DeletedUser28032
Darkness on the Edge of Town
November 4th 1932, Century City, Maine
A man rushes out of the dark and into his office throwing on the light switch as he went, his dark brown trench coat leaving large puddles of water on the plain wooden floor as he dials the phone, outside the rain is getting faster, hammering against the single small window in the sparsely furnished office.
“Hello? Yes put me through to Assistant Director Brannigan it’s important that I speak to him” he slowly drums his fingers on the surface of his desk, waiting for his superior in Washington to answer his call. He can scarce believe what is happening here, the scale of the operation; if he acted quickly he would be able to strike a major blow to the bootleggers and perhaps even get transferred back to Washington, his past sins forgiven. “Brannigan? Its Jack Bannerman, I need you to send a task force down here as soon as possible, this is big” He quickly related what had been happening in the small coastal town of Century City, sparing no detail as he told him about the large crates being shipped in by the mafia and supplied by an unknown source. There was a quiet pause as the man on the other end considered what to do before finally consenting, a task force would be set up and the operation would be shut down.
Hanging up the phone Jack punched the air in triumph; finally his long banishment would be at an end, he’d spent too long in this deadbeat town.
There was a creak outside his office, as if someone had hit the squeaky floorboard, but who could it possibly be at this hour? Doyle and Hicks were both trailing the crates hoping to trace the final destination, no doubt a distillery out in the woods somewhere and the rest of the staff were at home.
“Hello is anybody out there?” he called over his shoulder nervously, getting no reply, he didn’t like this; he didn’t like this one bit. His mind raced over the recent disappearances that had been taking place bums and hobo’s mainly disappearing from back alleys but as of late they had been getting more noticeable, perhaps the papers were right and it was a serial killer?
Drawing S&W .38 from out of his coat Jack slowly turned the brass handle on the door to his office, his hands trembling with nerves of anticipation as he prepared himself for what may be lurking behind the door. Taking one final gulp of air Jack wrenched the door open in one fluid movement, his gun shooting out to point into the empty corridor beyond, he sighed with relief upon finding the corridor deserted “Your getting Paranoid Jack” the man chuckled to himself, shaking his head in disbelief over his foolishness as he return the gun to its holster. Stepping out into the corridor Jack decided it was time to call it a night he’d gotten the call in to Washington and with any luck the other agents would be here within a few days. Whistling a jaunty little tune Jack walked out into the corridor shutting off the light to his office as he went. Had he bothered to check behind the open door behind him he would have seen what was waiting behind him, but then again that was probably for the best.
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The camera clicked as Doyle took another photograph of the goons loading the crates onto the back of a lorry “Come on Doyle lets get the hell out of here!” Hicks whispered nervously and for good reason as half a dozen of the mobsters were carrying Tommy guns, keeping watch whilst their colleagues loaded the truck.
Doyle and Hicks had parked their car on a heavily wooded hill that overlooked the docks on the far side of town, the tip off had been good a small fishing boat had pulled up just like the man had said it would and then the waiting gangster had begun lugging the heavy looking crates off of the boat and onto the lorry, although by the look of them those crates were far to heavy to be carrying liquor.
Doyle turned to scowl at his partner “What’s a matter Frank scared they’ll see you up here?....oh alright lets get….wait a minute who are those guys?” looking down at the docks two middle eastern men had climbed off of the grimy fishing boat and were now supervising the loading of the crates in an imperious manner.
“Wait here Frank I am going to get a closer look at these pair of jokers” climbing out of the car Doyle ran down the hill at a crouch to stop behind a hedge, the camera raised to take the photographs that would bust this case open and get him that much deserved promotion.
Snapping of a couple of shots of the mysterious foreigners Doyle decided that he’d got enough and turned to walk back up the hill and began walking back to the waiting car, it was high time he and Hicks were back at home, his wife would no doubt bend his ear when he got back tonight.
Three loud shots echoed through the night followed closely by the sound breaking glass as the bullets tore through the windscreen and into his partner.
A man stood by the car a smoking gun in his hands, Horrified Doyle drew his own weapon, a .38 revolver and fired at the man who just murdered his partner of three years and missed by a country mile, he’d never bothered to practise and now it was going to get him killed.
The man by the car casually turned and fired his gun, the bullet whipping passed Doyle’s ear causing him to drop the camera into the undergrowth.
Still cursing the dropped camera Doyle made a run for it as two more bullets were fired his way, one of which hit him in the shoulder like a battering ram, the pain shooting down his arm and back. Falling to the ground with a heavy thump, Doyle clawed his way across the ground in a futile attempt to escape, his shoulder in agony. Behind him he could hear the clicking of brass shells being loaded into a revolver as the man approached, Doyle fumbled for his gun only find it missing, dropped in the undergrowth like the camera “You should have left when you had the chance” the voice heavily accented spoke from above him, the revolver hammer clicking back loudly “Goodnight Mr Doyle”
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November 5th 1932, Washington DC
Assistant Director Howard Brannigan slowly drank from the mug of steaming coffee, he’d been set to go home after an already late night at the office when Special agent Jack Bannerman had demanded to speak with him and what he’d been told was not good news. It seemed that the mob in the Century City, normally a small time outfit of little concern to the bureau had begun shipping large quantities of liquor into the country, from where he didn’t know, but Bannerman had a hunch as to the source but wouldn’t say over the phone.
It had been two years since Bannerman had been transferred to the small town of Century City where the disgraced agent had languished far away from the people he’d upset and as far away from trouble as he could get without leaving the country and yet despite the mans almost unceasing ability to upset people in high places he was a good agent who had brought down more than his fair share of crooks down, it was partly due to this fact that he was only transferred and not kicked out altogether although God knows enough people had pressured him to do so.
Setting down his coffee onto the battered hard wood desk at which he sat, Howard called out of his open office door to his secretary, who was currently typing up the minutes for last weeks meeting “Alice, bring me a short list of available agents in the area please” the incessant clacking of the typewriter ceased as she went search of the appropriate files. Slowly rubbing his temples in an attempt to stem the oncoming headache he wondered why he was going to the trouble of forming a task force on the word of a disgraced agent to send them to a town in the middle of nowhere Because if he’s right and you do find a major liquor source and shut it down the department will reward you for you quickly reacting to the threat and if not…well Bannerman can always be posted to Greenland.
A list of names were placed in front of him by Alice his rather plain but reliable secretary of two years.
Taking another mouthful of coffee, the caffeine already beginning to take effect he quickly began sorting through the names, no point in sending anyone too competent on this, after all how much trouble could Bannerman be in?
Within minutes he had reduced the list down to a selection of screw ups, rookies and trouble makers whom the various departments would be glad to see the back of for a couple of weeks, it would also give the candidates a chance to redeem themselves should Bannerman be right about the perceived importance of this operation.
Picking up the phone from his desk Howard began making the necessary calls required to set things in motion, with any luck they’d be in Maine by tomorrow afternoon playing cops and robbers in sunny Century City, Brannigan briefly chuckled at the thought before making the first call of the day
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Ok here something a little different to the other stuff running at the moment so needless to say it may or may not go according to plan, but here goes.
You’re all FBI agents/Policemen from 1930’s America who have made the shortlist for the task force that’s being sent to Century City, the main purpose of which is to find the source of the bootlegged alcohol and stop it, although there is more going on in Century City than just illegal liquor, strange sightings and missing people abound the small town.
Although women probably weren’t in the bureau during this point (not as agents anyway) in history I am willing to bend history if you should desire to RP a female character.
Normal forum rules apply, if you have any questions or are unsure of something PM me and I’ll try and answer them and if you write something that I feel isn’t in keeping with the story I’ll politely tell you and help come up with an alternative, other than that enjoy.
Name: what you’re called?
Age: how old are you?
Equipment: what stuff have you got in your pockets?
Description: what do you look like?
Bio: your characters back story
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Name: Rick Derringer
Age: 32
Equipment: Colt 1903 Automatic Pistol, M1917 Trench knife, notebook, pencil, Hand cuffs, book of matches, FBI Warrant card
Description: 6’ tall with light brown hair and piercing steel grey eyes. Dressed in a cheap black suit and tie which are kept spotlessly clean with shoes you can see your reflection in. Over the top of his suit he wears an American army trench coat and black fedora.
Bio: Born on the rough streets of Detroit, Rick (Richard to his mother) grew up with his two younger brothers in a crowded apartment overlooking the railway tracks, where they spent much of their days goofing around. Like his brothers Rick did well in school with aspirations to join the Detroit police department like his father, who had died when he was young, he would also later marry his childhood sweet heart Alice, in all things were looking good for Rick and then America entered the war.
Rick signed up to the AEF along with his brothers and many of his friends from school the training was hard but it was nothing compared to the trenches.
By the end of the war Rick was a changed man, he’d become bitter and withdrawn, his survivors guilt causing him to act with near suicidal recklessness, his dark and stony personality making it difficult for others to get close to him.
He signed up for the FBI upon his return quickly gaining an infamous reputation for getting the job done no matter what and a predilection for shooting the guilty out of hand causing him to be feared and respected by the gangs running the streets and hatred from his superiors who saw him as a loose cannon, more vigilante than law man even if he did get results. It is only his unceasing determination to catch the guilty party that has stopped his superiors from banishing him to some backwater town or simply sacking him out of hand, that and some quietly hope that one day his luck will run out and his reckless actions will get him killed.
November 4th 1932, Century City, Maine
A man rushes out of the dark and into his office throwing on the light switch as he went, his dark brown trench coat leaving large puddles of water on the plain wooden floor as he dials the phone, outside the rain is getting faster, hammering against the single small window in the sparsely furnished office.
“Hello? Yes put me through to Assistant Director Brannigan it’s important that I speak to him” he slowly drums his fingers on the surface of his desk, waiting for his superior in Washington to answer his call. He can scarce believe what is happening here, the scale of the operation; if he acted quickly he would be able to strike a major blow to the bootleggers and perhaps even get transferred back to Washington, his past sins forgiven. “Brannigan? Its Jack Bannerman, I need you to send a task force down here as soon as possible, this is big” He quickly related what had been happening in the small coastal town of Century City, sparing no detail as he told him about the large crates being shipped in by the mafia and supplied by an unknown source. There was a quiet pause as the man on the other end considered what to do before finally consenting, a task force would be set up and the operation would be shut down.
Hanging up the phone Jack punched the air in triumph; finally his long banishment would be at an end, he’d spent too long in this deadbeat town.
There was a creak outside his office, as if someone had hit the squeaky floorboard, but who could it possibly be at this hour? Doyle and Hicks were both trailing the crates hoping to trace the final destination, no doubt a distillery out in the woods somewhere and the rest of the staff were at home.
“Hello is anybody out there?” he called over his shoulder nervously, getting no reply, he didn’t like this; he didn’t like this one bit. His mind raced over the recent disappearances that had been taking place bums and hobo’s mainly disappearing from back alleys but as of late they had been getting more noticeable, perhaps the papers were right and it was a serial killer?
Drawing S&W .38 from out of his coat Jack slowly turned the brass handle on the door to his office, his hands trembling with nerves of anticipation as he prepared himself for what may be lurking behind the door. Taking one final gulp of air Jack wrenched the door open in one fluid movement, his gun shooting out to point into the empty corridor beyond, he sighed with relief upon finding the corridor deserted “Your getting Paranoid Jack” the man chuckled to himself, shaking his head in disbelief over his foolishness as he return the gun to its holster. Stepping out into the corridor Jack decided it was time to call it a night he’d gotten the call in to Washington and with any luck the other agents would be here within a few days. Whistling a jaunty little tune Jack walked out into the corridor shutting off the light to his office as he went. Had he bothered to check behind the open door behind him he would have seen what was waiting behind him, but then again that was probably for the best.
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The camera clicked as Doyle took another photograph of the goons loading the crates onto the back of a lorry “Come on Doyle lets get the hell out of here!” Hicks whispered nervously and for good reason as half a dozen of the mobsters were carrying Tommy guns, keeping watch whilst their colleagues loaded the truck.
Doyle and Hicks had parked their car on a heavily wooded hill that overlooked the docks on the far side of town, the tip off had been good a small fishing boat had pulled up just like the man had said it would and then the waiting gangster had begun lugging the heavy looking crates off of the boat and onto the lorry, although by the look of them those crates were far to heavy to be carrying liquor.
Doyle turned to scowl at his partner “What’s a matter Frank scared they’ll see you up here?....oh alright lets get….wait a minute who are those guys?” looking down at the docks two middle eastern men had climbed off of the grimy fishing boat and were now supervising the loading of the crates in an imperious manner.
“Wait here Frank I am going to get a closer look at these pair of jokers” climbing out of the car Doyle ran down the hill at a crouch to stop behind a hedge, the camera raised to take the photographs that would bust this case open and get him that much deserved promotion.
Snapping of a couple of shots of the mysterious foreigners Doyle decided that he’d got enough and turned to walk back up the hill and began walking back to the waiting car, it was high time he and Hicks were back at home, his wife would no doubt bend his ear when he got back tonight.
Three loud shots echoed through the night followed closely by the sound breaking glass as the bullets tore through the windscreen and into his partner.
A man stood by the car a smoking gun in his hands, Horrified Doyle drew his own weapon, a .38 revolver and fired at the man who just murdered his partner of three years and missed by a country mile, he’d never bothered to practise and now it was going to get him killed.
The man by the car casually turned and fired his gun, the bullet whipping passed Doyle’s ear causing him to drop the camera into the undergrowth.
Still cursing the dropped camera Doyle made a run for it as two more bullets were fired his way, one of which hit him in the shoulder like a battering ram, the pain shooting down his arm and back. Falling to the ground with a heavy thump, Doyle clawed his way across the ground in a futile attempt to escape, his shoulder in agony. Behind him he could hear the clicking of brass shells being loaded into a revolver as the man approached, Doyle fumbled for his gun only find it missing, dropped in the undergrowth like the camera “You should have left when you had the chance” the voice heavily accented spoke from above him, the revolver hammer clicking back loudly “Goodnight Mr Doyle”
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November 5th 1932, Washington DC
Assistant Director Howard Brannigan slowly drank from the mug of steaming coffee, he’d been set to go home after an already late night at the office when Special agent Jack Bannerman had demanded to speak with him and what he’d been told was not good news. It seemed that the mob in the Century City, normally a small time outfit of little concern to the bureau had begun shipping large quantities of liquor into the country, from where he didn’t know, but Bannerman had a hunch as to the source but wouldn’t say over the phone.
It had been two years since Bannerman had been transferred to the small town of Century City where the disgraced agent had languished far away from the people he’d upset and as far away from trouble as he could get without leaving the country and yet despite the mans almost unceasing ability to upset people in high places he was a good agent who had brought down more than his fair share of crooks down, it was partly due to this fact that he was only transferred and not kicked out altogether although God knows enough people had pressured him to do so.
Setting down his coffee onto the battered hard wood desk at which he sat, Howard called out of his open office door to his secretary, who was currently typing up the minutes for last weeks meeting “Alice, bring me a short list of available agents in the area please” the incessant clacking of the typewriter ceased as she went search of the appropriate files. Slowly rubbing his temples in an attempt to stem the oncoming headache he wondered why he was going to the trouble of forming a task force on the word of a disgraced agent to send them to a town in the middle of nowhere Because if he’s right and you do find a major liquor source and shut it down the department will reward you for you quickly reacting to the threat and if not…well Bannerman can always be posted to Greenland.
A list of names were placed in front of him by Alice his rather plain but reliable secretary of two years.
Taking another mouthful of coffee, the caffeine already beginning to take effect he quickly began sorting through the names, no point in sending anyone too competent on this, after all how much trouble could Bannerman be in?
Within minutes he had reduced the list down to a selection of screw ups, rookies and trouble makers whom the various departments would be glad to see the back of for a couple of weeks, it would also give the candidates a chance to redeem themselves should Bannerman be right about the perceived importance of this operation.
Picking up the phone from his desk Howard began making the necessary calls required to set things in motion, with any luck they’d be in Maine by tomorrow afternoon playing cops and robbers in sunny Century City, Brannigan briefly chuckled at the thought before making the first call of the day
-----------------------------------------------------------
Ok here something a little different to the other stuff running at the moment so needless to say it may or may not go according to plan, but here goes.
You’re all FBI agents/Policemen from 1930’s America who have made the shortlist for the task force that’s being sent to Century City, the main purpose of which is to find the source of the bootlegged alcohol and stop it, although there is more going on in Century City than just illegal liquor, strange sightings and missing people abound the small town.
Although women probably weren’t in the bureau during this point (not as agents anyway) in history I am willing to bend history if you should desire to RP a female character.
Normal forum rules apply, if you have any questions or are unsure of something PM me and I’ll try and answer them and if you write something that I feel isn’t in keeping with the story I’ll politely tell you and help come up with an alternative, other than that enjoy.
Name: what you’re called?
Age: how old are you?
Equipment: what stuff have you got in your pockets?
Description: what do you look like?
Bio: your characters back story
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Name: Rick Derringer
Age: 32
Equipment: Colt 1903 Automatic Pistol, M1917 Trench knife, notebook, pencil, Hand cuffs, book of matches, FBI Warrant card
Description: 6’ tall with light brown hair and piercing steel grey eyes. Dressed in a cheap black suit and tie which are kept spotlessly clean with shoes you can see your reflection in. Over the top of his suit he wears an American army trench coat and black fedora.
Bio: Born on the rough streets of Detroit, Rick (Richard to his mother) grew up with his two younger brothers in a crowded apartment overlooking the railway tracks, where they spent much of their days goofing around. Like his brothers Rick did well in school with aspirations to join the Detroit police department like his father, who had died when he was young, he would also later marry his childhood sweet heart Alice, in all things were looking good for Rick and then America entered the war.
Rick signed up to the AEF along with his brothers and many of his friends from school the training was hard but it was nothing compared to the trenches.
By the end of the war Rick was a changed man, he’d become bitter and withdrawn, his survivors guilt causing him to act with near suicidal recklessness, his dark and stony personality making it difficult for others to get close to him.
He signed up for the FBI upon his return quickly gaining an infamous reputation for getting the job done no matter what and a predilection for shooting the guilty out of hand causing him to be feared and respected by the gangs running the streets and hatred from his superiors who saw him as a loose cannon, more vigilante than law man even if he did get results. It is only his unceasing determination to catch the guilty party that has stopped his superiors from banishing him to some backwater town or simply sacking him out of hand, that and some quietly hope that one day his luck will run out and his reckless actions will get him killed.
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