed Sam a coin. Although he had never been in this bar before, something about the man's face seemed familiar, and he decided to watch him. He sent the regular bartender for that side of the pub off, and worked it himself. He would get to know this man. -------------------- The many faces of Logalot -------------------- Polaris Roleplaying and Debating Board- 'Nuf said -------------------- Democracy is a device that ensures we shall be governed no better than we deserve. George Bernard Shaw Posts: 780 | Registered: Friday, February 1 2002 08:00 |
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Shock Trooper
Member # 3022
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written Wednesday, February 18 2004 13:40
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Granger was angry. "They escaped? They just escaped?" The young private backed away quietly as Granger seized the protesting guard. When he let go, the officer sagged to his knees in relief. "Sign him up to the full treatment. I don't want a corpse to be found." And with that, the captain returned to his car. A report came in through the radio. Civil disturbance? The Randolfi affair would have to be put off, as he rushed to the scene as fast as the car would go. En route, he radioed the codes for each police station's gun locker. --- The Floridans never stood a chance. Perhaps in another city, they would have gotten further, but Serendipity was ready. Granger was a famous commander in the war, and fighting was in his blood. And when he saw the raggedly dressed men that represented the revolution, he simply laughed. And gave the command to open fire. Within seconds the cries of "Viva Florida" had been silenced by the zip and crack of machine guns. A few men tried to fire back with revolvers, but the armed officers were merciless, and efficient. All of a sudden the rioters found themselves surrounded in all directions, and being charged by officers with bayonets. Some tried to take hostages, but were shot nevertheless. The surrendered were shot as traitors and murderers, including women and wounded. And at the end of it all Granger stood triumphant. There will be no unrest in this city, his city. This, he proclaimed, would be the turn of the tide. There will be no quarter given to any criminal elements. From now on, a curfew will be kept, and all breakers be jailed. Buildings will be searched randomly for prohibited weaponary, and all possessors executed. Even the Agency propagandists would have acknowledged that he made a fine performance. Before the blood was mopped up, the guns were back in the storage lockers and new codes entered. Granger wondered what the Agency would make of his actions. No doubt they would use it as a reason to obtain more control. He grimaced, and picked up a phone. [ Wednesday, February 18, 2004 13:44: Message edited by: FZ ] Posts: 269 | Registered: Saturday, May 24 2003 07:00 |
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Lifecrafter
Member # 3320
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written Wednesday, February 18 2004 19:21
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IC: As the day approaches noon, it steadily grows warmer. With the chime of his clock signaling dinnertime, Casetti hangs up his suit coat on the rack once more, puts an "Out to lunch" sign on his door, and locks it to keep out thieves while he goes to his flat to eat his meal. Once in his flat, he heads to his living room and sits down in his comfortable black leather chair. He picks through a knapsack on an oak end table next to him and pulls out a German pistol fixed with a silencer. Lighting a cobalt blue oil lamp on a second oak end table on the other side of his chair, he begins to examine it in the soft glow of the flame. Turning it over and over in his hands, he comments to himself. "To think, this piece of twisted and formed metal is an item of terror in this city. It's very possession is against the law for any average citizen and could mean inevitable death to the person who wields it. Its very mention or appearance is enough to bring some amount of fear in the bravest soul. It is a tool for cold-blooded murder, yet can be an invaluable aide in defending one's self." Shakes his head and clicks his tongue is despair. "So powerful, and yet so noisy. Only with a silencer like this one can it match the stealth of one of my throwing knives." (Takes one of his ivory-handled knives out of a concealed compartment in his knapsack with his free hand and looks at it) "Even with the aurora of instant incarceration hanging over my head, should it be found on me, I am happy to have one if I find my self in a very tight spot." (Sighs) "Hmmm. In light of recent events, it might be dangerous to continue carrying it. If something major happens in this city, this new chief might start raids on businesses and searches of homes." (Thinks about this) "Hmmmm. Even I am at a slight risk if they decide to search my flat, despite my well-hidden cache. I guess I better prepare for the worst." He gets up from his chair and heads towards a bookshelf and the desk set off in a corner between two windows. Knowing that any smart cop would start looking in and behind books for weapons or for a triggering device, he ingeniously installed such a device in the floor under one of the legs of the desk. Moving the desk carefully so as not to leave a mark, and removing a solid-looking board in the floor, he pulls on a taught chain barely visible in the dark nook, which triggers a mechanism in the wall. This causes a small panel to open down from the wood-paneled ceiling and reveal a paltry weapon cache set into the rafters in a crawlspace that's located between the ceiling of the flat and the tin roof of the building. This gap in the structure can only be reached through the aide of a set of steps that comes down with the panel. The space in between the levels being so small that making a weapons cache in it seems inconceivable to common sense. To Casetti, this makes it even more the ideal hiding place for it. Making up his cache is one soviet machine gun, one sniper rifle (for special jobs and rarely used), a crossbow with a good supply of bolts, a collection of throwing knives, a small, yet generous collection of ammo for each of the guns, and a dart gun (like a blowpipe) with a supply of darts. He checks to see that nothing is missing and sets his silenced German pistol in amongst the other items. He decides that the crossbow would be a better weapon to keep around him, as it can be innocently displayed on a wall as a sort of collector’s piece. So, he removes it and a quiver of bolts from the cache and for the moment, sits them down on his desk. He then closes the panel, replaces the board in the floor, and slides the desk with painstaking detail, back exactly where it was. He then installs some ornamental hanging hooks in the wall above the cobblestone fireplace, sets up the crossbow display with the quiver, and then goes to the kitchen and makes himself his dinner. [ Thursday, February 19, 2004 21:05: Message edited by: Sherlock Holmes - MSW ] -------------------- Mrs. Peacock: "Everything all right?" Colonel Mustard: "Yep. Two Corpses. Everything's fine." "Keep your wits about you, the game is afoot!!" - Sherlock Holmes Posts: 935 | Registered: Friday, August 8 2003 07:00 |
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Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!
Member # 919
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written Wednesday, February 18 2004 19:57
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OOC: Well, that's easily solved; most of that post was unneccesary, aside from the bit about the gun searches and the hidden cache. We really don't need to know the rest, unless you're planning to stage the climax of the RP in his apartment, and the furniture is somehow going to affect the outcome. Also, one gun is fine, especially if your character is the assassin (as Drakey said, the assassin would need a gun), but three? I don't mean to sound like a whining nag, but really, if you're sorry for the length, it's not like you can't do anything about it. And the guns really are important; weaponry is a big part of this RP, and the availability of firearms could change everything. IC tomorrow, I'm sticking to the IC-a-day rule. -------------------- And though the musicians would die, the music would live on in the imaginations of all who heard it. -The Last Pendragon TEH CONSPIRACY IZ ALL Les forum de la chance. Incaseofemergency,breakglass. Posts: 3351 | Registered: Saturday, April 6 2002 08:00 |
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Lifecrafter
Member # 3320
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written Wednesday, February 18 2004 21:31
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[ Thursday, February 19, 2004 21:06: Message edited by: Sherlock Holmes - MSW ] -------------------- Mrs. Peacock: "Everything all right?" Colonel Mustard: "Yep. Two Corpses. Everything's fine." "Keep your wits about you, the game is afoot!!" - Sherlock Holmes Posts: 935 | Registered: Friday, August 8 2003 07:00 |
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Law Bringer
Member # 2984
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written Thursday, February 19 2004 02:40
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OOC: Alec, I understand your desire to move to a subject you are evidently well-versed in (ie. military history), but still I must argue for this to stay on a 'personal' level, with individual characters and small scenes. IC: John "The Rat" Ratmer watched the man carefully. He had not been recognized, but the man looked at him for a long while. Then he sent off the bartender to work the bar himself. Ratmer was not fooled; he had immediately realized two things: The one who had given him his drink must be the owner of the bar, or at least close to it, if he could order the bartender like that. And he seemed to be interested in watching Ratmer; for what other purpose would he replace the barkeeper now? It remained to be seen what to do now, but Ratmer wasn't interested in divulging his identity just yet. -------------------- "And all should cry, Beware, Beware! His Flashing eyes, his Floating hair!" S. T. Coleridge --- "It is as if everyone had lost their sense Consigned themselves to downfall and decadence And a wisp it is they have chosen as their beacon." Reinhard Mey. --- Quote of the Week: "I have a high opinion of myself, which makes up for my total lack of intelligence." Anon. Posts: 8752 | Registered: Wednesday, May 14 2003 07:00 |
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Triad Mage
Member # 7
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written Thursday, February 19 2004 02:46
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(OOC: David, calm down. MSW, don't let it get to you.) Quentin Randolfi made a triumphant return to the ghetto. People cheered in the streets, women threw flowers, and undercover cops watched closely. Those that weren't bribed to keep the other undercover cops from getting any worthwhile information, that is. Mio left the celebration early. He had gotten a message that some Floridans had been shot up in a bar not too far away, but he didn't care about them. What he cared about were the disturbing reports of the immense force the SCPD used in dispersing the insurgents. If his reports were true, it meant that the Kingz were finally legitimized, and he had to make the neighborhood see that. In the morning, a lone Shark wandered into town, raped a young girl, and left. Three hours later, his body was lying in a ditch, with the signature Randolfi knife in his back. Two hours after that, the police arrived, took testimony, and left. -------------------- "At times discretion should be thrown aside, and with the foolish we should play the fool." - Menander ==== Drakefyre's Demesne - Vahnatai Did Do It desperance.net - We're Everywhere The Arena - God Will Sort The Dead ==== You can take my Mac when you pry my cold, dead fingers off the mouse! Posts: 9436 | Registered: Wednesday, September 19 2001 07:00 |
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Shock Trooper
Member # 3022
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written Thursday, February 19 2004 11:04
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A phone rang. It rang again, and again, its tone reverberating around the small room in the local headquarers of the Agency. A secretary picked it up and answered. "Hello? How can I help you?" Granger sat up, removing his feet from his battered desk. Checking the name on his list, he replied. "Can I speak to Agent Hannigan?" There was a pause. With luck, the secretary wouldn't recognise his voice. It was not typical of the chief of police to call an organisation he saw as the police's rival, and Granger had been careful not to appear too often in the media. "I'm afraid he isn't in at the moment." Of course not. Agency lackeys are never in. But perhaps they can be useful... "Then can I leave a message? Write it down please..." Soon, Shane Hannigan will receive an anonymous tip-off of a serious 'incident' in the ghettos. He will receive credible information that the Randolfi brothers, a group of Sharks operatives posing as community workers are planning a major bank raid, and need to be eliminated with maximum force. Granger smiled as he hung up the phone. If all went well, he would have killed two birds with one stone. Posts: 269 | Registered: Saturday, May 24 2003 07:00 |
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Lifecrafter
Member # 3320
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written Thursday, February 19 2004 21:26
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Ok. I decided to jump back in this RP again. Arancaytar's kind words have a magical effect. I replaced my posts, changing them for the better. Despite the fact that I don't like the way that Sir David points out error, and as much as I hate to do it, I must agree with him on one point. I did have too much unnecessary detail. I have now eliminated a good majority of it. So, after editing my posts over and over and rewriting a lot of stuff, I found a way to balance the details out and still keep a good storyline going. So, consider me back again. Sorry if I went crazy like that. I take criticism badly because... 1. I have Bipolar disorder, also known as manic-depressive. If you don't know, it causes violent mood swings and can make a person angry at any type of criticism.  2. I have OCD. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Meaning I have a habit of doing things in a certain way and don't like to change. If someone tells me I am doing something wrong, and in a nasty, impolite way, it rubs me the wrong way and I tend to go nuts.  3. I forgot to take my medication today. -------------------- Mrs. Peacock: "Everything all right?" Colonel Mustard: "Yep. Two Corpses. Everything's fine." "Keep your wits about you, the game is afoot!!" - Sherlock Holmes Posts: 935 | Registered: Friday, August 8 2003 07:00 |
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Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!
Member # 919
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written Friday, February 20 2004 20:35
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"Who was that?" Agent Hannigan asked, tossing a die from hand to hand. "Santa Claus. Who do you think?" "I don't know, Frederick's wife?" The secretary rolled her eyes. "Be serious. It was Granger." Hannigan sat up quickly. "What?" "Captain Jules Granger. I met him at a party once, his voice is unique. Didn't say who he was." "Well, come on then, what did he say?" Hannigan got up and walked to the desk, excited. It wasn't every day that the SCPD called the Agency, let alone a specific Agent. Had word about Frederick's assassination gotten out? And it was an anonymous call, too. That had to mean something. He bent down to read the note. "To Hannigan - Granger? Mio Randolfi... community workers... First National... can he be trusted, do you think?" "To a degree," the secretary replied. "I doubt that he's concerned about the bank, itself, so there's got to be an ulterior motive. If he wanted to help his own reputation, he would've just told me who he was. So it's either that he's got something against the Kingz, and doesn't want his bribed officers to turn on him - or he's got something against you, or the Agency, and doesn't want the city to turn on him. Agent Hannigan slowly straightened, paced around the desk, and sat back down. "Which do you think it is?" "You know how he feels about the Agency." "Yes. Well. You know how he feels about the gangs." "True." "How reliable is the information?" "Oh, I'm sure that what he told me is true. I'm equally sure that it's not all he knows, and that he withheld the rest for a reason." "And why did he choose me, specifically?" The secretary shrugged. "Frederick? I have no idea, really." "Call Carter." "You're going?" "The Moonlighters aren't our only enemies. Yes, I'm going but I'm not going alone. Carter's still got the car, right?" "As far as I know." "Good. If all goes well, then, I'll see you later. If not - well, tell Hammond, he'll know what to do." "Good luck." Agent Hannigan snorted, and left the room. Fifteen minutes later he was sitting in the passenger seat of Agent Carter's car, heading towards the neighborhood Granger had mentioned. He arranged his knives nervously, keeping an eye on Carter's coat; the old pistol was well-hidden, he had to concede that. He hoped it wouldn't be neccesary, though; he was on a scouting mission, not a hit. Not yet. EDIT: Sorry about that, I thought the Sharks were Hispanic and the Kingz were not... [ Saturday, February 21, 2004 13:31: Message edited by: Sir David ] -------------------- And though the musicians would die, the music would live on in the imaginations of all who heard it. -The Last Pendragon TEH CONSPIRACY IZ ALL Les forum de la chance. Incaseofemergency,breakglass. Posts: 3351 | Registered: Saturday, April 6 2002 08:00 |
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Shock Trooper
Member # 3377
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written Saturday, February 21 2004 01:07
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She hated them. The SCPD's blind indifference, the Agency's brutality. But most of all she hated the gangs. After all, it hadn't been the cops who had supplied her father with goon. It hadn't been the Agency that had let him drink it, and drink it, and drink it. It hadn't been the SCPD that had made her scared at night, scared of her father, scared of the things the goon made him do and threaten to do. The Agency hadn't forced them into the streets, away from the house and the father and the hand that left its mark on their bodies. And the SCPD hadn't left her sister cold in an alley, too young for the things she'd been forced to do to survive, the things that had killed her in the end. It was the gangs. All the gangs. And so she vowed one day, shivering and sweating and stinking of vomit in an alley not so very different from the one her sister had died in, to end the gangs. In her opiate-induced euphoria she believed she could do it, that she could avenge her father and her sister and herself and everything would be alright, was alright. She knew she would fail, in the nightmares that followed, and so she called herself Bitter, for that was what she was, and she was known on the streets she frequented as Bitter, the girl with a look of cunning and hate in her eyes who fed her addiction through thieving and informing. She knew everything on the streets. And she sold that information to whomever could do the most harm. -------------------- From many a wondrous grot and secret cell Unnumbered and enormous polypi Winnow with giant fins the slumbering green. Posts: 356 | Registered: Saturday, August 23 2003 07:00 |
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Triad Mage
Member # 7
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written Saturday, February 21 2004 01:37
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(OOC: The Randolfis are the Kingz ...) Shayla Shabazz stood out on the street, looking for a buyer - a man to take her away for the night. Preferably a nice cop or an Agency member. Her father would like those the best. Especially one of the ones that actually carried a gun. But Shayla was getting ahead of herself. First she had to round up enough men willing to do a big bust on the bank for the Sharks. She'd gotten a tip that the Sharks were being watched for a raid on the bank dressed as community workers. And now that they knew about it, they could exploit it. Later that night, she had two men who worked in a road crew raring to go, along with their spare uniforms. Within the week, the Sharks would put one over on the naive Kingz and the incompetent SCPD. -------------------- "At times discretion should be thrown aside, and with the foolish we should play the fool." - Menander ==== Drakefyre's Demesne - Vahnatai Did Do It desperance.net - We're Everywhere The Arena - God Will Sort The Dead ==== You can take my Mac when you pry my cold, dead fingers off the mouse! Posts: 9436 | Registered: Wednesday, September 19 2001 07:00 |
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