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The 88th Floor: Episode 1 - Tesla's Radio (9/22)
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<blockquote data-quote="HeapThaumaturgist" data-source="post: 1730425" data-attributes="member: 12332"><p><strong>Modern Day: 11:04pm, Sunday, August 29</strong></p><p></p><p>The cold night rain dripped from the brim of his fedora in a stream inches from John Arm's crooked, oft-broken nose. He'd lost two cigarettes to the downpour already, and would not risk a third. He was on the outskirts of Redtown, Port Marlowe's old industrial wasteland, following up on a handful of leads as old and cold as the coffee he'd drank this morning. Something was going down between the Birkhun and the Nasa Stvar, something <strong>big</strong>, and the word on the street was that one or both sides thought they could end the gang-war that had been raging between the two groups for almost a year. Arm didn't figure either one had <em>diplomacy</em> on their mind, for their kind seldom did. He'd been beating the bushes in these old, scabrous apartment tenements for almost eight hours, but had so far stirred up nothing but a handful of attempts on his life or his wallet by desperate denizens of the slum. </p><p></p><p>The German <em>Birkhun </em>had made Redtown their turf a few years back. No-one knew why. Nothing of much real worth was left in Redtown anymore: A handful of chemical plants grimly clinging to solvency, a few steel mills, and decaying tenements stuffed full with the hard-bitten workers of the factories. Much more common were the moldering hulks of abandoned buildings and factories, dead places populated only by rats and the occassional addict too addled and freakish to find refuge in a nicer slum. Here the Birkhun had made their home, hiding amongst the refuge, their expensive BMW motorcycles glaringly obvious, startlingly loud, as they raced the slick night streets of that fallow place, their blonde hair and Aryan features wild with tumultuous delight.</p><p></p><p>The <em>Nasa Stvar</em>, the Serbian mafia, had made its own home along the Riverfront district. Almost as old as Redtown, Riverfront still harbored a pulse within its ancient brick warehouses and businesses. The Serbs had taken immediately to prostitution and the trafficking of methamphetamines imported on boats from the south. Little was done by the local police to curb their influx of white slavery and white powder, and soon the Nasa Stvar grew fat and happy on its ill-gotten prosperity. Redtown, however, abuts the Riverfront and shares much land with it ... and nothing fuels paranoia like greed and criminality. The Serbs could not abide the strange German interlopers, and violence was as swift as it was inevitable.</p><p></p><p>The boss of the local Serb mob was one Mihajlo Neskovska, or "Little Micky" Neskovska as he was known on the street. Little Micky was a lean, quick man who had proven to be far more intelligent than his low profession would have indicated. Little Micky had a plan, it was said, and that plan was what John Arm was after. He would find out, soon enough, but the man known as "Long Arm" would not find out tonight, for the sussuration of the rainy evening was shattered by the white hot report of machine guns!</p><p></p><p>Six men on motorcycles slashed past, shots ringing from waving pistols. They harried and hounded four men in a dark sedan, its windows down. Two men inside stuck shiny machineguns from their portals, chattering firey death at the bikers that chased them. Even as he flinched, Arm saw an elderly woman <strong>crumple</strong> in a bloody spray of automatic fire on the stoop of her own apartment, an innocent bystander cut down! The cab he had been standing near <strong>rumbled</strong> to life, the man inside scared for his own. John Arm stopped the frightened cabby with a yell and a hand, and jumped into the back seat.</p><p></p><p>"Left, there, and step on it!" He yelled, and the cabby obeyed instantly, just happy to get away from the gunplay.</p><p></p><p>But they weren't going AWAY from the firefight ... not really. John Arm had to stop this madness before any more innocent people were hurt!!</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="HeapThaumaturgist, post: 1730425, member: 12332"] [b]Modern Day: 11:04pm, Sunday, August 29[/b] The cold night rain dripped from the brim of his fedora in a stream inches from John Arm's crooked, oft-broken nose. He'd lost two cigarettes to the downpour already, and would not risk a third. He was on the outskirts of Redtown, Port Marlowe's old industrial wasteland, following up on a handful of leads as old and cold as the coffee he'd drank this morning. Something was going down between the Birkhun and the Nasa Stvar, something [B]big[/B], and the word on the street was that one or both sides thought they could end the gang-war that had been raging between the two groups for almost a year. Arm didn't figure either one had [I]diplomacy[/I] on their mind, for their kind seldom did. He'd been beating the bushes in these old, scabrous apartment tenements for almost eight hours, but had so far stirred up nothing but a handful of attempts on his life or his wallet by desperate denizens of the slum. The German [I]Birkhun [/I]had made Redtown their turf a few years back. No-one knew why. Nothing of much real worth was left in Redtown anymore: A handful of chemical plants grimly clinging to solvency, a few steel mills, and decaying tenements stuffed full with the hard-bitten workers of the factories. Much more common were the moldering hulks of abandoned buildings and factories, dead places populated only by rats and the occassional addict too addled and freakish to find refuge in a nicer slum. Here the Birkhun had made their home, hiding amongst the refuge, their expensive BMW motorcycles glaringly obvious, startlingly loud, as they raced the slick night streets of that fallow place, their blonde hair and Aryan features wild with tumultuous delight. The [I]Nasa Stvar[/I], the Serbian mafia, had made its own home along the Riverfront district. Almost as old as Redtown, Riverfront still harbored a pulse within its ancient brick warehouses and businesses. The Serbs had taken immediately to prostitution and the trafficking of methamphetamines imported on boats from the south. Little was done by the local police to curb their influx of white slavery and white powder, and soon the Nasa Stvar grew fat and happy on its ill-gotten prosperity. Redtown, however, abuts the Riverfront and shares much land with it ... and nothing fuels paranoia like greed and criminality. The Serbs could not abide the strange German interlopers, and violence was as swift as it was inevitable. The boss of the local Serb mob was one Mihajlo Neskovska, or "Little Micky" Neskovska as he was known on the street. Little Micky was a lean, quick man who had proven to be far more intelligent than his low profession would have indicated. Little Micky had a plan, it was said, and that plan was what John Arm was after. He would find out, soon enough, but the man known as "Long Arm" would not find out tonight, for the sussuration of the rainy evening was shattered by the white hot report of machine guns! Six men on motorcycles slashed past, shots ringing from waving pistols. They harried and hounded four men in a dark sedan, its windows down. Two men inside stuck shiny machineguns from their portals, chattering firey death at the bikers that chased them. Even as he flinched, Arm saw an elderly woman [B]crumple[/B] in a bloody spray of automatic fire on the stoop of her own apartment, an innocent bystander cut down! The cab he had been standing near [B]rumbled[/B] to life, the man inside scared for his own. John Arm stopped the frightened cabby with a yell and a hand, and jumped into the back seat. "Left, there, and step on it!" He yelled, and the cabby obeyed instantly, just happy to get away from the gunplay. But they weren't going AWAY from the firefight ... not really. John Arm had to stop this madness before any more innocent people were hurt!! [/QUOTE]
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The 88th Floor: Episode 1 - Tesla's Radio (9/22)
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