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Faux DC presents: A G o l d e n A g e T a l e b y D O C S K O R U P A
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S T A R L I G H
T C I T Y
Saturday Morning The home of Detective Philip Doncaster Detective Phillip Doncaster knew there was something wrong with the newspaper when he picked it up off the front porch. For one thing, the string was a heavier weight than normal. For another, the paper boy didn't usually fold the morning edition with a black envelope peeking out of the center. "Black envelope," he thought, "looks like the doctor is making another house call." The detective brought the paper inside, locking the door behind him and lowering the blinds. He opened the envelope and found newspaper clippings and handwritten notes. He spread the pieces of paper on his small dining room table, poured himself a large cup of coffee, and began to read. "So much for cutting the lawn," he thought to himself. Then he heard his neighbor, old Mrs. Fitzgerald, arguing with someone. He peeked through the blinds. Sure enough, Mrs. Fitzgerald was letting some poor beggar really have it outside on her front lawn, calling him names and telling him what her husband would do if he were still alive, saints bless his soul. The neighborhood had its share of guys down on their luck. When one went knocking at the Fitzgeralds,’ their luck was usually made worse, Philip thought. She was somewhere around telling him to shave and get a job when the beggar opened his ragged long coat, pulled out a shotgun and killed her. Phillip Doncaster ran to his bedroom, grabbed his gun from the nightstand, and ran out the back door. Circling around his neighbor’s side yard, he glanced back at Mrs. Fitzgeralds front yard. Mrs. Fitzgerald’s eyes stared lifelessly into the morning sky, the front door to her home open wide. Blood pounded through Phillip's head with sledgehammer beats. Phillip cursed sharply and ran across the street, gun aimed straight ahead, right hand on the trigger, left hand keeping aim steady, into Mrs. Fitzgerald’s home. Phillip was as frequent a guest as anyone... the old woman liked having a policeman for a neighbor. She was a cantankerous battle axe to the rest of the neighborhood, but was always nice to Phillip. Phillip liked the way that made him feel. He knew the house. The killer didn’t. Environment Advantage: Phillip. Phillip stopped at the end of the hall. He yelled "stop, police!" A shotgun blast came out of the kitchen and tore a hole in a painting of Mr. Fitzgerald on the opposite wall. Saints bless his soul. Phillip leaped across the den, landing on his side, facing the kitchen. The killer still had the shotgun aimed high, above waist level. Phillip squeezed off three shots, hitting the killer with two. The killer dropped the gun and fell to the ground, crying in pain. Phillip stood up, shouting in rage, and emptied the rest of his gun into the killer. He pulled the trigger five clicks after running out of ammo. He came back to the situation. Used the Fitzgeralds' phone and called it in. It would be a few minutes before a car could come by. Frank Tazetski, the Fitzgerald’s neighbor, was waiting on the sidewalk, between his home and the crime scene, (crime scene, for crying out loud!) uncertain of what to do. Phillip yelled out to Frank not to let anyone in the house, and have someone get a bedsheet for Mrs. Fitzgerald’s body. Frank nodded, yelled to his home for his brother to see about that sheet. Phillip looked down the street. People were coming out of their homes, holding hands to faces in despair. Phillip asked Frank to come get him when the other cops showed up. He shouted for Betty and Marge to keep the kids - all the kids - inside. He cursed some more to emphasize the point. Heck of a way to start the weekend, and he hadn’t even read Dr. Mid-Nite’s letter yet. S T A R L I G H T C I T Y President’s Street President’s Street had seen better days. Once the home of struggling middle-class factory workers, the neighborhood had changed once the mayor had allowed a paper mill be constructed less than 2 blocks away. "The paper mill will create new jobs, better ones than at the factories" the mayor argued when the press boys came to the defense of the factory workers and their families. The press boys continued the crusade, until the paper mill struck a deal with the newspaper company - a heavy discount on newsprint paper stock in exchange for the silence of their reporters. A heavy discount on paper, plus the reduction in shipping charges caught the news management’s attention. Suddenly, the papers were stating that research had shown the mayor to be correct: the new jobs at the paper mill were of a higher quality than those at the factories - the community should rally behind the construction of the new paper mill. The homes on President’s Street went up for sale one by one as the stench from the paper mill filled the neighborhood with toxic smog. No one wanted to purchase the homes for their original value, and eventually they were bought for a song by the Maroni mob to be used as flophouses for their opium junkies and boozers. The Maroni mob had bigger concerns than their flophouses these days - their boss was executed by the state and a power struggle for dominance was tearing the lieutenants apart. The largest house on President’s Street was now a ramshackle dive. Even the rats avoided the house for the most part. The electricity was shut off years ago, but tonight the windows were lit by candle and lantern lights, and shadows crossed the windows in a blur of activity. Men went in the front door empty handed and left with a bottle of booze and a shotgun. This was Simon Bobble’s house now - as he said, it was his "castle and fortress, where a noble knight can have a cup of mead and receive a weapon of battle from his King." Simon Bobble was waging war on the false pretenders to the throne to Starlight City. His army would defeat the policemen, the politicians, and those horrible judges who had sent him to that dark tower of insanity. Simon Bobble did not care how many people had to die - HE was the rightful King of Starlight City, and none would stand in his way. Lucky Pete O’Grady sat less than four feet away from Simon Bobble, polishing a shotgun. He knew the shotgun was stolen from the stash over at Taggart’s Tavern - no way drunks could afford hardware like this. His boss, Big Vic Faylen, had developed a plan to get him in with Simon Bobble's gang. It worked like a charm. Pete just remembered how it was in the old days, when he was wandering from place to place looking for whatever odd job might come. He took some old clothes and shoes, rubbed them in some dirt - not too heavily, just enough to look worn - didn’t shave for a few days, stopped eating. He bought cheap whiskey and a few nickel cigars. He went on a bender the first night. He slept outdoors in his dirty clothes the night after that. In less than two days, he was passing for a beggar. He knew it was working when people crossed the street rather than pass him on the sidewalk. He hung around the rail yard, and sure enough, he was approached by one of Simon Bobble’s gang with an invitation for a roof and drink in exchange for "werkin’ for Mister Bobble, his royal highness." Big Vic didn’t want Bobble dead right away. He wanted Pete to hang loose, see if Dr. Mid-Nite was going to be nosing around. If the cards fell right, Pete was to shoot Bobble "and that caped nut job that thinks he’s in a radio show and keep shooting him until he's so messed up he could pass for hamburger." Pete smiled at that line. Big Vic had a funny way of putting things, sometimes. He’d stay close to Bobble, and wait for Dr. Mid-Nite. And if Dr. Mid-Nite didn’t show in the next two days, well... ...then he’s shoot Simon Bobble in the back of the head and get cleaned up the first chance he got. T H E C O U N T R Y H O U S E of Dr. Charles McNider 42 Miles Outside of Starlight City Isabella Bondini heard the knock at the front door, and it startled her. The "regular visitors" who made up Dr. McNider’s team always used the kitchen door, since it was closer to the basement. This far out in the country, they didn’t get traveling salesmen. She made her way to the front door, where she could see a figure in the window leaning on the porch post, as if he were sick. Dr. McNider heard the knock at the front door, even though he was down in the basement. It startled him, too - who would be knocking on the front door - - and he remembered the report he had just heard on the radio about the shotgun killing across the street from Detective Doncaster. Dr. McNider bolted up the steps, taking them three at a time, and yelled "don’t open the door, Isabella!" just as he heard the hinges on the screen door creaking. He pushed the basement door open, and ran through the kitchen into the front room. There at the front door, Isabella was talking to a tall, thin man with bushy white hair, round wire-rimmed glasses and a thin moustache, who seemed very ill. The man staggered and swayed as he tried to stay upright. "Doctor," Isabella said, disapproval dripping from her voice, "this man says you invited him to your home in the country." "What?" Dr. McNider answered, remembering he needed to adapt his ‘blind’ persona again, and grabbed the back of a chair. "Isabella, who is this?" The stranger straightened up to his full height of over six feet, and slurred the words "I am Dashiell Hammett, Doctor - you wrote that you want to discuss mystery writings with me, rememememberer?" The visitor then passed out cold on the floor. Isabella leaned over his collapsed form, and before Dr. McNider could begin to attend to him as a patient, she leaned over his face, sniffed once, and announced "he’s as full of whiskey as a distillery, Doctor." Myra Mason walked in the front room, and asked "what’s all the commotion - oh dear! Who is that?" "That, Miss Mason - if Isabella's descirption is accurate - is the very famous mystery writer, Dashiell Hammett," Dr. McNider said. "Apparently, he took your letter for correspondence with me as an invitation for a vacation. Well done, Miss Mason, we will learn much about writing from Mr. Hammett… after he has a chance to sleep it off and regain his sobriety." Dr. McNider looked at Isabella. Already, the aged housekeeper gave him a stern, yet amused look. She was less worried about having to care for Mr. Hammett’s condition than she was about what this could mean to Dr. McNider’s activities as Dr. Mid-Nite. L A T E R T H A T S A M E E V E N I N G The basement of the country house Dr. McNider had changed into the red and black costume of Dr. Mid-Nite. With him, Peter Spivey, Bobby Travers and William VanDyke all looked at a map of Starlight City covered with onion skin paper. Peter Spivey circled each location where shotgun-related crime had occurred within the past four days with a thick red crayon. "Spivey, this is pretty easy - find the center of the crimes, that’s where the bad guys are - aren’t the police doing the same thing?" Bobby Travers asked. "They should be, Bobby, they should be - but the department is pretty much in chaos right now. Without Maroni calling the shots from behind the scenes, it’s rather crazy there right now. From the captains on up, most of the department was hand-picked by Carlo Maroni. Most of the force is trying to find a way to pin all this on Faylen right now," Peter Spivey answered. "I had no idea that removing Carlo Maroni would impact the city so greatly," Dr. Mid-Nite said, "but we did the right thing in bringing him to justice. I’ll swear to that until my dying day. We did the right thing." Each member of the team smiled at that. Peter Spivey started drawing lines connecting the circles. The intersections were in the old factory district, near the paper mill. "Well, that figures," Bobby said, "I’ve been thinking from the start this whole mess stinks, and the paper mill proves it. Get your cape and the bombs case Doc, I’ll drive when you’re ready." "No Bobby, your shoulder needs to heal and turning the steering wheel would aggravate your injury," Dr. Mid-Nite said. William Van Dyke spoke up. "Charles is right, Bobby. I’ll be happy to be your stand-in, for this one night, anyway." The three men looked at William Van Dyke with doubt written on their faces. "I’m OLD, gentlemen. I’m not dead," William Van Dyke said. "Besides, you three have all the excitement, while I’m building blackout bombs and refining the designs on the goggles. Some field work might be good for me." Dr. Mid-Nite thought for a few seconds. "Your contributions to our work are immeasurable, William. Without you, there wouldn’t even BE a Dr. Mid-Nite. Without the goggles and blackout bombs, I’d be stumbling around worse than our new friend upstairs." "All the more reason to grant me this one little request, Charles," William countered. "I can see where this is going," Bobby interjected. "The Roadster’s pretty banged up, but the DeSoto is going strong. I’ll pack it with the bombs case and radio gear, Doc." "I don’t like this William, but I certainly cannot argue with your logic. However, I can take some cautions. Peter, outfit William with one of my spare flack jackets and a pair of the gloves - the ones with the metal plates in the fingers," Dr. Mid-Nite said. William started to object, but caught a glimpse of Bobby Travers’ sling. Whatever cautions Charles wanted to take were for his own good, and he WAS driving, after all. Better not to object, he figured. L A T E R T H A T N I G H T S T A R L I G H T C I T Y President’s Street Lucky Pete O’Grady was wondering if he was going nuts. Six straight hours of listening to Simon Bobble talk about his "new kingdom." Lucky Pete was starting to wish he actually WAS drunk. Maybe his luck had slipped again. Suddenly there was a rustling on the roof, and a loud clanking sound came down the length of the chimney. Everyone turned to the small fire just as a cannister dropped into the flames. Sparks scattered and a piece of wood knocked loose from the grate. Lucky Pete O’Grady’s mind flashed back to something Big Vic said about Dr. Mid-Nite and his bombs. The cannister exploded, and the room started to fill with thick black smoke, as the fire went out instantly. Lucky Pete grabbed a shotgun, looked at Simon Bobble, pumped,aimed and pulled the trigger. "Missed," Lucky Pete O’Grady thought as the room continued to turn pitch black. Simon Bobble limped across the room. Simon Bobble’s voice screeched across the house, "Treason! Treason! The Black Knight comes for combat, and I am betrayed!" Lucky Pete held his shotgun close, pumped it once, crouched low and positioned himself under a window. Less than a second later, the window exploded as a caped figure crashed into the room and disappeared into the darkness. "Wow," was all Lucky Pete could think. Less than five seconds later, a second figure lept through the same window, this one without a cape, wearing some wild goggles and like the first, disappearing into the darkness. Adrenaline rushed though Lucky Pete’s system. He was sweating and breathing heavily. There were gunshots and the sounds of fighting all around him. Simon Bobble continued to screech his nonsense about treason, and yelled something about a Black Knight. Lucky Pete followed the voice. Right above him, a bit of moonlight came in from the window. Right in front of him, he could make out Simon Bobble, trading punches with a man wearing a cape, hood and goggles. Lucky Pete aimed his shotgun and thought "two for one - luck holds true, after all." T O B E C O N T I N U E D N E X T I S S U E Click here to go to the next issue
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