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Modern/Delta Green - The Beginning of the End (COMPLETED)
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<blockquote data-quote="talien" data-source="post: 3971202" data-attributes="member: 3285"><p><strong>Welcome to the Show: Part 3a – Jake’s Story</strong></p><p></p><p>SAMSON, CA -- Despite its name, the Pit wasn't too hellish. The club was nestled in The Grand, and The Grand festered in Samson, California. The Grand was a shabby structure that backed onto a busy set of elevated train tracks. The Pit itself was the largish back room, featuring alternative bands Wednesday through Sunday nights.</p><p></p><p>From outside, the hotel was a dreary, seedy-looking building of red brick. Torn, outdated posters advertising past gigs flapped in the wind while trains rattled by late into the night.</p><p></p><p>Jake Blade stood outside, tattooed arms folded over his huge biceps. He watched with a disinterested gaze over the Pit's customers. They were a motley collection of retros, sub-cultures, stereotypes, her-beasts, and individuals. Punks, skinheads, and goths were typical, as were the occasional slumming fashion victims. Some people did not attract a single glance--ordinary people who liked good music. Others accumulated stares wherever they went.</p><p></p><p>"Hey Blade," waved a particularly sleazy specimen of a man. With his slicked back hair, gold tooth, and ready smile, Graeme Norbert looked pleasant enough. But Jake knew better.</p><p></p><p>Jake nodded at the drug dealer. "Hey, Fix." "The Fix" is what Norbert insisted everyone call him.</p><p></p><p>"Good crowd tonight?" asked Fix.</p><p></p><p>"Think so," said Jake. "Looks like the usual."</p><p></p><p>"You get a new tattoo? That one's a name..." he squinted at Jake's left bicep. "Who's Alex?"</p><p></p><p>"None of your business," said Jake. The tattoo club had monthly meetings, and Jake had dedicated it to his son, Alex, on his ninth birthday. His visitation rights didn't let him see Alex anymore, his ex-wife saw to that.</p><p></p><p>Fix grinned as he leered at the crowd gathering outside. "Listen, I wanted to thank you for pulling that guy off of me last night. He would have pasted me."</p><p></p><p>Jake frowned. "He was disrupting the show."</p><p></p><p>Fix nodded. "Yeah, the show must go on and all that." He laughed, with a horrible, "heh, heh. But still, I feel like I owe you one. I got some good stash..."</p><p></p><p>Jake shook his head. "Not on the job, Fix. You know that."</p><p></p><p>"Yah, you're a drinking man, I know." Fix nodded. "Well don't you worry. There's a new drug on the street coming up from South America. They call it Blink. You drop it into your eyes and BLAM!" he spread his fingers, eyes wide at the thought of all that money he could roll in like a maggot in dead flesh. "It's heaven."</p><p></p><p>"Keep the sales pitch for your customers," said Jake. "And keep it out of The Pit." That was a bluff and they both knew it. Everyone got high at The Pit.</p><p></p><p>"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know." Fix shrugged. "Keep an eye on me, I'm sure somebody'll get jumpy."</p><p></p><p>"You shouldn't be here if you can't stand people getting jumpy," said Jake.</p><p></p><p>Fix heh-hehed his way into the crowd.</p><p></p><p>"Hey, big guy, give us a hand?" asked a man with a shaved head, except for a single lock of green-dyed hair. He sported a pierced nose and heavily pierced left ear, with a light chain connecting the two. He wore heavy boots, tattered leather trousers held together with safety pins, a leather waistcoat, and no shirt.</p><p></p><p>Jake fixed his gaze on him. "You're with the band, right?"</p><p></p><p>"Yah," he said with an odd tilt of his head. "Karl." He shook Jake's hand. "I'm the drummer of The Rising. We got some heavy equipment out back and we could use some muscle. We're a bit behind and it'd be a real help."</p><p></p><p>Jake looked around. At seven o'clock, The Pit hadn't opened yet.</p><p></p><p>"Sure." He followed the smaller man around through The Pit to the back.</p><p></p><p>"Ah, here we are." A Jamaican man busied himself carrying guitar cases in. Jake reached for one of the drums. "Nah-ah!" said Karl. "Nobody but me touches my drums." He paused and squinted up at Jake. "Wait a minute. You're that guy from Ultimate Fighter, right?"</p><p></p><p>Jake nodded.</p><p></p><p>"No taste for the glamorous life, eh?" asked Karl. "What's a big star like you bouncing for The Pit?"</p><p></p><p>Jake gave him a look. "Don't ask me about my personal life and I won't touch your drums."</p><p></p><p>Karl got the hint. "Nice to have a big bastard like you keeping the crowd quiet, in any case. We could use your help with the speakers..."</p><p></p><p>Jake saw what he meant. The speakers were massive. He lifted one in each hand.</p><p></p><p>"Damn, he's a strong blighter!" said the lead guitarist. He had bleached blond spiked hair and a padlocked dog collar around his neck.</p><p></p><p>Jake carried the speakers in with some effort. The interior decor of the Pit was designer Grunge: walls were painted a deep red and scrawled with graffiti; the threadbare carpets were pockmarked with cigarette burns. Lighting was subdued, mainly reflected from the spotlights focused on the stage. The stage itself was fenced off with wire mesh and flanked by huge speakers.</p><p></p><p>"Thanks, mate," said Karl. "If things get hairy, you give 'em a shave, right?"</p><p></p><p>Jake smirked. "Sure."</p><p></p><p>"Great." Karl laughed maniacally. "Cause it's about to get f**king nuts!"</p><p></p><p>God’s Lost Children was the first act up. The show began with a darkened stage. As the drummer slowly pounded the huge bronze gong mounted behind him, the lead singer spoke the opening words from “The Dark Ones Rise,” their most popular album. The bass and drums crescendoed and the audience rose to its feet as the stage was hit with lights and the band broke into its first tune. A thousand laser effects, smoke bombs, and decibels later, and The Pit was a madhouse.</p><p></p><p>At midnight, The Rising made their way onto the stage, accompanied by a wail of feedback. The lead singer, named Spider, sported a flaming red Mohawk as well as black eyeliner. He was dressed head to toe in tattered black, relieved only by the silver of his earrings and studded belt.</p><p></p><p>The sound was rapidly amplified and distorted, soon accompanied by the introductory notes of the bass guitar, loud enough to resonate in Jake's chest. The pounding drums began next, then the shivering notes of the lead guitar. The beat grew faster, the crowd before the stage began to sway, fists flailing in the air while heads nodded in time to the thundering beat. As the shrieked and desperate vocals began, the crowd went wild. Two hundred people slam danced in front of the stage, hurling and bouncing their bodies about in the crush.</p><p></p><p>It took exactly three minutes before trouble started.</p><p></p><p>Jake made his way over, parting the crowd like water. He had done this so many times that faces and names became meaningless. There was no time for explanations, nor was there the ability to actually hear any complaints. The assailant lunged out of the pit towards Spider, the lead singer, who had strayed dangerously close to the edge of the stage.</p><p></p><p>Spider stumbled backwards, looking as much like a slam-dancer as the victim of a knife attack as blood flashed outwards from his left calf. Jake mentally cursed. It must have been one of the new knives that got past the metal detectors. That, or one of the hot girls hid it in her bra. Security rarely bothered to grope the girls, since they were the bait that hooked men like Fix.</p><p></p><p>Jake switched into his Tuskahoma stance, the Native American style he used to win the Real Ultimate Fighting competition.</p><p></p><p>As the man thrust his knife with his right hand, Jake zoned to his left into a strong stance—a solid base—parallel to and outside of his opponent's line of thrust. Simultaneously, Jake used his left hand to contact and then intercept the knife hand at the wrist/hand juncture, with his left elbow anchored at his side.</p><p></p><p>Jake rotated the man’s wrist counterclockwise to destroy his grip strength. His opponent's grip was weak enough for Jake to strip away the knife, but he knew the man would try his only avenue of escape—swinging the knife across his body and breaking Jake's grip on the weak side.</p><p></p><p>Jake stepped forward and stripped the knife with his right hand. Then Jake circle under his arm to affect a lock and dropped to the slasher's left knee, pulling him down. He flipped the man to the ground, leaving him gasping and prone.</p><p></p><p>"You're done," said Jake.</p><p></p><p>With the smaller man still in his grip, Jake shoved him towards the exit. The slasher was an older, balder man, more appropriate for a library or a porn shop than a dance club. The man wailed all the way to the exit. Nobody could hear him over the din of The Rising, who never stopped playing.</p><p></p><p>The man shrieked and kicked. Yep, Jake decided, he was high.</p><p></p><p>Jake changed his grip and simply manhandled the smaller guy, grabbing him by the ribcage with both hands. The man's shirt tore in his grip. On his forearm was a stylized coyote-head in the Native American style.</p><p></p><p>The man lost his hold on the doorframe and, for the briefest of seconds, it looked as if he smiled at Jake with a full-on grin. It made Jake angry.</p><p></p><p>Jake hurled him down the steps. He didn't even look back to see if the man was still alive. But he could hear him: the man howled like a dog.</p><p></p><p>For all the noise, the lights, the crowds, the junkies...Jake couldn't get the coyote symbol and the strange man out of his head.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="talien, post: 3971202, member: 3285"] [b]Welcome to the Show: Part 3a – Jake’s Story[/b] SAMSON, CA -- Despite its name, the Pit wasn't too hellish. The club was nestled in The Grand, and The Grand festered in Samson, California. The Grand was a shabby structure that backed onto a busy set of elevated train tracks. The Pit itself was the largish back room, featuring alternative bands Wednesday through Sunday nights. From outside, the hotel was a dreary, seedy-looking building of red brick. Torn, outdated posters advertising past gigs flapped in the wind while trains rattled by late into the night. Jake Blade stood outside, tattooed arms folded over his huge biceps. He watched with a disinterested gaze over the Pit's customers. They were a motley collection of retros, sub-cultures, stereotypes, her-beasts, and individuals. Punks, skinheads, and goths were typical, as were the occasional slumming fashion victims. Some people did not attract a single glance--ordinary people who liked good music. Others accumulated stares wherever they went. "Hey Blade," waved a particularly sleazy specimen of a man. With his slicked back hair, gold tooth, and ready smile, Graeme Norbert looked pleasant enough. But Jake knew better. Jake nodded at the drug dealer. "Hey, Fix." "The Fix" is what Norbert insisted everyone call him. "Good crowd tonight?" asked Fix. "Think so," said Jake. "Looks like the usual." "You get a new tattoo? That one's a name..." he squinted at Jake's left bicep. "Who's Alex?" "None of your business," said Jake. The tattoo club had monthly meetings, and Jake had dedicated it to his son, Alex, on his ninth birthday. His visitation rights didn't let him see Alex anymore, his ex-wife saw to that. Fix grinned as he leered at the crowd gathering outside. "Listen, I wanted to thank you for pulling that guy off of me last night. He would have pasted me." Jake frowned. "He was disrupting the show." Fix nodded. "Yeah, the show must go on and all that." He laughed, with a horrible, "heh, heh. But still, I feel like I owe you one. I got some good stash..." Jake shook his head. "Not on the job, Fix. You know that." "Yah, you're a drinking man, I know." Fix nodded. "Well don't you worry. There's a new drug on the street coming up from South America. They call it Blink. You drop it into your eyes and BLAM!" he spread his fingers, eyes wide at the thought of all that money he could roll in like a maggot in dead flesh. "It's heaven." "Keep the sales pitch for your customers," said Jake. "And keep it out of The Pit." That was a bluff and they both knew it. Everyone got high at The Pit. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I know." Fix shrugged. "Keep an eye on me, I'm sure somebody'll get jumpy." "You shouldn't be here if you can't stand people getting jumpy," said Jake. Fix heh-hehed his way into the crowd. "Hey, big guy, give us a hand?" asked a man with a shaved head, except for a single lock of green-dyed hair. He sported a pierced nose and heavily pierced left ear, with a light chain connecting the two. He wore heavy boots, tattered leather trousers held together with safety pins, a leather waistcoat, and no shirt. Jake fixed his gaze on him. "You're with the band, right?" "Yah," he said with an odd tilt of his head. "Karl." He shook Jake's hand. "I'm the drummer of The Rising. We got some heavy equipment out back and we could use some muscle. We're a bit behind and it'd be a real help." Jake looked around. At seven o'clock, The Pit hadn't opened yet. "Sure." He followed the smaller man around through The Pit to the back. "Ah, here we are." A Jamaican man busied himself carrying guitar cases in. Jake reached for one of the drums. "Nah-ah!" said Karl. "Nobody but me touches my drums." He paused and squinted up at Jake. "Wait a minute. You're that guy from Ultimate Fighter, right?" Jake nodded. "No taste for the glamorous life, eh?" asked Karl. "What's a big star like you bouncing for The Pit?" Jake gave him a look. "Don't ask me about my personal life and I won't touch your drums." Karl got the hint. "Nice to have a big bastard like you keeping the crowd quiet, in any case. We could use your help with the speakers..." Jake saw what he meant. The speakers were massive. He lifted one in each hand. "Damn, he's a strong blighter!" said the lead guitarist. He had bleached blond spiked hair and a padlocked dog collar around his neck. Jake carried the speakers in with some effort. The interior decor of the Pit was designer Grunge: walls were painted a deep red and scrawled with graffiti; the threadbare carpets were pockmarked with cigarette burns. Lighting was subdued, mainly reflected from the spotlights focused on the stage. The stage itself was fenced off with wire mesh and flanked by huge speakers. "Thanks, mate," said Karl. "If things get hairy, you give 'em a shave, right?" Jake smirked. "Sure." "Great." Karl laughed maniacally. "Cause it's about to get f**king nuts!" God’s Lost Children was the first act up. The show began with a darkened stage. As the drummer slowly pounded the huge bronze gong mounted behind him, the lead singer spoke the opening words from “The Dark Ones Rise,” their most popular album. The bass and drums crescendoed and the audience rose to its feet as the stage was hit with lights and the band broke into its first tune. A thousand laser effects, smoke bombs, and decibels later, and The Pit was a madhouse. At midnight, The Rising made their way onto the stage, accompanied by a wail of feedback. The lead singer, named Spider, sported a flaming red Mohawk as well as black eyeliner. He was dressed head to toe in tattered black, relieved only by the silver of his earrings and studded belt. The sound was rapidly amplified and distorted, soon accompanied by the introductory notes of the bass guitar, loud enough to resonate in Jake's chest. The pounding drums began next, then the shivering notes of the lead guitar. The beat grew faster, the crowd before the stage began to sway, fists flailing in the air while heads nodded in time to the thundering beat. As the shrieked and desperate vocals began, the crowd went wild. Two hundred people slam danced in front of the stage, hurling and bouncing their bodies about in the crush. It took exactly three minutes before trouble started. Jake made his way over, parting the crowd like water. He had done this so many times that faces and names became meaningless. There was no time for explanations, nor was there the ability to actually hear any complaints. The assailant lunged out of the pit towards Spider, the lead singer, who had strayed dangerously close to the edge of the stage. Spider stumbled backwards, looking as much like a slam-dancer as the victim of a knife attack as blood flashed outwards from his left calf. Jake mentally cursed. It must have been one of the new knives that got past the metal detectors. That, or one of the hot girls hid it in her bra. Security rarely bothered to grope the girls, since they were the bait that hooked men like Fix. Jake switched into his Tuskahoma stance, the Native American style he used to win the Real Ultimate Fighting competition. As the man thrust his knife with his right hand, Jake zoned to his left into a strong stance—a solid base—parallel to and outside of his opponent's line of thrust. Simultaneously, Jake used his left hand to contact and then intercept the knife hand at the wrist/hand juncture, with his left elbow anchored at his side. Jake rotated the man’s wrist counterclockwise to destroy his grip strength. His opponent's grip was weak enough for Jake to strip away the knife, but he knew the man would try his only avenue of escape—swinging the knife across his body and breaking Jake's grip on the weak side. Jake stepped forward and stripped the knife with his right hand. Then Jake circle under his arm to affect a lock and dropped to the slasher's left knee, pulling him down. He flipped the man to the ground, leaving him gasping and prone. "You're done," said Jake. With the smaller man still in his grip, Jake shoved him towards the exit. The slasher was an older, balder man, more appropriate for a library or a porn shop than a dance club. The man wailed all the way to the exit. Nobody could hear him over the din of The Rising, who never stopped playing. The man shrieked and kicked. Yep, Jake decided, he was high. Jake changed his grip and simply manhandled the smaller guy, grabbing him by the ribcage with both hands. The man's shirt tore in his grip. On his forearm was a stylized coyote-head in the Native American style. The man lost his hold on the doorframe and, for the briefest of seconds, it looked as if he smiled at Jake with a full-on grin. It made Jake angry. Jake hurled him down the steps. He didn't even look back to see if the man was still alive. But he could hear him: the man howled like a dog. For all the noise, the lights, the crowds, the junkies...Jake couldn't get the coyote symbol and the strange man out of his head. [/QUOTE]
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