Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
Life is a series of hellos and goodbyes
I'm afraid it's time for goodbye again
Say goodbye to Hollywood
Say goodbye, my baby
--Say Goodbye to Hollywood by Billy Joel
Quote:
The Rising had barely finished setting up and performing a sound check when people began filtering into the room. All were dressed to the nines, though the attire varied. Some came in suits, others in dress reminiscent of Victorian England. Still others looked like doctors, bankers, rap stars, and gang members. They all gathered around tables, each with their own posse, which made for a crowded room. Nobody was dancing.
The Rising started to play, timidly at first. The men looked on, whispering amongst themselves. Spider wisely switched gears to songs you could talk around, although they still involved a lot of screaming. It just took longer for him to reach the screaming part.
Blade sat down. He was dreaming. Again.
"Oh good, you're here," said a smooth voice.
Jake knew who would be sitting across the table from him this time. It was a thin, fine-looking Arab. He was dressed impeccably in a white suit.
“Hi Jacob. How are you?”
“I’m good. I did what you told me to do.”
“Yeah, that was great. I loved that part where you rammed the Humvee. And that whole thing about terrorists…” Alzis shook his head. “You know they’re saying it’s Al-Qaeda? Can you believe that? Now terrorists are attacking movie directors for their portrayal of ‘loose women in film’. Ridiculous!”
“Yeah, ridiculous,” said Blade.
Alzis glanced down at his own drink. “How rude of me! What are you having?”
“I’m fine,” muttered Blade.
“Oh, right, right. You don’t drink. I keep forgetting.” He paused. “So let’s talk about you. How you feeling? Have you talked to Christine lately? Called her up? Shot the breeze?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“Right, right. Ever since that whole alcoholism thing, hmm? Tough situation, very tough. That kind of thing needs to be handled delicately. Really.”
Blade nodded.
“But you’re not a delicate kind of guy, are you? Look, Jacob. I’m in a real bind here. We’re working on a timeline, so I’m going through the trouble of popping in and out of your head multiple times.” He gestured at the walls of the club. “I’ve got to say, there’s some pretty scary stuff in here.”
“Thanks,” said Blade.
“No need to thank me! I’m just trying to be helpful. I really want you back in your son Alex’s life. I think it might change things for the better, you know what I mean? And what’s more important than a father’s love for his son?”
Blade just looked at him.
“Nothing, that’s what. So here’s the deal: go to the Excelsior Hotel on the corner of Maple. Stop Christine from going to the movie set today in twenty minutes.” Alzis tapped his watch. “Time’s ticking buddy, tick-tock, tick-tock.”
“You said that last time,” said Blade. “Would it be too much to give me a little more of a heads up?”
Alzis looked offended. “Hey now, that’s no way to talk to a friend. I wasn’t going to tell you at all, but you’re going to be dead in a few weeks so I figured I’d…oops.” He put his finger to his lips. “Did I just let that slip? I’m sorry. You’re running out of time.”
“Wait, what?” Blade stood up. “Are you threatening me?”
“Threatening you? No!” Alzis shook his head. “I’m trying to help. But we’re wasting time just talking here. Beep. Beep. BEEP. BEEP!”
Blade woke up in a cold sweat. He hit the beeping alarm clock and shut it off. This time, he let his teammates know what he was up to.
HOLLYWOOD, CA -- The Excelsior Hotel was just fifteen minutes away. After waiting for his teammates to gear up and get in the van, he covered the distance in ten.
“Christine!” Blade shouted into the phone.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Jake. Listen, you’ve got to—“
“Are you drunk?”
“What? No—“
“I told you to stop calling me, Jake. I want you out of my life and out of Alex’s. I don’t need you to mess things up anymore. Things are just turning around for me.”
“But Chris…”
“Don’t call me again, Jake.” She hung up.
Blade rang the phone again several times, but Christine wouldn’t pick up.
“Guppy, can you trace this phone number?”
“Trace the phone number of your ex-wife?” asked Guppy. “Sure…” He tapped away at the keyboard in the van. “No luck. I think she turned off her phone.”
They reached the hotel. Blade ran in along with Hammer and Guppy.
“I’m looking for Christine Dee,” said Blade, flashing his badge at the concierge at the front desk.
“That’s nice, sir. We don’t give out personal information for any of our clients.”
Hammer sighed and leaned forward. “I wonder if we should inspect this place. I bet we might find something wrong with it. What do you think, Blade?”
The man swallowed. “Let me see…” He tapped a few keys. “She just left a few minutes ago in a limousine.”
”Do you know where?”
The man looked at Blade like he was nuts. “Doesn’t everyone? She’s filming on the set of Curse of the Undead.”
Blade tapped the counter with a knuckle. “Thanks.”
“Who are you people?” shouted the concierge.
“Oh don’t worry…” Guppy shouted back. “Just her ex-husband.”
What was once an abandoned desert airport was transformed into a low-budget soundstage. With no lease and only a token rent, Vanvon reasoned the isolation would be good for creativity.
Blade flashed his badge to the guard at the front gate and kept on running. Archive, Hammer, and Guppy trailed behind.
The crew was laughing at something. Christine Dee and Allen Roberts had just engaged in what looked like a kiss in front of a window.
“This is DRAMA, you ignorant cretin!” shouted the portly Derik Vanvon. “What the HELL is going on?”
The laughter died quickly.
“I know the script calls for my animal magnetism, but I thought a light moment might be more…”
“SHUT UP!” shouted Vanvon. “You’re not a comic—you’re a BUFFOON.”
Two men of average height with athletic builds, dressed in casual clothes covered by windbreakers approached. Each had a mustache and extremely short hair.
“Hold it buddy,” said one of the security guards. “Who are you?”
“Think they recognize us?” Guppy whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
Blade shushed him. “I’m Jake…” he paused. “Iron Shirt.”
“Jake?” The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Jake Blade? What the hell happened to you man? Rule number one in security: never get involved with a client!”
“Yeah, thanks for the advice. Listen, I need to talk to my ex-wife.”
“Don’t we all,” said the other guard, snickering. “You have to leave. You can’t be here.”
“I’m a federal agent.”
“I don’t care who you are,” said the guard. “We have specific orders to keep you off the set.”
Behind them, a wiry man of just under average height, dressed in jeans, a stained sweatshirt, a long leather coat, sunglasses, and carrying a messenger bag over his shoulder. He was clearly suspicious, but the guards were so focused on Blade that they had missed him.
Hammer didn’t miss him. He edged over.
The man was about to reach into his pocket just as Blade poked a pistol in the man’s ribs. “Easy. Put your hands up. Slowly.”
The man slowly took the item out of his pocket. It was a Desert Eagle.
Hammer got the bodyguards’ attention. “You guys may want to pay a little more attention to the real threats to the stars here,” said Hammer. “This man is carrying a gun and he’s NOT a federal agent.”
One of the guards plucked the gun out of the man’s hand.
Blade squinted at him. “You? You’re the threat?”
“I’M the threat? I’m trying to protect Christine from her crazy ex-husband!”
Blade turned to the security guard. “This is Carey Vora. He’s a real nut. She has a restraining order against him for stalking. I dealt with him years ago.”
Vanvon was still ranting. “Follow my direction and my camera will convince the world that even a SNIVELING idiot MILQUETOAST like you can be a hero.”
“You’re wrong,” said Carey. “You’re the stalker!”
Guppy rifled through the man’s bag. “Duct tape. A knife. A sock.”
“Looks like a kidnapping kit to me,” said Hammer.
“Miss Dee, since you seem INCAPABLE of delivering even a SINGLE line with conviction,” ranted Vanvon, “let’s continue with you doing the scene in DISHABELLE.”
There was the screech of metal overhead and the lighting above snapped.
Blade and Hammer rushed forward. Blade tackled Christine and Hammer grabbed Allen, shoving them out of the way just in time as the lighting structure collapsed where they had stood.
That was all Vora needed. He grabbed the pistol from the stunned security guard and turned it on the prone Blade…
Archive slammed into Vora, tackling him to the ground. He put his full weight on the stalker’s chest, pinning his arms.
Christine was also pinned beneath Blade. Their eyes met.
“You can have visitation rights once a month,” breathed Christine.
“Are you done using my van for your stupid personal problems?” snarled Drake, chewing Blade out for his actions.
“Yeah,” Blade said glumly.
“You’re going to turn Majestic-12 into COPS if you keep this up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Look,” Drake’s voice softened. “I picked you, all of you, because you’ve dealt with some weird things in your past. So I expect you to deal with it. But you’ve got to do it in on MJ-12 terms. I want field reports. I want you to act like you’re part of an organization, or I will bounce your ass out of it. And nobody leaves MJ-12 alive. Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes, sir.”
That seemed to mollify Drake somewhat. “Good. I’ve got Caprice filling out the paperwork for the last mission. He’ll be busy for weeks at this rate. You owe him.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that.”
“Right,” said Drake. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
“No sir.”
“Good. Get some rest, Blade, you look like crap.”
Blade shut off his Cistron in the hotel room.
As he lay down, he wondered how he would spend his last few weeks alive.
This scenario, “Loves Lonely Children,” is from the Cthulhu Now supplement “The Stars Are Right” by Richard Watts. You can read more about Delta Green at http://www.delta-green.com. Please note: This story hour contains spoilers!
Hank “Guppy” Gupta (Smart Hero) played by Joseph Tresca
Jake “Blade” Iron Shirt (Strong Hero) played by Matt Hammer
Joseph “Archive” Fontaine (Dedicated Hero) played by Joe Lalumia
Kurtis "Hammer" Grange (Fast Hero) played by George Webster
This is probably the nastiest scenario we played to date.
Love’s Lonely Children primarily takes place in a two-story hovel. But of course, that’s not how things go down. Once again, the PCs provided me a gift in splitting up (they seem to enjoy splitting up), creating a cinematic effect where Hammer investigates what happened at the house while the other three agents tracked the bad guys down.
I was surprised that the action moved beyond the house and that the agents didn’t move earlier. But in the end, it was even spookier.
There’s one problem with this scenario, and that’s the bad guy. Put plainly, unless the agents do something boring like calling the police without investigating the place themselves, or something totally psychotic like attacking presumably innocent people with no evidence, when the bad guy does finally show up the agents are dead meat. There’s one “out” that the scenario provides that I used as a last resort when it became clear that the villain was going to eat the entire party.
We used the “Tower of Sanity” to good effect this game. At the end, Guppy’s player had to pull twelve times from the Tower—a very tense moment. It also proved my point about having sanity loss be more in the PC’s hands. If Guppy had failed his sanity check, all the agents would have been massacred.
Defining Moment: Hammer, without my prompting, split from the rest of the team to search out the cultist house. I went back and forth between the two scenes so that Hammer discovered the true nature of the thing in a picture just as the agents encountered it face-to-face.
Just how deep do you believe?
Will you bite the hand that feeds?
Will you chew until it bleeds?
Can you get up off your knees?
Are you brave enough to see?
Do you want to change it?
--The Hand That Feeds by Nine Inch Nails
Blade’s Cistron chirped. He picked it up. “Hello?”
“Jake? Jake, is that you?”
“Spider?”
“Yeah.”
“How the hell are you!”
“I’m…I could be better. Listen, I saw what you did with your ex-wife there. Good save.”
Blade frowned. The news reports had barely mentioned him. Drake made it a habit of keeping a running tally every time Jake’s name showed up, keeping a scorecard of his publicity. And Drake was never satisfied with anything less than zero.
“Uh, thanks. How’d you get this number?”
“I called the FBI and they routed it to you. Are you near a telly?”
Blade looked around the hotel room. That was Drake’s doing. One didn’t just call someone up on their Cistron. “Yeah.”
“Turn to Channel Seven news.”
Blade fumbled for the remote with his other hand and switched on the television.
“…body of Katherine Louise Hammond, a seventeen old prostitute of no fixed address, was discovered early this morning in downtown Caufield Park by city workers. Pieces of the body wrapped in black plastic bags were found in several garbage cans along the edge of the park’s ornamental lake.”
The story was complete with on-the-scene interviews and moody shots of Caulfield Park at dawn.
“Who’s this?” asked Blade.
“Keep watching,” said Spider.
“…the corpse was crudely dismembered with a heavy instrument, possibly an axe. Numerous savage bite wounds also marked the body. These wounds, although definitely human, indicate a possible jaw or facial deformity of distinctive appearance. Hammond’s boyfriend, David ‘Spider’ Holloway, a musician with a popular underground bad called The Rising, is currently assisting police with the enquiries.”
“Damn,” said Blade. “So you’re considered a suspect?”
“Person of interest, yeah. Jake, I need your help. You used to be great security for us in the past, and since you’re in California anyway…” Spider rushed ahead in his speech, “Samson’s just a few hours away and I thought—“
“Did you do it?”
“What? F*&k no, how could you ask me that? I was in love with her, man.”
“You’re asking me to risk my hide to save you, so I thought I should ask.”
“The day before she died…we were debating about whether or not to be tested. I thought we should, she didn’t…”
“Don’t blame yourself, Spider.”
The television report continued. “…forensics established that Hammond’s body showed evidence of heroin use in the hours preceding her death…”
“She wasn’t high, Jake. I know that for a fact. She gave up shooting and was clean for over a week.”
“I’ll check it out. Got her address?”
“Yeah.” Spider gave him the address. “And Jake?”
“Yeah?”
”When you find this guy…I want you to make him suffer.”
“You can count on it.”
Blade hung up the phone. A second later a text message flashed through. It was from Drake, with a mission briefing to all of the team’s Cistrons. Another message came in immediately afterwards, just to him.
SAMSON, CA -- Like a cancer in an otherwise healthy body, the ramshackle house that was Kathy’s squat stood out clearly on an otherwise ordinary city street. Broken glass gleamed in its windows, wooden boards nailed behind the shards. Across its gray brick façade was painted the words, “Need a home? Here’s one. Anarchy.”
Instead of a front door, a rusty slab of corrugated iron was nailed over the doorframe. Blade lifted it open at one corner, providing entrance to the dark and dirty place. The rest of the team filed in behind him.
If misery had an odor, it smelled like the inside of the squat—stale, damp, and slightly rotten.
A human form was huddled on the sagging couch in the lounge-room, watching the rats play amongst the ruins of his life.
“Hi,” he said.
The man wasn’t a pretty sight: sunken eyes, bruised skin, cracked lips, and matted hair. His emaciated frame was racked with tremors.
“Who are you?” asked Blade.
“Matthew…” he said, his voiced slurred.
“Do you know a Kathy Hammond?”
“Oh yeah, I remember Kathy…”
“Where is she?”
“You got any smack?”
“What?” asked Blade. “No.”
“Front me some man, you’ve gotta front me some…and I’ll tell you where Kathy is.”
Hammer rolled his eyes. “We’re not drug dealers.”
Matthew made an animal-like noise and then began sulkily searching among the litter on the floor for a syringe, scraping powdered remains of heroin out of discarded foils.
“I think I found it,” said Archive.
The bedroom that was Kathy’s was little larger than a closet. A stained mattress covered most of the floor; the rest scattered with clothes, cosmetics, and assorted rubbish. A collage of faces cut from magazines and newspapers covered one wall.
Archive picked up a magazine. “Huh, Girltalk,” he said, reading the cover aloud. He opened it and winced. It was a pornographic publication featuring photos of naked men in various provocative poses.
Blade squinted at the cover. “Interesting. The sticker on the back cover gives the name of Hammonds Adult Books along with an address.”
Guppy picked up a photograph of three people: a weaselish man with thinning, ginger hair, and a grossly overweight woman. The shape of the third person was carefully cut out of the picture. Part of a storefront appeared in the background of the photo, on which parts of the words “Hammonds Adult Books” could be seen.
“I don’t know where the missing picture is,” said Guppy.
“I do.” Hammer pointed at one of the photos pasted among the montage of rich and famous faces glued on the wall. It was Kathy, in her schoolgirl uniform, her hair in braids.
“I guess we know where we’re going next,” said Blade.
Love's Lonely Children: Part 2 – Hammonds Adult Books
The street consisted of small storefronts with apartments above. Hammonds was sandwiched between a butcher’s shop and a place specializing in electronic goods. A green sedan was parked out front. The bookshop’s front window was painted over, and the words “Hammonds Adult Books” lettered upon it. A handwritten sign on the door warned patrons not to enter if “nudity offends.” The hours indicated it was open from 2 p.m. to 2 a.m., six days a week.
As they pulled up, a woman entered—rare in a place whose customers were most often nervous adolescents and skulking men. She was wrapped in a coat and scarf. Moments after she entered, a “Closed” sign appeared in the front window and the door was locked.
Hammer went down the alleyway to cover any escapes from the rear entrance. Blade, Archive, and Guppy knocked on the door.
After more insistent knocking, an unremarkable, weak, unassuming man answered the door. He was older and balder than he appeared in the discarded photograph.
“We’re closed,” he snapped.
Blade pressed his badge against the window. “We’re federal agents. We’d like to speak with you a moment.”
“I said we’re closed…”
Blade put his foot in the door. “We can do this the hard way or the easy way.”
The man sighed. “Fine, come in.”
Inside, the fluorescent-lit store was stocked with inflatable plastic sex dolls, row after row of shrink-wrapped magazines, clinically gleaming toys of plastic, leather and steel, and a glass-topped counter displaying dope pipes, condoms, and lubricants. Presiding over it all, leering at the agents from behind the counter, was the weasel-like Hammond.
“Do you know Kathy Hammond?”
The man’s features twitched. “That’s my daughter, yes.”
Blade and Archive exchanged a look. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard?” The man’s head swiveled from Blade to Archive and back again. “Heard what?”
“She’s was found dead this morning.”
“Dead?” The man’s gaze wandered to the counter. He bit his lip. “I had no idea…”
“What’s your name, sir?” asked Blade.
“Colin,” said Colin. “I live here with my wife Edith.”
They could hear the thumping of the woman as she stalked around the upper floor. Judging from the heaviness of her footsteps, she must have been huge.
“When was the last time you saw your daughter?”
Colin sighed. “Kathy was always a difficult child, but as a teenager she became wild and uncontrollable. At fifteen she began listening to that dreadful punk music. It’s media like that Rising group that corrupted her mind, you know.”
Archive blinked. “He’s serious…?”
“By sixteen she was addicted to heroin. Kathy ran away from home shortly after her seventeenth birthday,” said Colin.
“When was that?” asked Archive.
”Eight months ago. Ever since then we’ve been dreading, but half-expecting, the worst.”
Guppy held up a magazine cover. It was a recent issue of the sadomasochistic magazine Dungeon, featuring a photograph of Colin on the cover. Though bound and gagged, enough of his face was visible for him to be recognized. Posed with him was a grossly obese woman dressed in black leather and carrying a whip.
“How much for this?” asked Guppy.
“Five dollars,” said Colin.
“I will give you two.”
Colin’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t know what country you come from, mister, but we don’t haggle here. It’s five dollars.”
“Fine.” Guppy put the magazine back on the shelf.
“Can we speak with your wife, Mister Hammond?” asked Blade.
Colin sighed. “Edith? EDITH!”
There was more thumping upstairs. “What?” she shouted.
“There’s some men here who want to speak with you!”
“What NOW?” More rumbling. “I’m coming down.”
Edith surged through the double doors behind the counter, a great, blubbery mountain of a woman, dressed in a floral print dress the size of a small tent. Her tiny eyes glared out at the world from a red and angry face. Although her hair was long, it was pulled back in a tight bun.
She ordered Colin out of the room. “Let me deal with this.” Her breathing came in loud, heavy gasps, sweat dotting her brow from the exertion of climbing down the steps.
Colin slunk away and Edith turned back to stare at Blade. “Now. What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“We were asking about your daughter.”
“Yes, our daughter,” she huffed. “Ungrateful little bitch.”
“Are you aware we’re conducting a murder investigation?”
“No? She’s dead then? Good.”
“You seem be taking this awfully well,” said Archive.
“Look.” She leaned forward, and Edith’s pendulous rolls of fat consumed the counter. “Kathy was nothing but trouble. Good riddance to her, I say.”
“Where is the woman who just entered the bookshop?” asked Guppy.
“A private customer. She is in our parlor.”
“We’d like to speak with her,” said Blade.
“Absolutely NOT.” Edith drew herself up. “Our shop prides itself on providing privacy to our clients. Now unless you have anything further to ask me, I will bid you good evening.”
“We can get a warrant and search this place,” threatened Blade.
Edith moved around the counter and ushered them out with her great bulk. “You have no cause. Now get off my property.”
She slammed the door behind them.
“That went well,” said Archive.
“Now what?” asked Guppy.
Blade jangled the keys as he walked towards the van. “Now we wait.”
Love's Lonely Children: Part 3 – Watching the Book Shop
Staking out the Hammonds’ Bookshop was not a difficult task. The team spent several boring hours watching people enter and exit the bookstore. Now and again Colin left the shop.
Around 2 a.m., Colin and Edith left the house and loaded a series of black plastic bags into the trunk of their car. With the trunk loaded and closed, Colin locked the front door of the shop.
Guppy took his eyes away from binoculars. “I think that’s a body…”
“That’s it, that’s what we need,” shouted Blade. He slammed on the gas.
The green sedan swerved, avoiding the van. The car accelerated and roared past and away.
Blade gave chase. They could just make out the silhouettes of Edith and Colin in front.
Small red taillights fishtailed up ahead.
Blade wasn’t gaining on the taillights. He fought with the wheel as the van swam on the road face.
The red taillights ahead started to turn. With a distant crunching sound, they disappeared.
The van’s headlights showed only empty road, starting to turn. Blade frowned and slowed down.
His headlights showed the sedan up ahead off the road, crumpled around a telephone pole, having failed to hold a turn.
Blade put on the brakes. He swept his bow off the front seat, threw open the door and got out. Guppy and Archive hopped out of the back van.
The wrecked car's headlights illuminated a mound of dirt abutting the highway.
Blade walked up to the wreck and peered into its half-open door. Edith was trapped inside the twisted wreckage, injured and moaning. Dust swirled in the headlights of the wreck.
Love's Lonely Children: Part 4 – Inside the Hammond Home
The alley ran the length of the block behind the buildings. A stout back door and a curtained, barred kitchen window on the first floor guarded Hammonds. When Hammer heard the Hammonds drive away, he got tired of waiting. He clambered up to the second story bathroom window via a drainpipe. He jimmied the window open and climbed in.
The bathroom was situated at the rear of the house, with a narrow louvered window looking out over the alley. Hammer switched on his flashlight.
Hammer was momentarily startled by a man staring back at him, only to realize it was his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Mold clung to every surface, even creeping in gray blotches across the mirror. He opened the medicine cabinet.
Inside were the usual frayed toothbrushes, razors clogged with soap and bristle, and bottles of aspirin. There were also a container for vials and syringes. It contained a twenty-milliliter syringe and a large bottle closed with a rubber seal. The label, printed in Amsterdam, identified the contents as ninety percent pure heroin. One of the slots was open, indicating a missing vial.
Hammer took a picture of it.
He crept across to the room opposite the bathroom. It was a small, windowless bedroom surrounded by floral wallpaper. Heavy manacles and chains were bolted to the iron bed frame. Dried blood crushed the manacles and stained the mattress. The only other object of note was a one-eyed, fray-eared teddy bear propped on an empty chest of drawers.
Hammer took another picture with his Cistron. The ensuing flash gave a nightmarish cast to the room’s sordid past, burning it into Hammer’s retinas.
He continued down the hall and pushed open the next door.
When the door opened, a gust of foul-smelling air tinged with decay poured into the hallway. Manacles and wicked hooks dangled from thick chains. The chains seemed to strain toward an upside-down pentacle burnt into the wooden floor. The shapeless remains of black candles were carefully placed around the outside of the cryptic symbol, the floorboards stained with dried and drying blood and littered by decaying scraps of food, empty wine bottles, and a motley collection of whips and pincers.
A large axe, encrusted with blood, stood in the corner near a wooden lectern. Resting on the lectern was a tattered, dog-eared manuscript, obviously a photocopy, stapled down one side. Without looking at it too closely, Hammer took a picture with his Cistron.
He had all the evidence he needed to put the Hammonds away for life. That left one more room.
Hammer pushed open the door to Colin and Edith’s bedroom. It was small, squalid room dominated by a large and ugly four-poster bed. Clothes littered the floor, as did empty candy boxes and cigarette butts. A single window looked out over a busy street.
Something peeked out from beneath one of the pillows. Hammer pushed it aside with his Glock. It was a photo album.
Hammer flipped the pages open. It was an usual set of family photos—almost every one of them was of a sexually explicit nature. Kathy was in most of them, her age varying over the years from about five to probably sixteen. The most recent set of five photographs showed Kathy hanging from the chains in the room next door.
Colin Hammond appeared in each of the last photographs but one. Naked in the pictures, there was a tattoo of a broken heart located just above Colin’s groin.
But the last photograph…the last photograph showed Kathy and something else. Something bloated, puffed flesh shining with an unwholesome corpse glow. Of roughly human proportions, it was definitely inhuman in form.
Hammer looked closer. There was a tattoo of a broken heart just above the creature’s groin.
Hammer took a photo of the last picture with his Cistron.
“Guys,” he said, voice shaking. “You’d better take a look at this.”
Love's Lonely Children: Part 5 – The Hammonds Return
Blade swung the flashlight beam over Colin’s hunched form. He was moaning, hands over his head, body heaving. Blade wasn’t sure if he was throwing up or sobbing.
Archive and Guppy had their weapons trained on Colin.
“Guys,” came Hammer’s voice. “You’d better take a look at this.”
Blade took his eyes off Colin for only a moment.
The images came through in reverse order. The thing that he saw in the Cistron didn’t make any sense. It was too blurry for him to make out details.
“What is this?” asked Archive.
“I think that’s…Colin,” said Hammer.
Another picture came through, this one of a book. “Beyond a gulf in the subterranean night a passage leads to a wall of massive bricks, and beyond the wall rises Y’golonac…”
Blade tucked the Cistron into a pocket and drew a bead on Colin with his compound bow. “Put your hands up where I can see them.”
Colin’s moaning changed from one voice to the gibbering of two, shrieking and wheezing. His headless form swung around, palms spread wide, each punctuated by a screaming, fanged mouth.
“Ahh!” shouted Guppy. He fired his laser pistol at the thing, just as Blade released his arrow and Archive fired his pistol.
The body shuddered, still quivering as rolls of fat from within it pulsed outwards, absorbing the attacks. It took a shuddering step towards them.
Archive began chanting a prayer, but the thing backhanded him. The agent went flying, unconscious in the desert sand.
“Our weapons have no effect!” shouted Guppy, taking a step back.
Blade dropped his bow and drew his two hatchets. Swinging them expertly in front of him, he parried a swipe of the fanged hand.
“Hammer!” shouted Guppy into his Cistron, running for cover behind the overturned sedan. “Hammer, we need backup!”
“What?” Hammer shouted back. “What the hell is going on?”
Guppy looked at the pictures Hammer sent over, desperate to find something that would help. The empty container flashed on the screen.
The syringes! One of the syringes was missing in the picture Hammer had taken. The Hammonds had surely used it to drug their victim. But the amount would easily kill a person, so there had to be more.
“Where is it,” panted Guppy, clawing his way into the sedan. “Where is it?!”
He popped the glove box. The heroin-filled syringe rolled out and fell to the roof of the car. Guppy reached for it…
A meaty paw snatched hold of his wrist. Edith, her grip so strong that he lost feeling in his hand, shrieked in his face.
Screaming back at her, Guppy turned his pistol on the woman’s hand. Fingers sizzled off and her angry shrieks turned to wails of pain.
Syringe in hand, Guppy stood up just in time to see the thing grab hold of Blade’s torso with its mouth-hands. Blade screamed as the fangs bit deep, blood streaming down his waist.
“Hey!” shouted Guppy. “Over here!”
The thing was massive. Had it grown in the few seconds since Guppy last looked at it? The human-like mouths hissed. It tossed Blade aside like a rag doll.
Now, overshadowed by the thing’s bulk, Guppy could see its true form. Its hands, dripping blood from two mouths that had no right to be there, reached for him. Guppy stepped into its embrace…
And plunged the remaining contents of the syringe into its blubbery fat.
The hand-mouths went from sucking and slobbering to a horrible chorus of keening. The shuddering body stumbled, taking a step back, a step forward.
The torso exploded, splattering Guppy with lumps of gelatinous, stinking flesh, black blood, and loops of glistening organs. Guppy fell back, screaming, alone with his nightmares in the lonely stretch of highway.
There's a precarious balance requesting gear for a challenging mission, and thus the agents go in packing an arsenal, and completely underestimating the opposition. In this case, the agents simply weren't prepared for what they were facing. They figured it was a cult bust -- at worst, it would involve fighting someone with spells (which they have very little defense against anyway). What they got was Y'golonac.
As you can see, they don't have much. Jim-Bean insists on carrying around a large duffel bag that carries a submachinegun and occasionally a grenade or two -- depending on the mission, he's allowed to bring it along.
There will be long-term consequences for meeting Y'golonac, as you shall see...
Blade woke up in the middle of the night. Something did not feel right. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something wrong in his place.
He heard something outside of his apartment, down below. It sounded like stone scraping on stone.
Blade got up, put on a robe, and followed the steps down. It was coming from the apartment’s cellar. He’d never been down there before.
Peering down the steps to the cellar, he caught a glimpse of furtive movement. Odd shadows moved across the wall. One of the walls of the cellar had opened up to reveal a foggy passage that glowed with a sallow light. Blade caught a glimpse of a small, tattered figure darting into the foggy passage.
Blade took a few steps into the passage and found himself in a large, dank chamber. One wall was brick, and from out of the hole wafted the fog and the sickly light. The hole was big enough for Blade to crawl through if he got on his hands and knees.
Blade kneeled down. He couldn’t see anything beyond the brick wall without crawling inside. He scuttled into the mist.
Behind the wall was a large room thick with the stench of sewage and decay. There on the brick floor lay an enormous figure, fat, naked, and glowing with a sickly light. No head was visible. Streams of thick, clotting blood poured from open mouths in the palm of each giant hand. A horde of deformed eyeless figures crawled and scampered around and over the glowing body, apparently oblivious to its presence.
The naked figured sat up, brushing away the small, tattered figures. As it lifted its enormous sallow bulk, Blade could see that the thing had no head.
The crippled little things that clung to it had faces he recognized: Colin and Edith Hammond. They surged toward him in a swarm, pulling Blade down to the ground. The fat, headless bulk pulled itself to its feet; the floor shook under its heavy footsteps. The deformed creatures scampered away as the headless thing tower over Blade, and the last thing he saw was a massive hand reaching for his face, the drooling mouth in its palm snapping open and shut…
Blade sat up, sticky in the dark. It was just a dream.
His sides throbbed. Blade made his way to his Cistron.
In the glow of the Cistron, he could see his bed. Two dark red bloodstains had soaked his sheets. His wounds were seeping.
Blade clicked on the files. Picture after picture flashed on the screen. This time, he read the entire passage:
“Beyond a gulf in the subterranean night a passage leads to a wall of massive bricks, and beyond the wall rises Y’golonac to be served by the tattered and eyeless figures of the dark. Long has he slept behind the wall, and those which crawl over the wall scuttle over his body never knowing it to be Y’golonac; but when his name is spoken or read he comes forth to be worshipped or to feed and take on the shape and soul of those he feeds upon for those who read of evil and search for its form within their minds call forth evil, and so may Y’golonac return to walk among men and await that time when the earth is cleared off and Cthulhu rises from his tomb among the weeds…”
Blade accessed the case file, complete with all the pictures. He selected them all. Then he pressed the DELETE key.
“Are you sure you want to permanently delete all pictures?” asked Blacknet.
Hank “Guppy” Gupta (Smart Hero) played by Joseph Tresca
Jake “Blade” Iron Shirt (Strong Hero) played by Matt Hammer
Joseph “Archive” Fontaine (Dedicated Hero) played by Joe Lalumia
Kurtis "Hammer" Grange (Fast Hero) played by George Webster
Sebastian "Caprice" Creed (Fast/Smart Hero) played by Bill Countiss
Thin Jack is one of those scenarios that has so much potential but doesn’t really capitalize on it. Consider: we have an old Wild West myth about a creature that lurks in darkness and has a vulnerability to precious metals. A movie crew arrives but runs out of money mid-production until a middling actor digs up the legendary gold mine and the creature itself. Begging for the thing to spare his life, the actor forges an unholy deal with the creature and agrees to cover up for its feedings; in return, he keeps the gold and gets his movie made.
If you’ve ever seen Shadow of the Vampire, there’s so many more possibilities here. For one, the similarities between Thin Jack and a vampire provide plenty of confusing twists for the agents. For another, I love directors with god complexes, so wouldn’t it be more fun to have the director make the deal with the creature? Why not have the thing be PART of the story, the ultimate special effect? And finally, this is a Wild West film…surely there has to be a showdown at high err…moon?
This whole plot is of course completely outrageous, so it takes a bit of convincing to get the agents to be part of it. Since Blade already has a connection to his movie star ex-wife and he wants to stay in her good graces, this is another opportunity to prove he’s cleaned up and is worthy of seeing his son more than once a month. The team also rescued a famous Hollywood writer, Randy Kalms, who’s trying to get back into the business with this daring movie.
The “Gaunt” race is actually a psurlon from Monster Manual II. Psurlons are particularly interesting, because they have psionic powers like domination. Thin Jack is intentionally manipulating events such that he can be a star and go out in a blaze of glory, just like the song says.
I used Curse of the Undead, the first vampire western, as the movie that Vanvon is remaking. The film is suitably cheesy and intentionally keeps the villain off-screen enough that Jack has time to be horrifying when he finally does appear. There’s even a red herring thrown in. It’s a good thing I threw him in too; as I suspected, the agents didn’t wait for the entire film to play out.
Defining Moment: Caprice and Hammer, trying to keep the supposed vampire calm, all have their hands hovering over their pistols in a showdown at the mine. It was very tense.
Shadow of the Vampire: I followed the general plot of this storyline, but updated it for a modern film crew filming a Western.
Monster Manual II: The source of the Psurlon. I obviously tweaked some of its attributes, likt its vulnerability to gold, to match the scenario. Still, the Psurlon's mental powers and worm-like abilities made it a great fit. Although it never evolved to its next stage, there are several kinds of Psurlons and Thin Jack could have grown into something huge...
Well they tell me that I'm wanted
Yeah, I'm a wanted man
I'm a colt in your stable
I'm what Cain was to Abel
Mister Catch Me If You Can
--Blaze of Glory by Bon Jovi
Drake sat across from Blade, tapping a pen on the scratched wood. Drake’s desk looked as if it had been thrown out a window, dragged down the street, and then after it had broken apart, put back together in his office. Staring at him, Blade was suddenly conscious of Drake’s age. When Drake stood, he towered. But sitting, he looked like a tired, old man.
To Blade’s surprise, he didn’t immediately get a reprimand. “You look like s***t. How’s your pain?” he asked with his thick Scottish accent.
Blade swallowed. “I’m fine,” was all he said.
He wasn’t fine. Since that…THING had bitten him, the wounds never healed. They oozed all the time. He had to take anticoagulants to stop the bleeding, and that only slowed it to a trickle. He changed his dressing every night.
Drake was staring at him in an odd way. “They give you any painkillers?”
Blade shook his head. “Nope.”
The truth was that the Aquarius boys refused to give him anything strong enough to dull the pain. They claimed another agent who had suffered a similar wound from a similar “preternatural entity” had become addicted.
Drake pulled on the handle of an ill-fitting drawer. It shrieked as he yanked it open. After pawing through its contents for a moment, he tossed a green-colored bottle with a white cap in front of him. “Take those. It’ll help.”
Blade just stared at the pills. “I’m fine,” he repeated. Alcohol was his old friend and new painkiller.
“Fine, suit yourself.” Drake snatched the pills back and chucked them in the drawer. “But this behavior…this running off to handle missions because some @$$hole told you in a dream, it stops now. As if that wasn’t bad enough, you deleted files from a mission. You realize that you can be disavowed?”
Blade wasn’t sure what he meant. But he knew that being disavowed was bad. “Yeah,” he said.
“Good. You used to be rock solid, Blade. You want to tell me what happened?”
“I was protecting my team,” was all Blade was willing to say. He was afraid to share any information at all about Y’golonac.
Drake leaned back in his chair. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” he replied. Blade didn’t know how it worked and didn’t need to. All he knew was that Y’golonac spread like some kind of mental contagion. With Blacknet, it could spread around the world in the seconds.
It was better this way. The less Majestic-12 knew about Y’golonac, the better.
“Fine,” said Drake. “I’m going to throw you a bone. This is your chance to get back on track and impress the Twelve. I had to go to bat for your sorry ass, so don’t screw this one up.”
Blade straightened. “Okay.”
Drake smirked. “Good.” He tapped the laptop on his desk and Blade’s cistron chirped. “I’m making you mission leader on this one. I downloaded it to your cistron. You can thank me later. Dismissed.”
Blade left. He glanced down at his cistron. It was a movie poster.
“CURSED OF THE UNDEAD,” it read. “STARRING: CHRISTINE DEE AND ALLEN ROBERTS.”
GREEN GROVE, AZ -- Blade turned around in the passenger’s seat to address the team. Guppy was driving for once. Of them all, only Jim-Bean was missing.
Blade hesitated. “Where’s Jim-Bean?”
“Not here,” said Hammer. “I hear he got a royal dressing-down for appearing on public television.”
“But it was thanks to his idea that we were able to cover up the mission!” exclaimed Guppy.
Archive shrugged. “I don’t think Majestic-12 likes the idea of a bomb threat covered on national television.”
“They’ve got him doing paperwork, I bet,” said Caprice. “I spent two days straight at a desk filling that crap out thanks to you guys.”
“Yeah, we heard,” said Hammer with a smirk. “Drake said it was the only reason we weren’t disavowed already.”
“Okay, listen up,” said Blade. “We’re going to be visiting the film set of a remake of Curse of the Undead. Randy Kalms has switched gears from writing novels about conspiracy theories to writing scripts for movies, and he pitched this one to Derik Vanvon.”
“THE Derik Vanvon?” asked Archive. “The set we stormed last time?”
“The same,” said Blade.
“Is your ex-wife going to be there?” asked Hammer.
Blade frowned. “She’s in the film, yes.”
“She’s hot,” said Hammer. When Blade glared at him he muttered, “No offense.”
Blade kept talking. “A few people disappeared from the set about two weeks ago. There have been six reported incidents of people disappearing in the nearby town. Joe Miller, a night watchman, went insane, babbling about ‘a thin thing, a thin thing that ripped him apart.’ And two days later, the local paper reported that a wino saw something that took one of his buddies. The night after the incident with the wino, there was another reported disappearance and the locals have started calling the unknown criminal ‘Thin Jack.’ Randy thinks there’s something else responsible for their disappearance. Our job is to investigate if there’s any preternatural element at work. We’re part of a freelance crew that fills in as needed.” He tapped a key on his cistron and everyone else’s chirped. “Your roles have been uploaded to your cistrons. Guppy, you’re a cameraman.”
Guppy’s eyes were on the road. “I think I can handle that,” he said. “But I hope they use high quality digital cameras—“
“I doubt it,” said Blade curtly. “This is a low budget production.” Before Guppy could continue, he addressed the others. “Caprice, Hammer, you’re security.”
They both nodded.
“Archive, you’re the researcher. I want you to work on finding out what you can about the area they’re filming in, Green Grove.”
“What about you?” asked Caprice.
“Me?” Blade turned back around. “I’m the stunt man.”
Randy Kalms met them at the entrance to what looked like a town right out of the Wild West. They were all plywood mockups of the real thing.
“Looks convincing, don’t it?” asked Kalms with his trademark devilish smile. He shook Blade’s hand.
“Sure does,” said Blade.
“I figured what the hell, right? I mean, I can’t publish Yuggoth Cultures, so I think to myself: Randy, how are you going to feed the family? And then I think, why not go back to what I did best? Make movies!”
“Horror movies,” said Hammer with a frown.
“Yeah. Well, beggars can’t be choosers and all that. And when guys in dark sunglasses follow you around all the time your options are limited, if you know what I mean.” He gave Hammer a meaningful look, as if he were the reason for Kalms’ problem.
“I’m leading this mission,” said Blade. “What’s going on?”
Kalms led them towards one of the film stages on the other side of the façade of a saloon. “Manuel Padre was a migrant worker who was hired to do manual labor at the site. The crew thinks he just moved on.”
“But you think otherwise?” asked Hammer.
Kalms nodded. “You saw in my report about Thin Jack. I broke into Padre’s locker. He left everything behind, including all his hard-earned money. If he was just going to split town, he would have taken off with it, don’t you think?”
“Why don’t you leave the investigating to us,” said Caprice.
“Sure, sure,” said Randy. “I got word that you guys have covers. That’s good and shouldn’t be too hard to pull off. After rumors of the Thin Jack mess, people have been just dropping out of the production. At this point Vanvon’s lucky if the film gets made.” Kalms leaned in closer. “Listen, this could really boost my career, you know? So I’d appreciate it if you guys didn’t go blowing everything to hell like you did with my house…”
“We’ll keep a low profile,” said Blade, staring at someone behind Kalms.
“Good.” Randy smiled again.
“But won’t this Vanvon guy remember us?” asked Guppy, his voice rising as he focused on the rotund outline of the director approaching. “We didn’t exactly keep a low profile last time.”
“Vanvon?” Kalms smirked. “I doubt he’ll remember you. He can’t remember anyone who ain’t an actor—“
“Who are these thugs you’ve brought onto my set?” bellowed Derik Vanvon.
Kalms’ smile vanished. He spun on his heel, all business. “Freelancers. After we lost a few of the extras I thought we could use the help.”
Vanvon appraised them with a squint. “Good, we’ll need to move up our filming schedule in any case. As long as they stay out of my way!” He stalked off, zeroing in on Allen Roberts, who was caught in mid-wave at Hammer. “You! Stop waving like an idiot and get ready for our next scene!”
Vanvon ran a tight ship. Crew scurried to and fro, hauling generators, positioning cameras, and working hard in the chill of the desert night.
“You know,” said Guppy, “I’m trying to work with this camera but it’s really not very high quality. Everyone’s filming in digital these days but it seems you’re using an antiquated form of—“
“I don’t pay you for commentary!” shouted Vanvon. “Why don’t you act like Homer over here,” he gestured with a flick of his hand at a non-descript man with glasses, “and NOT SPEAK EVER AGAIN.”
Homer adjusted his glasses and smiled back at Vanvon. Guppy shut up.
Spotlights illuminated the entrance to the saloon. Unlike the other facades, it was an actual stage inside. Fog roiled at the entrance, although none of the crew had set up any special effects to produce it.
“Quickly,” said Vanvon, “don’t lose this. This sense of dread.” He put one hand around Roberts’ shoulders. “Now listen closely. It's the day after Tim’s funeral. Dolores has been hanging up posters all over town offering one hundred dollars for the Death of a Murderer. You know the posters refers to you, but you don't think anything of it until a stranger comes into the saloon carrying one of the posters.”
Wilson set up the camera, while the producer hooked up a lamp to a generator and flooded the scene with light.
“Roberts, stand over there, out of sight and don’t look until I call you,” said Vanvon. “Homer, get a second camera focused on Roberts—I want his reaction to this.”
“To what?” asks Roberts.
Infected by his enthusiasm, the crew quickly set up the equipment. Then Guppy and Kalms stepped behind the lights, Vanvon and Wilson each took a camera. There was a long moment heavy with anticipation…
“Ready?” asked Vanvon. “All right, Homer. Roll camera.” He was breathless with anticipation. “This is perfect. Roberts, look at the doorway. Something crawls out of the darkness into the saloon.”
Mist billowed into the saloon. Something emerged from the shadows. Dressed in a red leather long coat and fedora, its features were masked. The glowing ember of a cigarette dangled from wherever its lips were. It moved stiffly, as if hampered in its walking.
“Buffer!” said Vanvon, referring to the role Roberts was playing. “Meet Drake Robey!”
Roberts saw the thing and froze in horror. He reached for his pistol, filled with blanks, and fired it. Then Roberts dropped it, cursing and staring at his hand in disbelief. It was all part of the act.
Unscathed, Jack said in a voice that echoed despite their indoor surroundings, "We'll be seeing each other later.”
"I hit him dead square in the chest!' shouted Roberts. Unnerved, he looked back at the camera with an expression of genuine terror.
“And…cut!” said Vanvon.
Roberts rushed back while the thing disappeared into the mist.
“What the f**k was that?” demanded Roberts.
“That was your finest moment, Roberts,” said Vanvon.
“That wasn’t acting!” shouted Roberts. “It was a trick, a cheap trick to…to…elicit a real response from me. It was unfair, it was unethical, and it was…it was…”
“…genius,” finished Kalms. “Well done, Roberts.”
“Congratulations, Roberts,” said Wilson.
Roberts looks at them in disbelief and then, off their awed reaction. “It was good, wasn’t it?”
“All right, Roberts,” said Vanvon. “If you're quite finished collecting your laurels. Let's pack up.”
Blade and the others collected the film.
"We'll leave the equipment, come back tomorrow, shoot the town and some of the scenes with Young alone," said Vanvon. "Jack Thorne will join us after dark and we'll shoot their scenes together."
Roberts glanced at the door to the saloon. "What's happened to Jack?"
"Yes, Derik, where is Thorne?" asked Kalms. He eyed Blade nervously. "And why won't he join us until night? Where does he sleep?"
"The earth in which he was interred, no doubt," said Roberts sarcastically.
"That's enough of that, Roberts," admonished Vanvon. "Now listen to me, all of you: for the remainder of the shoot, Jack WILL be Drake Robey. He will NOT break character, he will NOT answer questions as Jack Thorne."
"Will he answer questions as the vampire?" asked Kalms.
"Just leave him alone, Randy," said Vanvon. "The man will be absolutely authentic, without any phony effects. He'll be the vampire, we'll film it, and that'll be that."
Archive leaned in to whisper to Blade. “We’d better order garlic pizza for dinner tonight.”
Hammer woke up out of a dead sleep. A loud noise had interrupted his dream.
He rose, shrugging on sweatpants. The entire team had one trailer, and they were splayed haphazardly across the trailer’s floor, couch, and other furniture.
He nudged Caprice with one foot. “Get up Hotpants,” he grunted.
Caprice was instantly awake. “Wha?”
“I heard a noise.” Hammer strapped on his dual shoulder holster. “Since you and me are security, I think we should check it out.”
Caprice blinked the sleep out of his eyes, nodded, and grabbed his pistol. “What kind of noise?”
“A door slamming shut.” He pushed open the door to the trailer and the cool night air swirled in. “Let’s go.”
They padded out into the desert night. Without the spotlights, it was colder and lonelier than ever. And yet it was much easier to see by starlight, which gave everything a hushed quality. Stars twinkled above them.
Hammer led the way to one trailer that was set up for editing. A light flickered persistently, brightening and then falling into darkness, over and over. There was the click-click-click of a film projector.
Hammer moved to one side of the door, pistol out. Caprice flanked the other side.
Hammer mouthed “on three.” He held three fingers up. Then two. Then one.
Caprice yanked on the flimsy door handle and yanked it open. The metal coil that held the door closed shrieked, that woke Hammer.
They pointed their pistols into the room. The projector was running.
On the screen was a grainy image of a rising sunset, the heat shimmering off the hills of the Arizona desert. Atypical of a low budget film like Vanvon’s, he was recycling footage from some other movie. Hammer guessed it was a documentary.
The screen flickered as the sun rose, and then it repeated. Over and over the room was illuminated by the hint of dawn, only for it to be abruptly blacked out and start again. The strobing effect made them a little dizzy.
“Just like the cowboys used to do it in the Wild West,” said Caprice. He pointed at an ashtray, where a smoke curled from where the cigarette lay within. It was a roll-your-own. “I didn’t know Vanvon smoked.”
Linear Mode
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