Sharon Stone on the Unforgettable Fashion of Casino, 25

So yeah, I threw a TON of shade at our Frigid Ape friends last week (but maybe not as much as I did at Meg White - but she deserves it. She knows what she did.) So if you had not guessed it already, this week we will focus on Alex Turner and some other guys. Yes, you might say that we have come crawling back to them. I even contemplated telephoning them after I was imbibing.
Yes, I only made that call while I was somewhat elevated.
It is rumored that these Wintry Orangutans may have established a taco-exporting lunar base (it actually had a high local Yelp rating, or so I’ve heard). Yes, these Chilled Hominids are our focus. They have 7 Brit Awards and 6 studio albums. (Side note: Robbie Williams has 18 Brit Awards so I’m pretty sure you can buy them at the airport kiosk.) They also, according to reliable sources, appear handsome on surfaces upon which you rhythmically gyrate.
They are this week’s featured artist.
About Them
One of the defining characteristics of JHo and the Boys can also be found with this group of Frosty Baboons: They never make the same record twice. Consequently, they are tough to define. They are a mash-up of influences and styles and each new album veers off in wildly different directions. Are you dressed up in a jean jacket with lots of buttons? You’ll love their sometimes Indie vibe. Just smoked a bowl? Yep, they have that desert groove. Feel like a night out with the lads? Their earlier, more up-tempo stuff is for you. Thinking more Billy Joel/Elton John? Yes, they have piano-based music. Want hip-hop?
Screw you, I did the Run the Jewels post already. Go back there.
These Bitter Mandrils hail from Sheffield, England. The band was formed in 2002 between a group of close friends. They initially had Andy Nicholson on bass, but after a series of conflicts on a North American tour, he got the boot. His replacement was Yellam’o Salochin - or as he’s better known, Nicholas O’Malley. The other core members of the band are Jamie Cook on guitar, Matt Helders on drums, and the one and only Alex Turner on just about everything (but most typically the microphone).
Although initially lacking in confidence, Turner would soon be pushed to the front of the band for his way with words. The reason for this would eventually become clear, as Turner revealed in 2013 that all band members are actually Alex Turner. Lets not deal with that Game of Thrones-esque plot twist yet though.
Stylistically, these guys are about as British as they come. You know how when people from England sing, they almost always sound like they have no accent? Turner is the exception. No, I don’t mean that he’s like John Lydon from The Sex Pistols, because part of that band’s rebellion was to sound quintessentially British instead of like manufactured pop. And no, I don’t mean that he is like Liam Gallagher from Oasis, because let’s face it, that guy barely sings anyway.
In his early work, Turner decided to double-down on his roots and perform his songs with his regional dialect. You can literally hear the Sheffield twang in his music, and the band would exemplify this British charm in all the tracks leading up to their first album.
After much practice, and several gigs, the band recorded some demos and began handing them out for free at their concerts. This eighteen song collection, dubbed Beneath the Boardwalk, would garner them a fair bit of fame, and was soon popping up on various file sharing and social media websites. That’s right. The number one lesson you need to take away from this is: if you want to get famous, MySpace is the way (even though they didn't even make their own page).
Soon they released an EP named Five Minutes with Arctic Monkeys on their own label. The success of this led to them playing the Reading and Leeds festival, where they drew an unusually large crowd for such an “unknown” band. In 2005 they signed with Domino Records, and released their debut single I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor to great success, reaching No. 1 on the UK singles chart.
By September of the same year, the band’s first album, Whatever People Say I am, That’s What I’m Not was done. Upon release, it became the fastest selling debut album in UK history, with over 360,000 copies sold in the first week. This album was (and still is) the epitome of British indie punk, and is pretty much the national anthem of North England night clubbers. No, not that kind of clubbers - clearly, I mean something more like this.
After this album, and a few singles / short EPs, “Who The Fuck Are Arctic Monkeys?” was the question on everyone’s mind.
This was answered in the release of their follow up album, Favourite Worst Nightmare (2007), which also hit No. 1 on the charts shortly after release. Much like it’s predecessor, it drips with Sheffield character, but in a slightly different manner. The song writing on this record gives a range between blistering speed and raw emotion. Tracks like Do Me a Favour and 505 demonstrate prowess and dexterity in Turner’s writing, and hinted at darker, more serious tones for the band’s future.
This came to fruition on what some may view as the band’s most important record: Humbug (2009). Our boy Josh took the young lads under his wing, producing and co-writing this album in the one and only Rancho de la Luna. When you listen to it, it shows. This record is dark, moody, and full of beautifully weird metaphors and winding riffs. There is still a good amount of energy in this album, seen in tracks like Pretty Visitors, but the dark moody undertones of the desert are strongly on display in songs like The Jeweller’s Hands and My Propeller. All in all, this album was one that saw an amazing level of evolution in the band’s song writing (and I swear, all that Josh touches turns to gold.)
Oh and this album also soared to No.1 on release. Go figure.
A few years later, they released the album Suck It and See (2011), a record that was a pure ray of sunshine compared to Humbug. The album features a considerably lighter sound, not that it lacks that signature Turner flair, but the tracks generally lean towards a slightly more accessible sound. All in all, it’s still a great album, and an important step in their musical development. Also, please expect to see somebody write a 4 page essay on why Brick By Brick is the best song they have ever written over on their subreddit by next week.
Oh and it also reached No.1 on release. Noticing a trend maybe?
Anyway, these Glacial Lemurs then released that squiggles album in 2013. It became marginally popular. Something something also reached No. 1, something something popular in America, something something Alex Turner’s greaser haircut was SO cool and I want it back. It is also worth noting that our boy Ginger Elvis made a cameo on this record (so I mean, it’s gotta be cool).
Moving on, their most recent album saw Turner embark on a Taco-Powered mission to the Moon. Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino (2018) was originally going to be released as a Turner solo album. However, upon hearing it, his band mates decided to join in and make it into a fully fledged Numb Chimpanzees record. Moon-Tacos can be persuasive.
This album is chock full of alluring and idiosyncratic lyrics that conjure up wonderfully unique aesthetics. It has a laid back, piano-centric melancholy feel that is found nowhere else in their discography. It is so different from their previous albums that many have mixed views on it, but in my opinion, it’s the ultimate grower - I only started enjoying it on maybe the 5th listen. Overall I give it a solid 80% (unheard of, I know!)
Oh and of course, it also hit No. 1.
And notice how I never returned to that Game of Thrones Plot twist? Yep, just like the final season. No, I am not bitter...why do you ask?
That puts a neat bow on their discography, give or take their numerous B-Sides, which are a whole other rabbit hole. I have also neglected some other important Alex Turner records, such as Submarine (his only solo album) and both albums by The Last Shadow Puppets, which are also important stylistic stepping stones for the band. This also explains why Alex Turner’s shoulders are so strong, since he has to carry Miles Kane’s career on both of these records.
All in all, Turner is also a lot like our very own Baby Duck in that he has done multiple projects with multiple artists above and beyond his core band. A self-described “control freak” and reluctant frontman - yet he seems possessed by a desire to constantly explore, create and collaborate on new music.
There’s nothing quite like these Arctic Monkeys, even if their name is really easy to mess up.
Links to QOTSA
Queens of the Stone Age and our featured Polar Simians first met at a rather disappointing gig in Houston in 2007. Josh described them as a ”down-to-earth, earnest group of people that grew up together and somehow made a bubble to protect themselves from the explosion that is their band.” He also remarked that, ”They’ve been playing this most dangerous game of changing every record and reaching like a rock climber for the next grip.”
It is clear that Josh saw his own musical journey reflected in the band, so much so that Homme co-produced and co-wrote their 2009 third studio album, Humbug. That album was recorded in large part out at Rancho de la Luna. Queens have even done a cover version of Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High?
Alex Turner did guest vocals on If I Had a Tail. Josh reciprocated by doing guest vocals on Knee Socks. During the recording of AM, Turner said of Josh: ”He came down and sort of got us out of a little rut. It’s just fun, it’s friends, extended family now...His contribution to our record is really exciting, it’s probably my favourite.” Josh has stated about Turner that ”he has a special gift for the gab” and that Matt Helders is ”one of the best drummers in rock ‘n’ roll.” Helders joined Josh, Dean Fertita and Iggy Pop to record Post Pop Depression at Rancho de la Luna in 2015.
Their Music
Fluorescent Adolescent
R U Mine?
Brick by Brick
505
Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High?
Knee Socks
Pretty Visitors
I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor
Mardy Bum
Four Out Of Five
Show Them Some Love
/arcticmonkeys
Previous Posts
Tool
Alice in Chains
King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard
Rage Against the Machine
Soundgarden
Run the Jewels
Royal Blood

Winter had sucked all the color out of the world.
The prairie in the glory of midsummer had been a surge of green, summer winds sending pulses through the tall grass, causing it to wave like an underwater kelp forest in a strong current. Now, however, it had relinquished its blooming majesty, its former radiance dulled to straw the color of a deerhide. The flowerheads were stripped of their colorful identities, appearing like sepia photographs of themselves; the ghosts of summer past. The sweetclover, which had extended from one horizon to the other back in June, covering the prairie in a blanket of gold, was now skeletonized, its broken-off stems rolling like tumbleweeds in the winter gales.
Trevor was over it. Another South Dakota winter, another four months until the snows would cease and the ice would melt in the creek. In March and April, the spring blizzards would bury the world and on the subsequent sunny days, the combination of blue sky and white land would be startling, like finding oneself living in the center of a bicolored flag.
But for now, a capricious midwinter thaw had left snowdrifts only in the prairie draws, on the north-facing ridges, in the shadows of the ponderosas that speckled the hills. And around the trailer, mud. In a few nights, a deep freeze would turn the sides of the tire ruts into knife edges, testing the suspension of any vehicle that took the approach too fast. Still, that was better than the loamy mud, which could imprison even a 4x4 until freezing cold or drying winds finally freed it.
The view from the front porch could be gorgeous. Back in July, when the church group from Virginia had constructed a wheelchair ramp for the trailer, the evening sun had set the prairie on fire, its light reflected by a thunderstorm hanging in the sky as if by a puppeteer’s strings. “God almighty,” the youth pastor had exclaimed. But now, grays and browns mingled in a decidedly drab palette. Over at the little bird feeder, the goldfinches were no longer yellow-and-black exclamation points, but had acquiesced to dullness, dressed for a time of year when vibrant color seemed to be outlawed by some unseen authority.
Trevor stared at the expanse of mud that spooled out from in front of the trailer and unwound into a ribbon that led over the hill toward the old sundance ground and, eventually, the paved road. He wondered if he would get out today. Always a calculation this time of year. Driving on the muddy channel that was his approach was out of the question; he would set a course across the grass, which would provide enough barrier to keep his tires from sinking in again. Two-tracks radiating out onto the prairie showed how many times he and his family had taken this course of action since the last snow.
It felt ironic that their approach took them by far the long way around – heading north to go south; harder than it needed to be, like so much of life around here. But the way south was blocked by Roanhorse Creek. This wasn’t all bad; the creek provided nice wading in the summer and water for the horses for most of the year. It also gave rise to the only trees on the property, although the cottonwoods whose leaves whispered in the summer breezes now stood dumb and impassive, and resembled skeletal wraiths at nighttime.
A horse would make it, of course. He could saddle up the buckskin, ride cross-country and be in town in twenty minutes. But that would be silly…he snorted at the ludicrousness of this thought. First of all, he had to go way beyond town today. And even if he were just going to his old job at the tribal building, was he supposed to just hitch it up outside for the day? Tie its reins to one of the smokers’ benches by the entrance? What was this, 1895? No, better not to risk TȟatéZi getting stolen or having some gang sign spraypainted on it or some shit. Besides, he needed to pull into his job interview looking halfway decent, not spattered with mud and smelling like horse sweat.
Trevor regarded his truck, sitting smack in the middle of the sloppy mess. Fuck, he thought.
Still, he didn’t really have a choice today. No job interview, no job. No job, no funds. Another calculation, but this one was straightforward. He went back into the trailer and made his way to his bedroom in the back, passing his brothers in the living room. One was sleeping on the couch and the other was crashed out in the recliner, oblivious to the flickering hearth of the muted TV. Let ‘em sleep today, Trevor thought.
In the bedroom, he stepped across piles of clothes – some clean, some dirty – and over the miscellany of his life; a pile of old DVDs, a defunct gaming console, a canister of Bugler and squares of broadcloth for the tobacco ties he was supposed to make for ceremony, a scattering of empty Mountain Dew cans, a 24-pack of ramen, a basketball.
He hunted around in his closet for the dressy clothes that he knew were there. He had worn them once, on the day of his high school graduation, three years before. And there they were; a purple button-down shirt, a solid black tie, and black chinos. Further rummaging found him a pair of brown loafers and a tan braided belt. He would look sharp for this interview – couldn’t hurt.
Trevor took a quick shower. The hot water always took forever to come and once it did, didn’t last long. He got dressed hurriedly, glad the tie that had come as a set with the shirt was a clip-on, and ran a comb through his hair. It wasn’t long enough to do much with other than backcomb it a little with some hair gel, but he figured that looked better than not. He considered putting in big stud earrings to look extra fly, but decided again it; might not be the right look for the occasion.
Now fully dressed and ready, Trevor took stock of his appearance. His summer tan was long gone and his skin was as pale as the white kids he had met during his one semester of college. The same change of season that had desaturated the prairie and garbed the birds in dull colors had undone all those days spent out in the badlands sun – working with the horses, swimming at the dam, helping keep fire at sundance. Too many French fur traders in his lineage. He recalled the book that his eighth grade teacher had assigned them – Part-time Indian or something – and thought, Yup, that’s me. Indian in the summer and wašiču in the winter, like changing plumage.
Trevor envied his brothers their melanin. He had learned that word in one of his college classes and now thought of it nearly every day. Travis was a rich brown complexion even in the dark days of midwinter. Trenton was in between the two but had jet-black Lakota hair and definitely looked “ethnic,” enough to be followed around stores in the border towns. Trevor knew it was his privilege to be exempt from such treatment, but it bugged him nonetheless. He hadn’t asked to be light-skinned. His brothers called him žiží – a reference to his tawny hair. They had gotten into scraps over this, and Trevor even bloodied Travis’ nose in one such altercation. Once one of them had even called Trevor a “half-breed” but Trevor retorted with “Fuck you, boy, you got the same blood as me. Fuckin’ dumbass.” This seemed to put the issue to rest.
Trevor’s brief stint at college had been at an out-of-state school, which now struck him as an ill-advised decision. At least South Dakotans had some experience with Natives. Even the East River kids had at least crossed paths with one at some point, and didn’t think of Indians as something from the pages of a dime novel. Trevor was the first Native in many years – maybe ever – to attend the small-town liberal arts college in a neighboring state. He thought the fact that the college was reasonably selective would mean that the students were smart enough not to ask dumb questions. He was wrong.
The queries were predictable enough, clichéd even; Are you really Indian? (Yes) Do you speak your language? (No) Did you get in because you’re Indian? (Who knows? I’m pretty smart and got good grades.) Does the college have admissions quotas for Indians? (If it did, you’d think more would go here.) What’s it like on the reservation? (I don’t know; different.) Do you prefer “Native American”? (I find the question annoying, to be honest.) Do you like Leslie Marmon Silko? (Who?) Have you seen Dances with Wolves? (Some of it.) Do you know a guy from Pine Ridge named Verdell? He used to work with my dad. (Maybe) His last name was something Horse. Running Horse? (No)
Fielding these questions was exhausting and added another layer of weariness and alienation to his college experience.
He found himself having to answer such inquiries from his roommate, classmates, professors, his R.A…Sometimes they were cloaked in well-meaning concern (I bet you get tired of all these questions, huh?) but they were always there. Most evenings, Trevor would retreat to his room and call his mom. His roommate, Skyler, a cross-country runner who was handsome in an unspectacular way and who monitored his water intake religiously, was hardly ever around. He seemed to have no trouble making friends in college and reveled in the social opportunities around him.
In his phone calls back home, Trevor found himself experiencing a homesickness that inhabited the pit of his stomach like a hunger pang. He had never been gone from home for that long. Really, his only trip away had been the summer before his senior year, to a weeklong STEM camp for Native kids that one of the state colleges had put on. But that had been with a half dozen other students from his high school. Here he was alone.
The subjects of their conversations would leave Trevor feeling a gravitational pull toward home: Trenton got into a fight at school and got suspended. Travis is drinking again. We had sweat for your auntie because they have to amputate her leg after all. Those dogs were back again. Everett hit $200 at the casino on Tuesday night but of course he put it all back in. They’re having a basketball tournament for that boy who got paralyzed in that wreck. Our hot water heater went out but uncle came and fixed it. They still haven’t found that Two Arrows girl that went missing. Travis wants to go up on the hill this spring – maybe that will get him to quit drinking.
Good news, bad news, mundane news…The latter tugged at him the most. Like many who grew up on Pine Ridge, he had a love-hate relationship with the reservation. It was the home of his people after all, and could be so beautiful (“God’s country,” as it was called by even those who had no time for the white man’s God). But the hardships, the tragedies, the death…it all wore away at your spirit, hardened you. Still, the news of day-to-day life going on in his absence; a school powwow, a bingo tournament, tribal council drama, rumors of a Dairy Queen opening. It made him miss home in an ineffable way.
The last vestige of his indecision evaporated after a particular conversation in the lounge of his dorm. He had been sitting on a beanbag chair, discussing random topics with two friends (at least, he considered them friends, in some ill-defined adolescent way). They had all left a dull party that hadn’t livened up even after a couple of drinks, but still felt heady and obligated to prolong the night a little longer. So, they were shooting the shit, in a garishly-lit common space that smelled of burnt popcorn, and Trevor was feeling rather collegiate. An off-campus party, late-night conversation; weren’t these the trappings of university life that he had seen in teen movies, if a much more prosaic version?
Kayleigh, tipsy off Jäger bombs, started the chain of events that would unravel his college experience with a simple, but pointed question: “How Indian are you, anyway?”
Colton snorted at this comment. “Kay, you can’t just ask that!” But he was clearly more amused than disapproving.
“You mean like my blood quantum or what?” Trevor asked.
“Is that what you guys call it?” said Kay, now playing the innocent party. “I just mean, like, you say you’re Indian, I mean like I know you are, like, I know you are on paper…” The alcohol was causing her to trip over her words but she plowed on. “I mean like, okay, if I were to like, run into you on the street…” Kay was now gesturing expansively, as if the meaning of what she was saying wasn’t explicit from words alone. “Like, I wouldn’t be like, ‘Damn, look at that Indian,’ right? I’d just assume you were a white guy. I mean you know what I mean? Ugh, I’m not making sense.”
She was making perfect sense. Colton looked embarrassed, and for a second, Trevor thought he might shut Kay down. But instead, his inhibition similarly worn down by a few shots of German 70-proof, he followed suit. “I think what Kay’s drunk ass is trying to say is, like, your ancestors are Indians, right, like in the history books. Like Geronimo or whatever. But do you consider yourself one of them? Or are you, like, their descendant?”
Trevor could feel the ball of rage growing within him, a sea urchin radiating spikes in his gut. Stop talking, he thought. Just stop talking.
Colton continued, heedlessly. “Okay, so like I’m Irish but I’m not like Irish Irish, like a leprechaun or some shit. Like my ancestors…”
Trevor stood up, his fists balled. He was now stone-cold sober but his anger was its own intoxicant. “It’s none of your fucking business. It’s none of your business what the fuck I am!” He was shouting; he couldn’t help it. He picked up a half-empty can of PBR and threw it at the wall, slamming the door to the lounge on his way out. The sudsy contents of the can leaked onto the ugly orange dorm carpet, as Kayleigh and Colton sat in stunned silence.
“Jesus,” said Colton finally. “Just trying to ask an honest question.”
After that, Trevor had holed up in his room for a few days, skipping classes and avoiding other students. When he told his mom he was dropping out, she hardly sounded surprised. He knew she would be glad to have him back home; the prodigal son returning. Trevor, the one who had his shit together, who had gone to a STEM camp and was almost salutatorian. He knew she thought that once he got back, he could do what she couldn’t; get Travis on a better path, bring another income to the household, fix what needed to be fixed around the trailer, shoot at the stray dogs when they came around. It would all fall to him. His failure was their blessing; they would lean on him as long as he could stand.
So here we fucking go, he now thought, patting his gel-stiffened hair and giving himself one last hazel-eyed glance in the mirror. Gotta get that bread. His brief stint at the tribal building hadn’t panned out. He was a good worker but wet weather made his road too sloppy to get out easily. Too many latenesses had translated into a pink slip. “Shit man we all got bad roads. Gotta leave earlier,” his boss had said.
So, lesson learned, he was giving himself extra time getting ready for this interview. Really, the lady had just told him to come by “around mid-morning,” so he’d probably be okay. The job was off-rez, down at the county livestock auction and sale barn in one of the closest border towns, “white towns,” as Ridgers called it. It was mostly going to be paperwork – inventory and itemizing and that kind of shit – but it was decent pay and Trevor hoped that he could transition over to working with the animals before long. On most days, he preferred their company to dumbass people.
Grabbing his bag, Trevor stuck the loafers inside with his other miscellany. He would need to wear his cowboy boots across the muddy expanse between the bottom step of the porch and the door to his Blazer so he jammed his feet into them. Outside, he walked gingerly so as not to stain his black slacks with muck. Once in the driver’s seat, he figured he would leave the boots on for the drive, since they were already smearing mud on the floor liner, and in case he got stuck and needed to get out. Trevor knew that the people who worked at the sale barn were as countrified as he was and wouldn’t judge muddy boots under most circumstances, but he also knew that being from Pine Ridge meant he had to put his best foot forward, literally in this case.
Trevor fired up the Blazer, put it in four low, and gunned it. His tires found grip and he jerked along, slimy divots of earth spattering his windows and roof like hail. His windshield wipers left a pasty smear that obscured much of his view, but he practically knew the way by feel. As soon as he could, he bumped up onto the grass, gopher holes and clumps of prairie bluestem jolting his ride, testing what was left of his suspension. When he finally hit the pavement, the smoothness was startling as it always was, like a TV being suddenly muted, like silence after a door slamming.
He cruised through town, passing the gas station, the other gas station, the commod building, the quonset hut, the old BIA headquarters…and turned south into Nebraska. He tried to ignore the persistent squeal under the hood that had gotten worse lately. The overcast sky reflected the dullness of the land – as below, so above – and Trevor alternated between zoning out and counting hawks on telephone poles. A handful of miles south of the border, the vehicle gave a jolt and Trevor felt a temporary loss of control. He hit the brakes and steered toward the shoulder, but the Blazer was suddenly steering like an army tank. Fuck, he whispered.
Once he wrestled Blazer off the road, Trevor got out and popped the hood. He already knew what he would find under the rising steam. “Fucking serpentine belt,” he hissed to the universe. Trevor was good with cars but he didn’t have the tools for this fix. Luckily, he thought, out here in the country, somebody who did would be by soon. Lots of Natives on this road, maybe even a cousin would happen by who could at least give him a ride to town. Trevor thought of calling his dad’s brother Everett on his cell, but figured he’d give it a bit. He hated the thought of owing Uncle Ev anything.
Sure enough, in a few minutes, a gunmetal gray truck passed by slowly, hit a u-turn, and pulled up behind him. Trevor felt a twinge of envy over this late-model Dodge Ram MegaCab with duallies. It had county plates on it, so the cowboy-hatted driver was a local guy, and as he got out, his Carhartt overalls and mud-caked boots identified him as a rancher.
“Trouble?” MegaCab asked, giving Trevor an easy smile.
“Serpentine belt busted,” said Trevor, unconsciously smoothing out his rez accent in favor of a more neutral affectation. Code-switching – another term he had learned at college (by the professor who asked him if he prefers “Native American”).
“No shit, huh?” MegaCab considered this information. “I got nothing for that but I could give you a ride somewhere. You call anyone? Someone coming after you?”
“No,” said Trevor. “I’m trying to get down to the sale barn for a job interview.”
MegaCab looked at Trevor as if for the first time. “Oh ok so that’s why you’re all fancied up. Well, hop in if you don’t mind leaving it here.”
Trevor considered this. He was off the rez so there was less of a chance that the Blazer would end up with busted windows or slashed tires. And he was eager to get his interview over and done with.
Before he could answer, MegaCab added “I have to stop in Whiteclay first but then I’ll take you down.”
This was only a few miles out of the way so Trevor assented and climbed into the rancher’s idling behemoth. It still retained some new-truck smell, mixed with a tinge of manure and rich earth. Really, it was almost luxurious.
MegaCab flipped a u-ey again and headed back north toward Whiteclay. Formerly notorious for copious alcohol sales to people from the dry reservation whose border it sat on, Whiteclay’s package stores had been shuttered after the state had revoked their liquor licenses following years of protests over their depredatory business model. Now, it was just a town of a couple small stores and fewer than a dozen permanent residents, its streets empty of vagrants, its ghosts banished.
“So, you from Hot Springs?”
Trevor momentarily wondered where this question had come from, and then remembered that he had 27-plates on the Blazer – Fall River County, a relic of when he bought the car from a white lady over there. He had kept the off-county registration because the plates were far less likely to get you pulled over off-rez than the infamous 65s of Oglala Lakota County.
MegaCab continued without waiting for an answer. “I used to go up to Hot Springs a lot when my dad was in the V.A. hospital up there. Nice town.”
“Yup, it’s pretty nice,” said Trevor, wondering if he would have to sustain this small talk the whole way.
Luckily, MegaCab took it from there, reminiscing about his high school football team dealing Hot Springs a particularly lopsided loss, and then they were at Whiteclay. Trevor played around on his phone while his driver of the moment went into the little grocery store. He looked up his old roommate Skyler on Facebook (why, he didn’t know; certainly not to friend him) and then Googled “Pine Ridge South Dakota Dairy Queen” just to see if there was any truth to that rumor.
MegaCab returned with some mail – Trevor had forgotten that there was a little post office in there – and they turned south toward Rushville.
Two miles and five hawks-on-telephone-poles into their trip, MegaCab got chatty again:
“I still can’t believe that the state revoked the liquor licenses. They had no legal right to do that of course, but just like everyone else these days, they bowed to the pressure from liberal special interest groups. Those store owners – my brother was one of them – followed the damn law to a T but still got their rights taken away. They’re the real victims in all of this.”
Trevor, whose father was found dead in Whiteclay when Trevor was ten years old, didn’t answer.
“You know it’s just going to push the problem down the road. These Indians are gonna get their liquor one way or another. You guys must see that all the time up in Hot Springs.”
These Indians. You guys. Trevor suddenly recognized MegaCab’s presumption, and wondered when if he should correct it.
“If they wanted to buy millions of cans of beer in Whiteclay every year and drink themselves to death, shit, I say let ‘em. It’s a free country, right? Those AIM types are always going on about Native rights and shit, y’know? Well shit, you have the right to drink and die if you want. Not saying that I want that for those people or anything, but the nanny state can’t be protecting everyone from problems of their own making.”
Trevor, whose brother had first gotten jailed for drunk and disorderly at age 14, two years after their father died, said nothing.
MegaCab continued to rhapsodize about “the Indians” and their problems, adopting the tone of an expert, one who knew all about them. Trevor felt the blood rise to his face. Some coloration at least, he thought darkly. In the pit of his stomach, the sea urchin had returned to stab at his insides. What must it be like, he wondered, to live a life in which people aren’t constantly telling you who you are, naming your characteristics like symptoms, trying to trap you like a spirit in a photograph?
The Blazer came in sight on the shoulder ahead. “Can you let me out at my ride?” Trevor asked, his voice hardly recognizable to his own ear, like hearing himself talk underwater.
“Sure, you need to grab something out of it?” said MegaCab, reluctantly pausing his diatribe.
“No it’s okay,” replied Trevor, “I’m gonna call someone to come help me fix this after all.” He fiddled with his phone as if to underscore this intention.
“Well, if you’re sure,” said MegaCab. “And hey,” he added as Trevor stepped down onto the running board. “You be careful around here. One of these rezzers might see you here all by yourself and try to mess you or your car up. And watch out for drunk drivers. You just never know with these Indians.” MegaCab gave a serious nod to accentuate this show of concern. Then he wished Trevor luck and drove off.
Trevor watched the truck recede into the distance until it was merely a gray speck between the monochrome earth and the steely sky. He sat down in the cold front seat of the Blazer and looked into the rearview mirror. Hazel eyes stared back at him under a pale forehead. Fuck it, he thought; people are dumbasses. Let ‘em believe what they want; that he was from Hot Springs, that could be was related to that Apache, Geronimo, that he was only Indian on paper. Trevor saw what they didn’t; the hidden depths beneath the surface, and in their faces, in the spaces between their words, their ignorance displayed like a tattoo.
In another minute or two, he would call Uncle Ev for a ride. In another hour or two, he would be offered a job at the sale barn that would bring another income into his household (and buy him a new serpentine belt). In another day or two, he would finally finish the tobacco ties for ceremony, at which he would pray for Travis’ sobriety and his auntie’s diabetes. In another month or two, the lengthening of the days would be unmistakable.
Spring would come as it always had, first heralded by a single meadowlark piercing the predawn silence with his song. This would be followed by a green sprig on the prairie, pushing up, perhaps, through snow. Then a cluster of pasqueflowers appearing suddenly on a hillside, a skein of geese overhead, sheet lightning on the horizon. Small miracles, one after another. Finally, color would surge back into the world like paint scintillating on a canvas, causing goldfinches to glow like stars and evening thunderheads to stand like towering fires.
The brilliant Dakota sunlight would stoke the melanin in Trevor’s skin, and nobody would mistake who he was. He would go up on the hill for two days and nights with Travis that spring, and Trenton would keep fire for them. He would pray for the coming year, for the survival of his people, for enough blessings to outweigh the hardships. And there, among a sea of undulating green, facing the crimson blaze of sunrise, he would again know himself and find the strength to carry on, in the face of all the peculiar indignities of this world.

I have received feedback that the action is falling into place to nicely. I wanted to write a red herring to make the pieces point to someone else but I was curious about other people's opinions. If it is too neat what is a good strategy to fix it. Any other general critique would also be helpful.
Chapter One
The air out was hot and filled with the dust as a man with a sword at his hip walked up to a side street. The man was gruff with a small unkempt beard that was barely visible under his well-used bandana made of red cloth that contrasted with his strangely blue eyes. As he walked into the alley the smell of burned flesh filled the air.
“Hey, Quinn we gotta nasty one today.” Said a young man about 20 years old wearing newish bandana as he ran up from the depths of the alley to the swordsman.
“They’re all nasty to you, Aiden.” Aiden shook his head at his boss with a light blush coloring his tanned cheeks.
“Just come with me and see for yourself before passing your judgement,” Aiden said before turning on his heel and walked briskly into the dark ally. Chuckling softly to himself the man named Quinn followed Aiden using his long legs to quickly catch up with the younger man.
The smell grew worse and worse as they walked down the ally. Eventually, they reached the source of the stench. A body that definitely seen better days. The eyes were hanging out of the skull and the gut had been slashed open.
“Are both the middle fingers gone?” Asked Quinn with a hard look in his blue eyes.
“Yeah, boss.” Responded Aiden with a worried look.
“Great, that fucker’s back in the game then,” Quinn said with an exhausted sigh.
With that, the sword-wielder and his apprentice started their work of gathering evidence and looking for clues of the body’s identity. The sun was sitting low in the hazy sky by the time the policemen had completed their search and emerged from the alley.
“Take this back to the station, Aiden. I’m going to do some more investigating.” Said Quinn as he walked down the road in the direction of the setting sun.
While Quinn walked down the street he took note of all the people walking home from work. Some were walking hunched over with bone-deep exhaustion that only happens from a full day of hard labor. While others were covered with thick jackets despite the summer heat that permeated the dusty air.
“Mages,” he thought, “What a sorry lot.” He continued walking towards the setting sun into the port. The man pulled his bandana up to make sure it covered his nose. Bodies he could deal with but the stench of fish always had him close to vomiting. He stopped at a simple brick house with a faded sign that read ‘The Golden Sexton’ in pealing gold paint. He pushed open a faded blue door and walked into the bar. He pulled down his bandana and immediately headed to the bartender, a young woman who was talking to one of the costumers. She looked up at him and quickly excused herself from the drunk fisherman.
“I need to talk to Fi.” Quinn said with a grim expression on his face.
“She’s in her usual place.” The bartender said as she thumbed to a curtain behind the bar.
“Thanks.” With a nod his head he put a silver coin on the counter and walked through the curtain. Once inside, he descended down the hidden staircase and approached a door guarded by a large wolf faced man.
“That stays here.” The guard growled with a sharp glare at the sword on Quinn’s hip.
“Come on, man. I am not a mage. Can’t a guy defend himself.” Quinn reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a card with a name, species, and an empty circle. The bouncer just glared that the man and made no motion to even look at the proffered card.
“Fine, fine you win.” Quinn said with a sigh as he moved to take of the belt that held the sword in place and hand to the wolf hybrid. Who placed it in a little room to his left.
“Now, can I get in?” asked Quinn in frustration. With a nod the guard unlocked the door and moved to side. As Quinn opened the door he revealed an underground casino filled with some of the city’s worst. Quinn spent little looking at the tables as he walked purposefully to a room off to the right of the action. Once inside he saw the person he was looking for: an older woman with pointed ears and a striped cat tail swishing behind her. She was wearing a red and gold dress that complemented her gold cat eyes well. She smiled exposing her fangs when she saw Quinn walking towards her.
“Why if it isn’t my favorite human come to say ‘hello’ to Auntie Fi or are you here on different reasons, Little Quincy?” She purred at the man she called Quincy.
He winced at the name a replied, “It’s just Quinn, Auntie, but sorry to disappoint you but I ain’t here to make small talk. There has been a murder.”
“Dear will always be Little Quincy to me and this a city what’s so special about a murder that you had to come all the way out here to see little old me? I know how much you hate the smell of fish.” At the mention of fish Quinn grimaced.
“Their middle fingers were cut off, Auntie.”
“No it can’t be him, the streets have been quiet!” Fi exclaimed as she jumped up from her perch and paced back and forth as her tail swished side-to-side in agitation.
“First, one of the Shadow Pairs defects to Talvi and now that monster’s back in action.” Fi mumbles to herself.
“Hold up, go back what do you mean on of the Shadow Pairs defected?” Quinn questioned wide eyed from shock.
“It means exactly what I said this isn’t time for you to be slow, Quincy!” Quinn frowned at the tone of Fi’s voice.
“Sorry, Quincy I am just agitated about this new development.”
“It’s fine, Auntie Fi.” Quinn sighed, “So you don’t have any information about my murder?”
“No, but I’m going to send out my runners and damn will find out.”
“Thanks Auntie, I’ll take my leave and figure out things out on my end.” Quinn leaned in to give the hybrid a quick hug as he she whispered a quiet ‘be careful’ in his ear.
Quinn left the casino and grabbed his sword from the wolf guard, who appeared to be wearing a smug smile on his canine face. He left the bar and started to return to the station and check in with Aiden. He was deep in thought about the information he gained from Fi. If a Shadow Pair had really defected that could have grave consequences for the future.
With the thought of the Shadow Pairs, Quinn realized, “Those thrice-damned Council lap-dogs will be sticking their nose exactly where they don’t belong and if they catch wind of this there will be hell to pay.” He muttered to himself. It was getting late and the lightieres, in their thick coats, were already running around starting the lamps on the street by the time Quinn reached the station. It was the second biggest building near the center of town and only dwarfed by the city council building. The station was a formidable structure with its red brick walls and the bars on the windows. Quinn opened the large door to dark hallway with lamps periodically hung along the walls casting strange shadows everywhere. Even from where he was standing he could hear the flurry of activity from the cubical area passed the hallway. At the end of the hall was a large wooden desk with a grumpy looking[RES1] monkey woman glaring at Quinn as he ambled down the hallway.
“So all this uproar is your fault.” She said as her monkey tail swished behind her chair.
“I guess you could say that” he replied sheepishly.
“Your little sidekick has been stirring up trouble talking about how the new case from the alley was the work of the Butcher.”
“Well I’ll have a word with the boy. If is make you happy, Aubrey.”
“You do that,” she harrumphed. “By the way the Captain really wants to talk to you.”
“Thanks Aubrey.” Quinn said with a wave as he walked farther into the building until he reached a fancy wooden door with the word ‘Captain’ embossed on the door. A gruff voice sounded a loud “Enter” as soon as Quinn knocked on the heavy door.
“Davenport, the person who caused this wonderful mess.” The Captain said in a deep baritone that was ragged from the many year of cigars. He was a large man with salt-and-pepper hair who as he talked reached into his desk to pull out a cigar. In an instant the cigar was lit with our so much as a shiver from the powerful man.
“Sir, I’ll talk to Aiden, but I think we need to consider that he’s back.”
“I know that, but have you considered that it was a non-mage copy-cat or multiple copy-cats.”
“Well sir, that co…” The Captain interrupted him midsentence[RES2] , “Do you really want the Council’s goons sniffing around the place. If they catch wind of a magic death in the city.”
“I handle it, sir.” Quinn sighed in defeat.
“You do that, Davenport.” With that Quinn hurried out of the office to find his young apprentice. Quinn grumbled as he walked through the mostly empty to a group of desks with a young man appeared to be passed out on a stack of books. Quinn gave him a firm shake on the shoulder; which caused the young man to open one sleep filled, emerald eye. After a moment Aiden’s eyes widen with recognition and stumbled to stand up. Without his bandana, the boy appeared younger with long lanky limbs[RES3] and ears that were too large for his head. His short ginger hair was ruffled from sleeping on a book.
“Calm down, boy.” Quinn said with a smile. “I see you have caused quite the ruckus while I was away.”
“Boss?” Aiden questioned.
“You’ve been in the city a year and you’ve never questioned why there isn’t more magic murder. Do they not teach you about the Calamity on the farm?” Before Aiden could open his mouth Quinn continued almost to himself.
“It is probably because you country boys don’t have the Council breathing down your necks when a smartass decides to use malicious magic.” Again Aiden tried to speak but again was interrupted by his master.
“Thinks about it boy, how many magic murders have happened in the year you’ve work here. Zero, right? There’s a reason for that, the all-powerful Council does not want their perfect country of mages to fall apart like during the Calamity. Listen, I guess the point I’m trying to make is to keep your mouth shut about the Butcher of Ferrum and call that that. Okay boy?”
“So are we dropping the case, Boss?” questioned a stunned Aiden.
“Now, I said nothing of the sort. What evidence do you have for me?” Aiden smiled and looked down at the book that he had fallen asleep on and the sheet of paper next to it that contained almost illegible notes.
“Okay, the victim did have his ID card on him and the mutilation to the face made identifying him mostly impossible that paired with the missing middle finger is a clear sign of the Butcher’s work. Now, while you were gallivanting around I paid a visit to the Archives and pulled all the information on the Butcher’s cases and cases similar to the Butcher. What I found wasn’t much but most people tend to agree that he is a psychokinetic from the burns on the facial area near the eyes and smell of the body. The morgue boys also concluded that the cause of death was blood asphyxiation.” Aiden said as he looked down at his notes.
“So he has power and is competent as a mage” pondered Quinn.
“Seems like it, Boss.”
“Good work, Aiden. Go home and get some actual sleep. I’m going to need your research skills at first light tomorrow.” Quinn said clapping the younger man on the back.
“Okay, boss see you tomorrow.”
“Remember what I told you about running you mouth.” Quinn yelled at the retreat back of his young apprentice. A loud “Night, Boss!” was the quick reply.
“What am I going to do with him?” sighed Quinn as the day’s work finally caught up with him. He cleared the remaining books and papers on Aiden’s desk being careful not to lose his page or any of the papers. Looking around the room, Quinn notice most of the candles had burnt out and decided it was time to leave and rest his bones.
Quinn’s home was in a simple apartment complex a few blocks away from the station. It was plain building made of stone and only about five stories high with a few dim lights shining through the dirty windows. Quinn strolled into the building to the staircase that looks it is about to fall apart then and there. The trip up the stairs wasn’t as perilous as it seems if you knew what you were doing. One of Quinn’s favorite pass time was to watch new tenants try and navigate the staircase.
Lost in thought as he moved to his third floor apartment he almost missed a bright red envelope stuck in the crack between the door and the door frame near the door handle. The feeling of dread took root in his stomach when he finally noticed. “How did them find out so fast.” Quinn thought to himself, “it is impossible.” He grabbed the envelope which was heavy with Davenport written in gold letter on the front. The pit in his stomach only grew as Quinn’s strangely blue ey[RES4] es scanned the letter inside the envelope.
Dear Mister Quinn Davenport of the Ferrum Police,
You are hereby ordered under Order 17, Article 2 of the Calamity Act to meet the Companions in three days at sunrise in the rock fields in the north of Ferrum to discuss the change of command on the recent Alley case. Please bring your apprentice and all relevant evidence.
Sincerely,
Mages Council – Discipline Sector
“Well fuck.” Quinn said quietly to himself as he wondered how the hell he was going to solve this murder in three days. If he did not, then the Council would take control and Quinn did not want to think of “Their policing methods” … or lack thereof.
“I’m not any use to anyone dead.” Quinn thought to himself as he entered his minimalist apartment shedding his bandana and shoes as he walked to his bedroom where he carefully put away his sword. He finally fell on to his small, comfy bed and passed out.
Chapter Two[RES5] [RES6]
Quinn woke to a ray of sun shining directly into his eyes from the crack in the curtains. With a yawn, he strapped the sword to his hip and tied the bandana around his face—the stone market's dust would be just as bad this morning. The sun just peeked over the horizon as Quinn walked the streets to the station. They were alive with citizens opening stores or walking to work. On his long legs, Quinn weaved through the crowd quickly.
His young apprentice shifted nervously as Quinn arrived. “What's got your trousers in a bind, boy?” Quinn tried to keep his own nervousness of the fast approaching deadline out of his voice, but failed badly.
“Quinn, well, I think I found a clue that can help us identify our victim.” Quinn cocked his head in interest as Aiden spoke
“Well, good. But why do you look like someone is going to set your hair on fire?”
“Uh, I think you should come in, boss. Better to show you than tell you.” Aiden turned around and almost sprinted to the archives with Quinn just on his heels.
Aiden finally slowed to a stop when they reached a cubicle piled high with files and books, one that he had apparently been using since the early morning. Looking to make sure the archivist, the one other person in the room, wasn’t paying attention to them, Aiden started rummaging through the mess of papers on the desk.
“So, I was reading the records about the other Butcher victim and noticed a pattern.” Aiden stopped rummaging and pulled out five folders, opening them side-by-side. “Look here.” Aiden pointed at the magic classification box in each of the victims’ files.
“They are all non-mages.” Quinn blinked. “How come this link wasn’t discovered before? If the Butcher was targeting non-mages the community would have been terrified.”
“It looks like they were all well off and didn't broadcast their status.” Aiden shifted from side to side.
“Well, that makes this easier. If we never knew about this, the public certainly never figured it out. So we can assume that if our John Doe is a wealthy non-magic, then our killer is the Butcher and not a copycat.” Quinn grinned at Aiden. “You go to the council and check the records while I go and question the witnesses.”
As Aiden got up, Quinn pointed at the badge still on the desk. “Don’t forget your badge so the council doesn’t give you too many problems.” Aiden flushed and quickly stuffed the badge in his pocket before rushing out of the room. Quinn laughed to himself as he stood, stretching out before heading back to the scene of the crime.
Next to the alley was a blacksmith shop with a horseshoe sign out front. The heat of the day was nothing compared to the heat inside the small shop. As Quinn lowered his bandana, a large bald man with scars covering both of his trunk-like forearms came out from the back of the store.
“’Ello welcome to the Horseshoe. What can I do fer you?”
With a quick flash of his badge Quinn said, “I am here on a police matter do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
The large man quickly dropped his friendly demeanor, “You here about the alley then? What type of person ‘ould do that to a man?”
“Did you hear anything suspicious while you were working yesterday?” pushed Quinn
“I didn’t I was finishing up a job for the Captain and couldn’t hear a damn thing but me apprentice heard a commotion up while he was cleaning the front of the shop. He went out to investigate and when he can back he was so shock up and would not speak to me that I sent he home for the rest of the week.”
“So where can I find this apprentice of your?” Quinn asked pulling out a notepad and pen to take down the address.
“Wait now you don’t think my boy had anything to do with this?” The blacksmith questioned agitatedly.
“I think your apprentice was witness to a murder and could be in grave danger. Now please tell me where I can find him.” Quinn said calmly pen still prepared to take down the address.
“He lives about two blocks down above Becky’s Flower Shop.”, replied the obviously shaken man.
With tip of hat Quinn turned to leave but before he could open the door the blacksmith called out, “Detective, please protect him. He’s the best apprentice I will probably ever have.”
“I will, I promise”, Quinn mumbled too quiet for the blacksmith too scared to make a promise he couldn’t keep. With that Quinn through open the door and marched out to find the apprentice before the Butcher did.
The flower shop that was below the apprentice’s house was a quaint shop with a scrawny boy out front sweeping the front stoop trying to stop the ever present dust from over taking the small shop. Quinn stepped into the store and headed to creaky looking staircase and flashing his badge at the confused store clerk. Taking the steps two at a time Quinn gave a hard knock on the plain door. He could hear a quiet shuffling on the inside of the apartment.
“Go away”, a tired sounding voice yelled through the door.
“I’m with the police. I would like to talk to the blacksmiths apprentice.” replied Quinn.
“You have a badge?”, the voice questioned.
“Of course” Quinn said fishing his poor overused badge out of his pocket.
“I’m going to open the door a little show me the badge through the crack.”
Without waiting for Quinn’s reply the door opened just a crack which Quinn roughly shoved his badge up against.
“Alright, come in.”, The door opened to reveal a tired looking woman wearing a dust covered apron with her salt and pepper hair escaping her tight bun.
“Well, you going to stand there and gawk or you going to come in?”, She stated with hands on her hips glaring at him expectantly.
“Yes ma’am can I ask your name?” Quinn stated as he walked into the small apartment.
“I am Becky.”, Becky stated bluntly. “He is in his room. I will go get him.”, She abruptly and walked out of the living room leaving Quinn to his own devices. The apartment itself was nothing special: clean as one could expect with the plague of dust that cursed Ferrum. There were also flowers on every surface that flowers could be placed on. After a short while the woman came back with a stocky young man in toe. The boy was pale and looked shaken which did not look right for his build.
“This is Fredric and if it is alright by you Mr. Policeman we should have this talk in the kitchen where we can sit down and I can get you some water.”
The group made their way in to the kitchen to the left of the living room and Becky made herself busy making all three of them refreshment. The boy mutely sat down at the table in the kitchen, that of course was also covered in flowers. The detective sat across from the boy picking up a vase full of white and purple flowers that Quinn has never seen before and setting them out of the way so he could properly question the boy.
“Hello Fredric, I am Detective Quinn Davenport but you can call me Quinn. Can you tell me what you saw yesterday that shook you up so bad?”, Quinn begin, notebook ready, in a soothing voice as not to scare the boy any more. Fredric turned a shade paler than Quinn thought possible for a boy of his complexion. The boy opened his mouth a few times and looked like he was going to speak but nothing came out. “It is okay why don’t you tell me about your day before the event and we can work up to what you saw.” Quinn tried calmly.
“Um, well I guess I could try and do that.” The boy, Fredric, said his voice was soft and raspy with disuse. “I think that day was cursed or something or I was getting the first day jitters again or something because everything seemed to be going wrong.”, Quinn quickly interrupted to ask what Fredric meant by first day jitters. “I mean no offense but you look a little old to be a brand new apprentice.”, Quinn clarified. This drew a shaky laugh from the boy and made Quinn smile internally.
“I am not a new apprentice but I got the Cold for a better part of the month and I was finally well enough to leave the house yesterday.” Quinn winced at the boy’s confession, The Cold was a terrible illness that crippled pyrokinetics by lowering their core temperature to dangerous temperatures. If the poor bastards were not kept warm enough until the disease ran its course they would slowly freeze to death.
“Anyways, everything seemed to be going wrong the Captain gave an express order of 2 dozen handcuffs for master to fill by today. Normally I would help him with large orders but I was still a little too weak to hold more than a broom so I was stuck tending the front desk and sweeping the shop. Sweeping has always been my least favorite task because my eyes always water. It was just after noon when I thought I heard people fighting in the alley. That alley is a common place for people to quickly fight it because it so hard to see into even during the day and normally I can stop any bad fighting with a glare. So I walked out to put a stop it any roughhousing but they weren’t your typical street thugs. There was a moose hybrid with one alter messing cutting the shit out a guy in a suit.” As Fredric finished his story Quinn tried to not show the surprise on his face. He knew all too well who the moose hybrid was, the local drug kingpin James “the Bull” Prince. The Bull was an infamous psychokinetic that pushed all types of drugs through the city. Rumor was that he lost his antler to a battle with a Shadow Pair from the Academy.
“Thank you Fredric his you think of anything else please let me know.”, with that Quinn pulled out a card and handed it to the boy and unceremoniously stood up and walked to the door with a brief nod of goodbye to Becky.
It was close to sunset when Quinn walked out of the flower shop. During the walk back to the office Quinn stop at a shoeshine stand and payed the boy twice the going rate. The boy took the money and looked at Quinn expectantly and Quinn said, “Tell Aunty that her little prince said Hello.” The boy nodded and got to work shining his shoes. After the boy was done, Quinn finally made it back to the office. The office was mostly empty for all of the normal officers were out on patrol around the city. Before returning to his and Aiden’s desk Quinn made a quick pit stop at the narcotics section of the station. The detective on duty was a small woman with dark dreadlocks that ringed her face. She snuffed out the ball of fire she had been playing with before he reached her.
“Hey Polka[RES7] , I see that you are not busy so mind helping me with a job?” Quinn asked with a playful smile on his face.
“Davenport, whatever do you mean? As you can see I am swamped with work and can’t possibly get away to help with whatever mess you made.” The other detective replied sarcasm dripping from hear words and a cheeky smile on her face.
“Come off it I am offering a chance at freedom here.”, Quinn wedeled.
“Fine, fine you twisted my arm enough. What do you need help with?”, She questioned curiously.
“I need information about favorite hybrid drug kingpin because I think he has turned to direct murder instead of indirect killings” Polka’s face suddenly turned serious as Quinn told her that he thought Prince a suspect in his case. “Let’s go to a quieter place before I tell you the specifics Quinn looked around suspiciously. Seeing his nervousness Polka quickly agreed and wheeled herself from her desk and gestured for him to follow her. They went to an abandoned conference room and Quinn shut and locked the door after they both had entered. Quickly Quinn explained all he knew about Prince’s involvement with the Butcher’s case. After a moment of quiet contemplation Polka finally spoke, “Well this is great news. If you get more hard evidence he can finally get his due. I will do some research and get back to you tomorrow.” From outside a flurry of activity could be heard.
“The Captain must be about we should make ourselves busy. I have to talk to my apprentice which will hopefully put the pieces together and the Shadow Pair will not have a chance to fuck this city up.” With a wink at his good friend Quinn quickly retreated to find his apprentice.
Quinn successfully avoided the Captains notice by slinking to the shadows as he returned to his office. But Polka did not seem to be as lucky. From behind the Captains booming voice could be heard verbally assaulting the unfortunate narcotics detective. Quinn winced in pain in sympathy for Polka as the Captain dragged her into his office and the door slammed shut. As Quinn reached his office he noticed his poor junior asleep once again in the chair adjacent from the door. Quinn smiled evilly and pointed the boy hard in the cheek. Jumping in surprise the boy franticly looked around for his attacker. “Oh sir it is just you. You gave me a heart attack.” Sighed Aiden when he noticed that his superior was the who had poked him.
“You got to get a full night’s sleep tonight boy or you are going to catch the Cold if you are not careful.” Warned Quinn. “If you got time to sleep then you must have found something good at the council”
Aiden nodded quickly, “I found the name of our John Doe and you would never guess his status.” Before Quinn could respond Aiden jumped in and replied “The John Doe is Roy Morton the treasurer of the artisan guild and he is non-mage. Since you were still busy with the witness when I came back I already created a timeline of the victim’s whereabouts before the attack. I also asked Darren and Shera to inform and question the family of the victim.” Aiden gestured to the notes on his lap and the crude timeline on the far wall that Quinn didn’t notice when he walked in the office.
“That was a lot of work, Good job.” Quinn said impressed with his young officer. “Now give me the highlights before we call it a night.”
“Basically, Roy did not have any family and was a popular book binder that was voted treasurer of the guild two years ago. No one we talked to had anything bad to say about him. Apparently he was very good at both his job as treasurer and as a book binder. His land lord said he always paid his rent on time. The only weird thing was he was always gone an hour before sun set on once a month on the sixth day of the week. No one we talked to could figure out where he went during this time. This is why no one reported him missing.” After finishing his reported Aiden looked at Quinn expectantly. “Hmmm, the next step for tomorrow is to find out what Mr. Morton was doing during that time and what his connection with Prince is.”, Quinn thought out loud. “Prince, sir?” Aiden questioned. Realizing he had not informed his young apprentice of his adventures Quinn repeated what he told Polka. Stunted Aiden looked longingly at his timeline as if he wanted to fit in the Prince puzzle piece. “Oh no boy it is time to go home. Polka will do some investigating and will fill us in tomorrow.” Quinn dragged Aiden out of the station and cheerfully waved at Aubrey as he forced Aiden out in the street. After Quinn was confident that Aiden was actually going home Quinn started his own journey home. But he was stopped by a runner girl with dirty blonde hair. She handed him a piece of folded paper and waited as he tipped her with 5 copper pieces before running off. All the paper said was midnight at the Rusted Bull come alone unarmed. Quinn groaned to himself as the prospect of a full night sleep went out the window and he walked toward the docks yet again.

PART ONE OF FIVE
So, you wanna go to SHOT show? You think it's all fun and games? Get to play with guns? See Jesse James and James Yeager? SHOT show is the annual pilgrimage of the unwashed masses to Las Vegas to rub elbows with youtube celebrities, bloggers and overseas businessmen copying US made equipment and share infectious disease.
If you love guns, gambling and gonorrhea - SHOT show is for you! It is not my typical idea of a good time. I am not a big fan of Las Vegas.
However: I do attend for a few reasons. First, I do enjoy travel and I'm gold on UA so I can usually score an upgrade. Second, industry people are in there that I do hundreds of thousands if not millions of dollars with business with so it's nice to put a face with the name and see what deals are out there. SHOT for me has been a bust for the past few years. Being a value guy, I want to buy at $1000 and sell at $3000 and as of recently the gun business is more like buy for $1 and sell for $1.10 if you get what I mean.
We used to do business at SHOT and now it's just checking in on foursquare, instagram and rubbing elbows with bloggers and the like. I want to make money, not spend money so this is very annoying to me.
Anyways, onto the play by play.
Saturday, January 19th. Three days before SHOT show.
I talk a friend of mine to drive me to the airport after I drop my F350 at the body shop. I had a hit and run and someone totally fucked up all my paint and clearcoat. My guy says he can get it done while I'm gone for SHOT so I hitch a ride with a friend and pick up the tab for lunch. We have brisket. It is delicious. I get to the airport 3 hours early for my flight just in case the TSA line is a shitshow thanks to, well TSA. The government shutdown is not helping these folks. I have pre check and much to my surprise I breeze right through after a brief 3 minute wait.
I slog my way to the lounge, as shitty as it is to wait for my winged chariot to IAH. I have gone from being in an abusive relationship with AA to being in an abusive relationship with UA. Although if you really want to experience the battered spouse feeling, NK is a few gates over.
I board my flight to IAH and my Renton assembled chariot is on time and boarding early. The hate agent scans my pass and the alarms go off and spits off a new boarding pass. I have been upgraded to first class. You all will be turning right, I will be turning left once I pass the threshold of 2L on this old 757. I'll take a cleared upgrade at the gate any day of the week considering that I am 29/53 for Bush to LAX.
Fuck my life.
I gate check my bags to make life easier for me and the rest of the folks riding with me. If I don't have to worry about being short on time at my destination, I like to gate check to free up bins for those who are not as fortunate. Eventually I board and ask the FA to say hi to the captain and get a ride report. She says no problem. I step down into the 757 flight deck and take some selfies with the crew. They appreciate my aviation nerdery. They tell me that there will be light chop all over texas today and we're going to have some bumps so strap in and don't be a hero.
Having brightened the day of the flight crew, I head back to my lie flat window seat, fully recline and kick back and relax by listening to channel 9 on the IFE. It's disabled. Fuck. I put on a movie and watch the delightful Tag with the always excellent Jon Hamm, Ed Helms and others. It's a good movie and made me laugh. Just as we get to the gate the credits roll.
We land at Bush right on time but I have a 59 minute spa layover I had planned OR I can go to Landrys with my priory pass and get some blackened snapper. Do I hightail it to the Centurion lounge in terminal D, my home away from home? Or go for fresh grilled seafood?
This centurion lounge does not have a spa. Fuck it, lets go cajun. I walk over to Landrys and order the blackened snapper. It is delicious. The kitchen is a little behind so they box it up the rest of it for me to take on the plane which they don't have to do and I leave the waitress a nice tip. I am sweating from the blackened seasoning. I don't care. NOM NOM NOM. Fish is delish.
They have already started boarding to LAX as I walk up to the gate. I ask the hate agent if there's any upgrades. She says first is checked in full and we are 100% packed to LAX today. I thank her and board my bulkhead seat to LAX with my blackened snapper in one hand and personal item in the other.
Giving the FA a friendly nod, I ask to say hi to the captain and she says no way boss, we're busy - sit down and shut up.
Rude.
The boarding door closes for an on time departure and I watch another classic - Wall Street!
I polish off the blackened snapper, dirty rice and green beans. Charlie Sheen before he went crazy was a pretty good actor. He's so dreamy. I'm sweating profusely from the blackened seasoning and get up to throw away my trash because I didn't want the other guys in coach to have to do it for me. I walk right up to the forward galley into Bitchy McBitchface who woke up on the wrong side of life starts telling me to use the coach lavatory. I tell her I just wanted to throw some trash away and she gave me more attitude than a sassy black woman working at the DMV.
Listen lady, if you don't wanna be dealing with trash - maybe you shouldn't be working for United, eh?
I take my seat and I fall asleep on the way to LA. The ride is smoother than my nephew's 16 month old ass. The flight was not long enough. The landing is a perfect grease job on 24R and the only thing awakening me from my slumber is the reversers on the 737 Max. I pull my headset out so I can tune in LAX ground on LiveATC just as we make the left for taxiway Alpha/Alpha. I see the taxiway signs out of the corner of my window and start the feed just as I hear the ding.
ding
What I'm expecting: Welcome to Los Angeles where the local time is 5:55. Your Houston based flight crew would like to thank you for flying United and your baggage will be at carousel (integer)
What I heard from a clearly panic stricken FA: IF THERE IS A DOCTOR OR ANYONE WITH MEDICAL TRAINING ON BOARD PLEASE RING YOUR CALL BUTTON.
Everyone wants to be a hero until it's time to do hero shit.
I reach up and press the button and a single chime tells the FA that row 9 pressed button.
ding
FA: If you are a doctor or have medical training please head to the rear galley immediately.
I dumped my phone in my seat. (This was my first mistake. I'll tell you why later.)
Shit. It's go time. The passengers next to me are soundly asleep and it's a full flight, so I unbuckle my belt and turnstile jump over the two of them making a resounding thud onto the cabin floor.
I promptly walked with a purpose to the rear cabin. As I'm heading back I hear someone else walking behind me but I'm focused on the long walk from the bulkhead to the rear galley. I arrive shortly and my immediate impression is that the rear galley is not in good shape.
Oh, the bitchface FA that told me off? She's now profusely thanking me for showing up. Funny how that works isn't it?
There's a woman lying across three jumpseats on oxygen screaming in pain with a clearly experienced physician working on her and checking her out. I am not about to get in his way. Right behind me is a six foot three beast of a man who I can only imagine used to play right wing for Detroit. Doc 1 is working her, there's me and Doc 2 is behind me.
Doc 1 tells us she's got shortness of breath and chest pains.
Doc 2 nods and says he's a trauma surgeon from Cedars Sinai.
Doc 1 tells us he's an internal medicine specialist at UCLA.
Doc 2 asks me what my specialty is.
FC says structural firefighting and making sure you two get everything you need.
Doc 2 looks at the FA and asks if they got an AED on board.
I look up at the nearest overhead and there's an AED in the compartment, I bust it out and hand it to him. They start sizing her up as we taxi down Alpha/Alpha. I stand in the aisle inbetween the two bathroom doors as they do their thing ready to help out.
(FC breaks the fourth wall)
FOR THE UNINITIATED: United is in terminals 7/8 on the south side of LAX. When you land next to In-and-Out Burger on Sepuldeva you're on the north side of the field. It's easily a 20 minute ride to get from one side of the airport to another when they're busy. Prime time for LAX is 1800hrs because you have all the morning flights from the east and the afternoon flights from the central time zone arriving.
When you have a medical emergency and time is a factor, a 20 minute ride to the gate is what we call sub optimal. There's hard stand/remote gates at LAX on the northwest side of the field surface street adjacent that you can get to a lot faster than a long haul around the airport. If you give me a choice of going to the hard stand and meeting the ambulance or taking a 15-20 minute taxi during rush hour to a UA staffed ramp - I will GLADLY take to the hard stand, shut down and start em up. Yes, it's going to inconvenience a plane full of people for 20 minutes for you to unload, restart and taxi back. No, I give zero fucks.
My mistake was leaving my phone behind. Had I had it with me, I would have known we were going long way around and applied some intervention techniques to get things moving faster. I had no idea where we were.
(Cut to present)
Doc 1 managed the best he could and the lady said inbetween raspy breaths that she was going to start vomiting from the pain. Doc calls for a bag. The FA takes the safety equipment bag, the one holding the lifevest, seatbelt extender and oxygen mask and empties it.
OH FOR FUCKS SAKE. I reach over to the nearest passenger, pull all the contents of the seatback out, dump it on the floor and hand doc 1 a United brand official airsick bag. Just as I do this and I step back, the plane rapidly slows down and begins to turn.
(FC breaks the fourth wall again)
I used the term suboptimal earlier, and this is going to be a theme for the rest of the trip. Boeing in their infinite wisdom decided to stretch a 737 design and call it the MAX instead of doing a clean sheet. Three FA's, two doctors, me, and our lady experiencing chest pains are in the rear galley all not wearing seatbelts. All but the patient are standing. We are something like 80 feet behind the main landing gear.
Inertia is not our friend today. I start falling and I grab the only thing I can on the way down: the door handle to the lavatory.
(Cut to present)
Next thing I know, I've experienced what the FAA would probably term a "Lavatory Incursion" - and I wonder where my life has gone wrong as my knee has hit the toilet bowl. I get back up and prop a hand up on the cabin ceiling just to steady myself for the rest of the ride to the gate.
I look towards the front of the plane and notice something. Some fuckwit in row 29 is livestreaming this on instagram or some crap. Are you fucking shitting me? I lean over to the purser and tell her that while Doc 1 and 2 are fixing her, I'm gonna go do some fixing of my own about 10 rows up. My resting bitch face is on point right now as I walk up to the tactless millennial inconsiderate smartphone user and get ready to fix this problem in a way honed by years of catholic school, brute force and dealing with shithead customers.
FC: Just what do you think you're doing?
1: I'm livestreaming this on twitter. It's my right.
FC: You're gonna delete whatever you filmed right now.
1: Or what are you gonna do about it?
FC: You see that FA over there? The one that looks like she's not taking any shit from anybody today? I'm gonna ask her for the intercom, I'm gonna call the captain and my friends over at the LAPD are gonna haul your ass in front of a judge and the next place you're gonna be livestreaming from is the back of a police car. And let me tell you something you might not know. There's two ways to enjoy LA Jail on a Saturday night. One's a Richard Pryor album. The other's when a skinny inked up ginger white boy like you walks in. Give me that goddamn phone.
I'm handed the phone and I delete the video as I walk back to the rear galley and put it in my back pocket. People are now asking if they're gonna make their connections and shit and I tell them to shut up, we've got more important things going on. As I walk back I peek through the windows seeing nothing but darkness. How long does it take to get to the gate? And even then, is there an ambulance waiting there?
What the fuck is happening? Where the fuck are we?
I ask Bitch McBitchface how long these symptoms have been going on. Apparently this issue had just arisen upon landing. Doc 1 asks for a stethoscope. I pull down the first aid kit from the compartment. It requires keys. The cabin crew has to find the keys for the first aid kit. I'm eventually handed a key and bust out a stethoscope for the doc. I peer out the window of the rearmost seats looking for signs of a gate, ambulance or anything I can reference to figure out where we are - the tower, a 777 tail which would tell me we are nearing the international terminal.....nothing but darkness.
This is not good.
Doc keeps the O2 flowing as we are all standing there helpless waiting for the plane to get to the ambulance or vice versa. The cabin crew asks how they're going to get her off the plane.
FC: Well she's in no condition to walk, can you get the rampers to put air stairs on 2L and take her off that way? It would be easier and optimal.
FA: I don't think we are able to do that
(It is at this point I think I smell toast. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN'T DO THAT? GET ON THE INTERCOM AND TELL THE CAPTAIN THAT THEY ARE GOING TO HAVE TO TAKE HER OFF THE PLANE VIA 2L AND STAIRS WTF)
I get that what is happening is clearly exceeding the crew's training but this is.....bad. Eventually we arrive at the gate and the fine folks at Station 51 from LAFD EMS arrive. The EMT sizes it up and calls for an aisle chair to be brought to take her off the plane since she can't walk. (WE HAVE BEEN SAYING THIS THE WHOLE TIME!)
They load her up and I step out of the way into the lavatory, I see them wheel her out through a crack in the door. I take this chance to do a bit from spies like us.
I look to my left and extend my hand. Doctor. I nod. I repeat to the right. They also repeat the bit. We chuckle.
I look towards Doc 2.
FC: Hey Docs, I didn't catch your names. I'm Will. Will Hayden.
Doc 2: George, George Rodriguez.
FC: Good work there Dr Rodriguez. Thanks for helping out.
Doc 2: We're doctors. It's what we do.
Doc 1: Hiya Will, I'm Charlie Fong.
FC: Nice work today Dr Fong. Thank you for showing up.
We start walking back to our seats as I snort out a laugh.
FC: So, Dr Fong.....I guess it's safe to say that United has successfully smoothed things over with the Asian physician community?
The doc's have a two Mississippi awkward pause as they begun laughing hysterically. Please, tip your waitresses. Try the veal. I'm here all night. Tactless millennial asks me to return phone, and I hand it back as we walk back to our seats.
EMS clears the plane, captain tells people that they can now leave and a cacophony of seat belt buckles pierces the high pitched drone that is a 737 sitting at the gate without engines running on shore power.
I ask Bitchy if I can see the captain on the way out as she once more thanks me for my service. She stuck her head in, got a nod and let me pass. I asked the captain why we landed on the north side of the field with an onboard medical and why we didn't get priority handling from the ground controller and why the hell it took so long to get to the gate.
His response was staggering.
CA: We didn't even know there was an emergency in the galley until the FA told us. By then we were almost to the terminal.
FC: Are you fucking kidding me?
CA: Nope. By the time we knew something was going on we were already on the ground and almost to the gate.
We talk airplane briefly about the 737 Max, the new jumpseats and I wish them a good rest of the trip. I secretly think he's got to be shitting me.
Being a good aviation nerd, I made mental note to check his work after I got back to the hotel.
I head to the lounge in LAX for a bite to eat, a sprite and some very boring time to myself. Just as I walk into the terminal there's a voicemail from my uncle. My plan for LA was to see my family - and my cousin and his wife who's pregnant with their second kid. I crash at my uncle's house in Pasadena and walk around old town and shop at Vromans Bookstore and enjoy all that Southern California has to offer. It's a good way to spend a weekend. If you ever get a chance, do it. It's fun. I can pay United a shitload of money to fly into McCarran on Monday or I can spend 1/3 of that and go into LAX a few days before and hop over for $45. I love LA.
NEW VOICEMAIL FROM UNCLE LOU: Family emergency, we all have to head to Chicago because Lisa's mom is in the hospital and we can't see you this weekend. You're on your own. I'm on my way to Burbank to catch the last flight to Midway. Talk to you later.
Fuck.
Time for an FC adventure.
I order some food in the lounge and crack open the laptop. One of my customers works for LAFD. I find his personal cell phone number in my sales records.
ring ring
1: Go for Smith
FC: Chief Smith! Will Hayden here! How's that M110 running?
1: Will...holy shit long time no talk. What's going on?
FC: Family bailed on me for this weekend, gotta make my own adventure. You working tomorrow? I'd love to see how LA does things.
1: No, but I have some friends on C shift that are. Let me see who's gonna be around. Let me call you back in 10.
FC: You got it Chief.
I eat and drink and relax and the phone rings back. Chief smith says be at station 9 at 0800 hrs Sunday morning. I say no problem! Thanks! He tells me to check in with the captain of the truck crew and he'll show me around.
While I'm on the laptop I book the marriott in Torrance. It's near the airport and a 25 minute ride to station 9. Little did I know it's next to a goddamn oil refinery and the housekeeping staff have left all the windows to my room open. Ugh. I kick back and take a shower. When I get back, I pulled all the ATC tape from LAX tower, from landing clearance to touchdown to the ground controller handoff to the checkpoint, to the request for medical assistance and timestamped all of it.
The request to LAX ground for EMS was made somewhere on taxiway bravo after passing papa (TBIT) but before Charlie-6. (T7). By that time we were already on the south side of the field and terminal adjacent.
Cabin crew didn't tell the captain to request EMS till we got to the other side of the fucking airport. From the moment I walked up, I had assumed (incorrectly) that prior to the request for medical assistance they would at least have told the captain what was going on. They didn't and he was flying blind. When you do a CPR class the first thing you do is call 911 and ask for an ambulance because it does not matter how much CPR you do if an ambulance never shows up to take you to the hospital.
There's a lesson to be learned here.
When seconds count, the request for EMS is waiting for the plane to get to the terminal to be called.
I knew United wasn't great, but this is to use a southern california term - no bueno.
The Westchester In and Out Burger has a 4x4 with my name on it and it is DELICIOUS. After I finish eating I hop on the hangout with the guys.
Since I've got no plans till morning I decide that it's worth the crazy time and I call u/gunexpert69 and we make plans to hang out at his local watering hole. We then try to pick up some flight attendants at the Doubletree. We fail miserably and call it a night.
Sunday, January 20th. Two days before SHOT show.
My alarm is set for 727AM. It rings, I wash up, jump in the car and put free fallin by Tom Petty on the radio and hop onto 405 south to pick up 110 north. The freeways are empty and I make incredible time downtown. I look down at the address and wonder where the fuck I am going. 7th and San Julian St? I drive around and there are tents on the sidewalk everywhere. This is the closest I have seen to life in a WROL situation. Eventually I find a spot on 7th street, bang on the door and the guys tell me to pull my car into the back lot. I do so and the guys are having breakfast and invite me to sit down and grab a bite.
When in Rome......
I grab some eggs, bacon and a biscuit and the truck captain comes by and says oh you know Smith? Apparently they came up in the same academy class and are old friends. He sticks his head out the door and yells at one of the guys and pantomimes some instructions. I don't speak ASL so I just nod and take it in. He runs down what they're doing today. LA tradition is that weekends are for the boys so they do training on weekends. It's 820AM and they've setup a training scenario and are gonna run it. This looks cool.
One of the guys comes back and hands me a headset, saladbowl and turnout coat. Captain says you're with me in the truck. Gear up.
Uh. What?
CA: Yeah, Chief Smith said you'd be riding along with us today. Right?
FC: LOL! I thought he was just gonna do a station visit. Sure, I'll ride with you guys.
CA: You ever see a TDA before?
FC: I used to be on the engine or the quint so this is gonna be new.
CA: Well, jump in. Lets go.
My ride to LA was a 737 max made in Renton that just came off the line January 17th. My ride to Skid Row was a 100' Pierce Arrow XT Tractor Drawn Aerial that was three years old. I hopped in and we drove around to the training location where the guys were to setup the ladder and pretend like they were venting a roof on a 5 story building. I was told to go shadow the command post as they'd be evaluating the guys and they had a good training day. LA has a good group of people and it shows. They did a post training debrief, simulated a dry hydrant and talked about everything they did, everything they did badly and everything they could do better.
LA has some fantastic people there that are very talented. The guys started putting tools away and rolling hose. I find the captain over on one of the engines and ask him if they need help with anything. He says if you want to help out, we're breaking down that attack line you can drain it.
FC: You guys straight roll to a flat load right?
CA: Yeah. You know hose?
FC: Drivers do it with hose.
CA: LOL! Hadn't heard that one before! Here's some gloves.
He gave me some gloves, I straight rolled three sections of three quarter line and hauled it all back to the engine where I found the truck captain loading hose with his guys. If anyone wants to see where real leadership is, it's helping your guys load hose and pack up tools.
I hook up and look up as I notice their technique. LA flat loads all their attack line, no preconnects. Two guys in the bed dressing and dutching it, one guy on the ground, straight roll between the boots pulling hose straight up into the engine. Gets any residual water out and they can check the gaskets every length. Never seen that done before but it looks like a smooth technique. I hook up the last of their attack line as the guys finish packing up. The bells come in and there's an automatic fire alarm tripped. First call of the morning. We hop over there and its' a false alarm.
The rest of the day is spent with station 9 watching the various indigenous folks of Skid Row do their thing. Station 9 is the busiest fire station in the nation. Before lunch they ran 3 overdoses, 2 stabbings, and a cacophany of crap. I went with them and their ambulance drivers and EMT's really earn every dollar they make working this area. After a quick break for lunch, they start watching the Rams game. Just as it got good, bells came in for another few calls and next thing I knew - the Rams were going to the super bowl and the dinner bell was ringing.
I decided it would be overstaying my welcome to hang out for dinner so I packed up and bought a shirt and told the guys if they ever needed guns to shout at me. Drove over to Grand Central Market to get a bite to eat and then grabbed some in and out burger on my way back to the hotel. txgi is sloshed and in no position to travel after watching the patriots destroy KC.
It's been a crazy day and the beginning of a crazy trip. And it's just getting started.
Monday, January 21st. One day before SHOT Show
I wake up late, grab lunch at the Del Amo mall and do some shopping. My flight to McCarran leaves at 7PM and arrives just after 8PM. Knowing rush hour traffic in LA I decide to leave early and get to the airport at 430. I hightail it to the lounge in TBIT and grab a bite to eat and relax. I'm on an Alaska A320 to McCarran all the way in the back but at least I got a window seat. I stop in on the way to talk to the captain and he asks me a bunch of gun questions. I tell him the VP9 is good to go and he should buy it with his ATP credentials.
The 320 ride to LAS is entirely filled with moderate chop. The airplane is literally banging the side of the plane into my head. It is a miserable flight. We land on time and I am unable to stop at the Centurion lounge for a bite and a drink because it's closed for renovations.
I grab my bags and pick up my badge for SHOT Show at the airport and jump on the shuttle bus to Hertz. I reserved a compact knowing I'd need to be in and out of a tight parking garage. I get to my assigned spot, spot 13 and there's a fullsize Chevy Suburban there.
What the fuck is this?
I throw my bags inside, jump in and drive right up to the Gold Member service area.
FC: The lady on the phone asked me compact, midsize or fullsize - WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?
Hertz: That's the Hertz Love Wagon! Think of all the ladies you can drive around in this!
FC: DO I LOOK LIKE A GODDAMN LYFT FOR WORKING GIRLS?
It is at this point where I learn something.
The best part about Vegas is anything crazy or unbelievable can be explained or justified by shrugging your shoulders, opening your palms upward and saying "It's Vegas!"
Hertz: It's Vegas!
FC: I am not driving (gesticulates widlly) THIS into the parking garage of the Palazzo for 4 days straight!
Hertz is not impressed with my pantomime.
They find me a brand new 2019 Honda Pilot with 19 miles on it. I hightail it up the highway to Circus Circus. Check in line is totally deserted. I am able to haul my bags up and get keys in 3 minutes flat. That's gotta be a fucking record.
Just as I arrive at my room I decide to send Rusty Shackleford a picture of me looking grumpy in front of the hertz love wagon.
RS: ARE YOU IN VEGAS?!?!?!??!?!?
FC: YES!!!! WHY ARE WE YELLING?!?!?!??!?
(image of Rusty coming down the escalator with the sign behind him that says WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS in the background)
FC: Oh dear god. I just got to the hotel to dump off my bags, you want a ride? I can be there in 20.
RS: Nah man we just landed a few min ago I was gonna take an uber
FC: By the time you get to the rideshare area it'll be 20 minutes. I can be there by the time you get to the curb. Seriously.
RS: LOL okay head over!
I look at my watch. Las Vegas Blvd traffic on a monday night? This isn't gonna work. I grab my coat and run back to the parking garage and tear out of the CC garage tires squealing all the way down. I bang a left onto Sammy Davis Jr Drive and haul ass to Spring mountain where I jump on 15 and get the car up to 100MPH between mandalay bay and 215.
McCarran Airport SUCKS in many regards and the airport pickup is one of them. It's not laid out well at all but it makes the cabbies plenty of money. I find it kinda funny because this year I'm picking up Rusty. Last year I was picking up a coworker of a buddy of mine who needed his SHOT show pass and there was no way to get it to him that night so I just said fuck it, give me the pass and I'll get it to him and drive him to the hotel. The year before, I picked up u/fluffy_butternut.
I guess I am the world's worst uber driver. I like doing the same bit over and over again like beating a dead horse so I can pickup Rusty one of to ways.
A: The classic Las Vegas Airport pickup. Drive to airport and park car on curb. Wait for metro PD to start yelling at you for parking on the sidewalk. Message Rusty to tell him I'm the one parked on the sidewalk.
B: In my best Arnold Schwarzenegger impression: COME WITH ME IF YOU WANT TO LIVE
My calculations were rough but I figured rusty should get to the curb right at the same time as me. If he's there already, we do B. If he's not, I'll do A.
The speed limit in the tunnel under the airport is 55. I'm doing 90. I fly up the ramp to Terminal 1 and tell him that I'll grab him at the American arrivals level. Just as I pull off to the curb to tell him I'm here he tells me he's just walked outside and I look up and see a classically hawaiian shirt standing at the curb. I pull the car forward, stop quickly and do my best Arnold. He laughs and hops in. I take him to his hotel and dump him off at registration as I park the car. I spend 20 minutes parking the car and I walk over to registration to find him still in line. The hotel is packed with people for the convention.
Behind us is a beautiful blonde engineer in town for what I'm guessing is World of Concrete based on the blueprints she's brought with her. I chat her up a bit until I see that she's got a wedding ring on her other hand. We head up to rusty's room where we find a king size bed and a hot tub 5 feet away. You don't even need to leave your bed to drown a hooker if you don't want to.
It's Vegas!
Rusty says lets go down to the casino and lose some money. We head down to the casino and lose some money at the craps table. This trip is not treating me nicely. I tell him I gotta tap out. Show in the morning.

Hey, I am a new writer and would like some general criticisms for the first chapter of my story. I have never really written anything before and would like to improve my storytelling. I believe I need the most help in my dialogue, descirptions, and flow of the story. Thanks for your guys help.
Chapter One
The air out was hot and filled with the dust as a man with a sword at his hip walked up to a side street. The man was gruff with a small unkempt bread that was barely visible under his well-used bandana made of red cloth that contrasted with his strangely blue eyes. As he walked into the ally the smell of burned flesh filled the air.
“Hey, boss we got a nasty one today.” Said a young man about 20 years old wearing newer looking bandana as he ran up from the depths of the alley to the sword wielder.
“They are all nasty to you, Aiden.” Aiden shook his head at his boss with a light blush coloring his cheeks.
“Just come with me and see for yourself before passing your judgement.” Aiden said before turning on his heel and walked briskly into the dark ally. Chuckling softly to himself the sword wielding man followed Aiden using his long legs to quickly catch up with the younger man.
The smell grew worse and worse as they walked down the ally. Eventually, they reached the source of the stench. A body that definitely seen better days. The eyes were hanging out of the skull and the gut had been slashed open.
“Is both the middle fingers gone?” Asked the man with a hard look in his blue eyes.
“Yeah, boss.” Responded Aiden with a worried look toward the blue-eyed man.
“Great, that fucker is back in the game then.” The man said with a exhausted sigh.
With that the sword-wielder and his apprentice started their work of gathering evidence and looking for clues of the bodies identity. The sun was sitting low in the hazy sky by the time the police men had completed their search and emerged from the alley.
“Take this back to the station, Aiden. I am going to do some more investigating.” Said the man as he walked down the road in the direction of the setting sun.
While the man walked down the street he took note of all the people walking home from work. Some were walking hunched over with bone deep exhaustion that only happens from a full day of hard labor. While others were covered with thick jackets despite of the Summer heat that permeated the dusty air.
“Mages,” he thought, “what a sorry lot.” He continued walking until he in the western part of the city near the port. The stink of fish did not mix with the heat of the air as the man pulled his bandana up to make sure it covered his nose. Bodies he could deal with but the stench of fish always had him close to vomiting. The building he stopped at was a simple brick house with a faded sign that read ‘The Golden Sexton’ in pealing gold paint. He pushed open a poorly painted, faded blue door and walked into the bar. He pulled down his bandana and immediately headed to the bartender, a young woman who was talking to one of the three costumers in the bar, other than the sword wielder. She looked up at him and quickly excused herself from the drunk fisherman.
“I need to talk to Fi.” The blue-eyed man said with a grim expression on his face.
“She is in her usual place.” The bartender said as she thumbed to a curtain behind the bar.
“Thanks.” With a nod his head he put a silver coin on the counter and walked through the curtain. Once inside, he descended down the hidden staircase and approached a door guarded by a large wolf faced man.
“That stays here.” The guard growled with a sharp glare at the sword on the man’s hip.
“Come on, man. I am not a mage. Can’t a guy defend himself.” The man reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a card with a name, species, and an empty circle. The bouncer just glared that the man and made no motion to even look at the proffered card.
“Fine, fine you win.” The man said with a sigh as he moved to take of the belt that held the sword in place and hand to the wolf hybrid. Who placed it in a little room to his left.
“Now, can I get in?” The now sword-less man asked in frustration. With a nod the guard unlocked the door and moved to side. As the man opened the door he revealed an underground casino filled with some of the city’s worst. The man spent little looking at the tables as he walked purposefully to a room off to the right of the action. Once inside he saw the person he was looking for; an older woman with pointed ears and a striped cat tail swishing behind her. She was wearing a red and gold dress that complemented her gold cat eyes well. She smiled exposing her fangs when she saw the man walking towards her.
“Why if it isn’t my favorite human come to say ‘hello’ to Auntie Fi or are you here on different reasons, Little Quincy?” She purred at the man she called Quincy.
He winced at the name a replied, “It is just Quinn, Auntie, but sorry to disappoint you but I ain’t here to make small talk. There has been a murder.”
“Dear will always be Little Quincy to me and this a city what is so special about a murder that you had to come all the way out here to see little old me? I know how much you hate the smell of fish.” At the mention of fish Quinn grimaced.
“Their middle fingers were cut off, Auntie.”
“No it can’t be him the streets have been quiet.” Fi exclaimed as she jumped up from her perch and paced back and forth as her tail swished side-to-side in agitation.
“First, one of the Pairs defects to Talvi and now that monster is back in action.” Fi mumbles to herself.
“Hold up, go back what do you mean on of the Pairs defected?” Quinn questioned wide eyed from shock.
“It means exactly what I said this is not time for you to be slow, Quincy!” Quinn frowned at the tone of Fi voice.
“Sorry, Quincy I am just agitated about this new development.”
“It’s fine, Auntie Fi.” Quinn sighed, “So you don’t have any information about my murder?”
“No, but I am going to send out my runners and damn will find out.”
“Thanks Auntie, I will take my leave and figure out things out on my end.” Quinn leaned in to give the hybrid a quick hug as he she whispered a quiet ‘be careful’ in his ear.
Quinn left the casino and grabbed his sword from the wolf guard, who appeared to be wearing a smug smile on his canine face. He left the bar and started to return to the station and check in with Aiden. He was deep in thought about the information he gained from Fi. If a Pair had really defected that could have grave consequences for the future.
With the thought of the Pairs Quinn realized, “Those thrice-damned Council lap-dogs will be sticking their nose exactly where they don’t belong and if they catch wind of this there will be hell to pay.” He muttered to himself. It was getting late and the lightieres, in there thick coats, were already running around starting the lamps on the street by the time Quinn reached the station. It was the second biggest building near the center of town and only dwarfed by the city council building. The station was a formidable structure with its red brick walls and the bars on the windows. Quinn opened the large door to dark hallway with lamps periodically hung along the walls casting strange shadows everywhere. At the end of the hall was a large wooden desk with a grumpy looking glaring at Quinn as he ambled down the hallway.
“So all this uproar is you fault.” She said as her monkey tail swished behind her chair.
“I guess you could say that” he replied sheepishly.
“Your little sidekick has been stirring up trouble talking about how the new from the alley was the work of the Butcher.”
“Well I will have a word with the boy. If is make you happy, Aubrey.”
“You do that,” she harrumphed. “By the way the Captain really wants to talk to you.”
“Thanks Aubrey.” Quinn said with a wave as he walked farther into the building until he reached a fancy wooden door with the word ‘Captain’ embossed on the door. A gruff voice sounded a loud “Enter” as soon as Quinn knocked on the heavy door.
“Davenport, the person who caused this wonderful mess.” The Captain said in a deep baritone that was ragged from the many year of cigars. He was a large man with salt-and-pepper hair who as he talked reached into his desk to pull out a cigar. In an instant the cigar was lit with our so much as a shiver from the powerful man.
“Sir, I will talk to Aiden, but I think we need to consider that he is back.”
“I know that, but have you considered that it was a non-mage copy-cat or multiple copy-cats.”
“Well sir, that co…” The Captain interrupted him midsentence, “Do you really want the Council’s goons sniffing around the place. If they catch wind of a magic death in the city.”
“I handle it, sir.” Quinn sighed in defeat.
“You do that, Davenport.” With that Quinn hurried out of the office to find his young apprentice. Quinn grumbled as he walked through the mostly empty to a group of desks with a young man appeared to be passed out on a stack of books. Quinn gave him a firm shake on the shoulder; which caused the young man to open one sleep filled, emerald eye. After a moment Aiden’s eyes widen with recognition and stumbled to stand up. Without his bandana, the boy appeared younger with long lanky limbs and ears that were too large for his head. His short ginger hair was ruffled from sleeping on a book.
“Calm down, boy.” Quinn said with a smile. “I see you have caused quite the ruckus while I was away.”
“Boss?” Aiden questioned.
“You’ve been in the city a year and you have never questioned why there isn’t more magic murder. Do they not teach you about the Calamity on the farm?” Before Aiden could open his mouth Quinn continued almost to himself.
“It is probably because you country boys don’t have the Council breathing down your necks when a smartass decides to use malicious magic.” Again Aiden tried to speak but again was interrupted by his master.
“Thinks about it boy how many magic murders have happened in the year you work here. Zero, right? There is a reason for that the all-powerful Council does not want their perfect country of mages to fall apart like during the Calamity. Listen, I guess the point I am trying to make is to kept you mouth shut about the Butcher of Ferrum and call that that. Okay boy?”
“So are we dropping the case, Boss?” questioned a stunned Aiden.
“Now, I said nothing of the sort. What evidence do you have for me?” Aiden smiled and looked down at the book that he had fallen asleep on and the sheet of paper next to it that contained almost illegible notes.
“Okay, the victim did have his ID card on him and the mutilation to the face made identifying him mostly impossible that paired with the missing middle finger is a clear sign of the Butchers work. Now, while you were gallivanting around I paid a visit to the Archives and pulled all the information on the Butcher cases and cases similar to the Butcher. What I found wasn’t much but most people tend to agree that he is a psychokinetic from the burns on the facial area near the eyes and smell of the body. The morgue boys also concluded that the cause of death was blood asphyxiation.” Aiden said as he looked down at his notes.
“So he has power and is competent as a mage.” Pondered Quinn.
“Seems like it, Boss.”
“Good work, Aiden. Go home and get some actual sleep. I am going to need your research skills at first light tomorrow.” Quinn said clapping the younger man on the back.
“Okay, boss see you tomorrow.”
“Remember what I told you about running you mouth.” Quinn yelled at the retreat back of his young apprentice. A loud “Night, Boss!” was the quick reply.
“What am I going to do with him?” sighed the blue-eyed man as the day’s work finally caught up with him. He cleared the remaining books and papers on Aiden’s desk being careful not to lose his page or any of the papers. Looking around the room, Quinn notice most of the candles had burnt out and decided it was time to leave and rest his bones.
Quinn’s home was in a simple apartment complex a few blocks away from the station. It was plain building made of stone and only about five stories high with a few dim lights shining through the dirty windows. Quinn strolled into the building to the staircase that looks it is about to fall apart then and there. The trip up the stairs wasn’t as perilous as it seems if you knew what you were doing. One of Quinn’s favorite pass time was to watch new tenants try and navigate the staircase.
Lost in thought as he moved to his third floor apartment he almost missed a bright red envelope stuck in the crack between the door and the door frame near the door handle. The feeling of dread took root in his stomach when he finally noticed. “How did them find out so fast.” Quinn thought to himself, “I was impossible.” He grabbed the envelope which was heavy with Davenport written in gold letter on the front. The pit in his stomach only grew as Quinn’s strangely blue eyes scanned the letter inside the envelope.
Dear Mister Quinn Davenport of the Ferrum Police,
You are hereby ordered under Order 17, Article 2 of the Calamity Act to meet the Companions in three days at sunrise in the rock fields in the north of Ferrum to discuss the change of command on the recent Alley case. Please bring your apprentice and all relevant evidence.
Sincerely,
Mages Council – Discipline Sector
“Well fuck. This is going to throw a wrench into the machine.” Quinn said quietly to himself as he wondered how the hell he was going to solve this murder in three days. If he did not, then the Council would take control and Quinn did not want to think of Their policing methods… or lack thereof.
“I am not any use to anyone dead.” Quinn thought to himself as he entered his minimalist apartment shedding his bandana and shoes as he walked to his bedroom where he carefully put away his sword. He finally fell on to his small, comfy bed and passed out.

(With apologies to Uncle Steve)
Jay Everett stared up at the towering Twin Pines Hotel, one of the largest buildings this side of the Las Vegas gambling strip. It was a jutting structure built entirely out of steel beams and black glass. The Hotel was surrounded on all sides by the flashing neon lights of Casino Row, which danced across its glossy surface like the ghostly imprints of colored flames. Apparently this place offered some of the swankiest penthouses in the entire city, but Jay wasn’t here for a room. He’d only come here to gamble.
He pushed through the front doors and entered the lobby, a spacious room with potted plants crawling up the walls like ivy. The place was packed with men in tuxedos and women in loose evening dresses. Jay felt smothered in his own suit, and he tried easing up the collar with one finger. It didn’t help much. He still felt like he was being throttled by his tie.
Most of the crowd was moving toward the check-in desk, but Jay snuck his way through until he could see the flashing lights of the casino. A large metal beam stretched across the entrance. Beneath it was a sign that proclaimed TWIN PINES CASINO in bold, electric blue letters. A bear and a turtle and various other forest animals gamboled across either side.
He managed to slip through the bustle without being too pushy, and then he was in. Light background jazz swept across him as he stepped into a world lit up by colored bulbs and strips of eerie black light. The casino actually wasn’t too crowded this early in the night. He almost had the entire place to himself.
He stopped before a large, circular game machine emblazoned with the words GOLD KING. The game itself was nothing more than a large spinning disc divided into colored slices. Most of the sections were given small monetary values, but there was one tiny sliver that had been painted a solid gold.
The game itself didn’t get too much activity, but the large statue perched above it could be seen from anywhere in the casino. It was a cartoony sculpture of a king wearing red robes and a golden crown. In his hand he held a royal scepter, which would flash brightly and let off a chorus of clanging bells whenever anyone hit the jackpot. Right now he was silent. His blank eyes stared out at the crowd, his mouth open in a creepy cartoon smile.
You have until the Gold King goes off to make $19,000. Otherwise…
Jay shivered. He couldn’t get Farrow’s threat out of his head; it echoed in his ears like the growl of a distant animal. Farrow himself was nowhere to be found, but Jay knew he’d stationed his cronies in every corner of this place. Some were probably disguised as security guards, others as bartenders or casino patrons. He couldn’t trust anybody. Any one of these people could be waiting to turn him in to Farrow the moment he backed out of this job.
So he did what he was told to do. He took a deep breath, let his eyes sweep over the casino, and strode over to the game that stood out to him the most. He had a lot of money to win and not much time to do it. This was a world ruled by chance, where the simple roll of a die could decide a person’s fate, and any ordinary man would have been sweating in his suit by now.
But Jay Everett was no ordinary man.
Jay had always known how different he was, even as a kid. It wasn’t that he looked or acted stranger than other people. He was just perceptive. He knew the answers in class before his teacher even finished speaking, although he quickly learned to keep this to himself. He could find things too. When little things went missing around the house, Jay always knew just where to look. He couldn’t explain how. He just did.
He also had an uncanny skill with numbers. He’d never used a calculator in his entire life and he couldn’t understand why his classmates were so helpless without it. By the time he’d reached 9th grade, he was already taking the highest level math courses his high school could offer. It wasn’t long before he caught the eye of several prestigious business schools, which practically tripped over themselves getting him to apply. He never had to worry about his future. Jay ended up leaving high school early and heading to Stanford, where he started down the fast track to a career in finance.
He was snatched up by Tony Salvatore right after graduation. Salvatore was a business tycoon who’d left his footprint in every major city across the country, and he was eager to take Jay on board as his new head of finance. “I’ve been waiting for a kid like you,” he’d said, clapping Jay on the shoulder. “Someone who knows how to crunch the numbers and keep his mouth shut.”
It was true that Jay hardly ever talked; it was a habit from his youth that he hadn’t yet outgrown. He just didn’t trust himself to speak. He knew things about Salvatore, things he couldn’t possibly know – like how he came in late on Mondays because he’d spent the night before drinking and hitting his wife, or how he’d gotten bite marks under his collar from a violent fling with his receptionist. Tony would walk into the room and the knowledge would hit Jay in the face like a foul stench. He valued his job, so he kept quiet.
He discovered Salvatore’s biggest scandal completely by accident. Jay had stayed late at the office that night to finish up one of his revenue forms, which kept coming up $100 short. It was baffling to him. He’d never had an issue with numbers before, not even a minor issue like this, and he didn’t understand why he kept finding the same inconsistency. So he pulled up some other forms to see if he could trace the cause of the missing hundred.
It would have been a cold trail for anyone else, but Jay was good at finding things, and he managed to dig up an encrypted file with a bunch of forms that had never made it into the system. He set up a program to decode the files and discovered that they were all bank deposits – deposits of exactly $100. The missing money was being funneled into an account under the name “Enrico Balazar.”
At first Jay didn’t know what to do with the info he’d dug up. This was fraud, fraud of the highest degree, and Salvatore had to be turned in. Jay had no desire to defend the crooked son of a bitch. But he wasn’t stupid – he knew Salvatore had connections in low places, and if Jay made this information public, he’d have a target on his head. He sat in the dark for a while and cycled through his options.
When Salvatore showed up for work the next day, Jay intercepted him right outside his office. “Sorry to bother you, sir,” he said. “I was just about to send the tax forms to our Boston division when my computer crashed. Is there any way you could send them out for me?” The bit about the computer was true; he’d just neglected to mention that he’d crashed it himself.
Salvatore stared at the papers in Jay’s hand with bleary, reddened eyes. He just had a shot of whiskey in his car. As usual, the thought hit Jay completely out of the blue. Salvatore eventually reached out and took the papers, crumpling them a bit in his fist.
“Hold on a sec,” he grunted. He took the papers into his office and set them on the desk, then leaned over to type his password on the computer. Jay’s eyes followed him carefully. Then Salvatore placed the forms in his scanner and began the uploading process.
Jay stayed late again, waiting until the last of the workers had left the office before typing a quick command on his keyboard. There was a brief popping sound. The power in his part of the building flickered for a moment, and Jay knew the cameras were disabled. He had a good hour or so before they came back on again.
He’d kept a pair of gloves in his briefcase all day, and he slipped them on now as he headed to Salvatore’s office. The tycoon’s personal computer sat in the corner, its screen flashing with an insistent message: PASSWORD?
Jay leaned forward and typed it in, his fingers copying the same pattern Salvatore had used this morning. A quiet beep, a loading bar, and he was in. He got to work immediately.
When Jay arrived at work the next day, a police car was parked outside the building, lights flashing and everything. He arrived just in time to watch the cops shoving a handcuffed Salvatore into the backseat. Jay made sure to keep his face hidden, just in case, but Salvatore had his eyes turned to the ground.
“What happened?” Jay asked one of his coworkers.
“You’ll never believe it, man. Some kind of virus got into Salvatore’s computer and made all of his private files go public. It turns he was channeling a big chunk of his clients’ cash to this mob boss in New York. Balthazar or something.”
“No kidding,” Jay replied. He watched as the car carrying Tony Salvatore turned the corner and disappeared down 5th Avenue.
It was then that he noticed a figure who was standing at the edge of the crowd, his face hidden by the brim of a dark baseball cap. Everyone else was staring down the street, but this man was facing Jay instead. He had his hands tucked into the pockets of a black leather jacket and a thin layer of dark stubble on his face. As soon as Jay noticed him, he lifted a hand from his pocket and gestured for Jay to come over.
Jay was hesitant, but it was broad daylight and he was surrounded on all sides by people. It was safe. He circled around the crowd and approached the dark stranger.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
The man didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out and slapped something small and square into the palm of Jay’s hand. Then Jay finally got a glimpse of his eyes beneath the cap. They were shrewd and calculating, a glassy blue that made Jay think of the surface of a frozen pond.
“I saw,” he said. “And if you’re interested, I could use your kind of expertise.”
Jay glanced at the object in his hand. It was a business card, nothing but a name and a set of digits. He frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t –” But when he looked up, the man had already disappeared.
That was the first time Jay met Rick Farrow.
Jay sipped from his wine glass and watched as people tried their luck on the Twin Pines slot machines. In theory, the outcome of these games was completely random. But Jay knew that most of these machines cycled through a random number sequence, and unless it had been rigged to prevent this issue, one could theoretically spot a pattern. The casino owners needed to make sure that some people walked away winners, after all. Not everyone. Just enough to keep people playing.
There was a pattern, but it was so subtle that the average person would never have noticed it. 19 pulls got you three cherries and a decent amount of cash. 95 pulls got you a row of three gold coins. And after 171 pulls of the lever, three 7s would plunk into place, bells would go off, and the ring of bulbs around the game would burst into life. Jay watched the colored lights dance across the face of each excited winner.
So he sat at the bar, ordered another wine, and waited. He made a mental check mark every time someone new stepped up to play the game. And when the 170th person walked away, he set down his glass, strode over to the machine, and played.
The wheels whirled for a good few seconds before settling on the jackpot. The lights flashed, the bells rang, and a flood of coins spilled out of the machine.
He collected his winnings without a smile.
Now that Tony Salvatore had been removed from his position as CEO, his offices in New York got shuttered. Jay suddenly found himself jobless and in desperate need of cash, as Salvatore had been paying for him to live in a nice apartment on the east side of town. Despite his impressive work history, he seemed to carry with him a kind of stigma for being even somewhat associated with the Salvatore name.
So, with no other options, Jay contacted Rick Farrow. The mysterious man arranged to meet with him at once. He conducted Jay’s interview in a rented office space not too far from the old Salvatore building. Farrow asked most of the questions, and he nodded along pleasantly as Jay talked about his passion for numbers and his experiences studying at Stanford.
Farrow was a curious character. He never seemed to take off his black leather jacket, which looked slightly too big for his slender frame. His cheeks were sharp and bony and his facial hair was carefully trimmed. It was a fairly imposing look, but when he smiled it completely transformed his character. He was a charismatic individual. One way or another, he seemed capable of winning anybody over.
Farrow was impressed by Jay’s experiences, especially by the way he had so cleverly exposed Salvatore, although he refused to tell Jay how he’d seen that particular bit of espionage. In any case, Farrow thought Jay’s skills were perfect for the job, and he told Jay he would take him on immediately. Housing would be provided in one of the apartment complexes near their base of operations. Payment was substantial and would come in on a monthly basis. Jay hardly heard any of this; he was just excited to be welcomed into such a secretive underworld.
The weeks passed by quickly as Jay got initiated into his new life. Farrow explained to him that Salvatore had just been the tip of a very large and very dangerous iceberg. CEOs all over the state were funneling illicit cash to various crime bosses in the city, and Farrow had made it his goal to cut off the head of the snake. Multiple snakes, in this case. That was where Jay and the rest of the tech specialists came in. They had an eye for the little details that could bring a corrupt CEO down from the inside.
To accomplish this, Farrow and several of his associates went around the city and placed cameras in strategic locations. Sometimes they even hacked into company networks so the tech-heads back at the base could break through any encrypted files. It was tireless work, but Jay loved it. He had never felt more in his element. It gave him a thrill to think that he was doing something with his life, that he was using his knowledge to make the world a slightly better place.
Most of the time they operated out of an abandoned warehouse in one of the emptier sections of the city. Farrow had the whole place rigged up with state of the art security systems and a few dozen computers. Jay and the other tech-heads spent most of the time cracking codes and analyzing the footage from Farrow’s secret cameras. If they found any incriminating evidence, they were to report it right away. Then Farrow would take some of his cronies and disappear into the city for a few days.
In very rare cases, Farrow would ask one of the tech-heads to come with him on an assignment. This only ever happened if the job required hacking skills that Farrow himself didn’t possess. Jay was fairly new to the whole game, so Farrow usually passed him up for one of the more experienced techies. He didn’t mind; in fact, he was nervous about returning the field. The Salvatore affair seemed like it had happened ages ago. He wasn’t quite sure he was ready to sneak around in gloves and a ski-mask again.
Jay was busy scanning footage one evening when he heard the slam of a door and the sound of muffled shouting from below. He frowned and took off his headphones. It was definitely Farrow shouting – Jay would have recognized that gravelly voice anywhere. He just couldn’t make out any of the words. Placing the headphones gingerly on the monitor, he got out of his seat and tiptoed over to the door.
The main operations room was on the second floor, so Jay peered over the railing on the catwalk to see what was happening below. Farrow and a few of his masked associates were gathered around one of the other tech-heads. Jay thought it looked like Bruno, the guy who worked with him on Tuesdays. He had his back against a drainage pipe and was holding his hands up helplessly.
“You took off your fucking mask! Do you know how serious this is?” Farrow was yelling. Even from this high up, Jay could see the angry crease in his eyebrows. “They’ve got your face now. It’ll be all over their security cameras. Your stupid slip-up could have put our entire operation at risk!”
“I-I-I’m sorry,” Bruno stammered. “It won’t happen again, I promise!”
“You’re damn right it won’t,” Farrow growled. Then he drew a gun from inside his jacket and shot Bruno in the head.
Jay clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle a scream. Half of the techie’s face was missing, bits of his skin and brain tissue spraying out onto the warehouse floor. His blood splattered across the drainage pipe and trickled to the ground. Jay could hear the steady drip all the way from the catwalk.
He ducked back inside the operations room before Farrow could look up and see him there. His heart was pounding out an erratic beat on his ribcage. As quickly as he could, he slid into his seat and stuck the headphones back over his ears. He hummed a senseless little tune under his breath, trying to make himself look as carefree and oblivious as possible. If Farrow knew what he had just seen… he held back a shudder.
Farrow appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, the specks of blood completely wiped from his face. He’d changed into a cleaner jacket too. As Farrow walked past the row of flashing computer screens, Jay tried to calm his racing pulse.
“Any good news?” Farrow asked. He placed a hand on Jay’s shoulder, peering down at the monitor.
They shoved his body in the wood chipper. The knowledge hit him like a jolt of lightning, clear and strong. It took every ounce of his willpower to force a smile.
“Nothing so far,” he said. “It’s pretty quiet tonight.” He was amazed he could keep his voice from trembling.
Farrow stared at the screen for a few painfully long moments, then coughed. “Keep up the good work,” he said. He let go of Jay’s shoulder and drifted toward the exit. The masked associates followed him like obedient dogs.
When Jay was finally sure he could breathe easy again, he wiped a line of sweat from his brow. He was badly shaken, and not just because he’d seen his coworker shot in cold blood. He was questioning himself now, questioning the whole purpose of this assignment. If Farrow could do something so cruel and violent in the walls of his own compound, what was he doing out in the real world?
After making sure the coast was clear, Jay opened up a web browser and began searching for names. He’d been so busy working this job that he’d never bothered to check the papers, to see what was really going on outside the compound. All the news about the crooks they’d toppled had come through Farrow himself. But the search results Jay found online painted a very different story.
Farrow had said that the elderly Mitch Cullum had been arrested for siphoning funds to a New York crime syndicate, but Jay managed to dig up the old man’s obituary. Cause of death: gunshot wound. Nancy Deepneau, a leading member of a dental corporation in New York City, had gone missing three months ago. And David Tassenbaum, a prominent figure in the computer business, had been mugged to death in an alley, his body so beaten it had been almost impossible to identify. Jay found a dozen more examples of the “corrupt CEOs” Farrow had supposedly brought to justice. The only thing they had in common was that they’d all been very rich, and there had been discrepancies in their corporate funding following each death or disappearance. The police were unable to track down any leads.
His fingers trembling, Jay shut down the browser. For a moment he could only stare at the screen in front of him. What the hell could he do? It wasn’t like he could play dumb forever. He was an expert at staying strategically silent, but a secret this huge would find its way out eventually. His body language would betray him first. The moment he started fidgeting too much, Farrow would know the truth.
So he did the only thing he could think of. He disappeared.
Erasing yourself from existence is next to impossible. You would have to delete every record of your birth, your social security, your education, your medical insurance, your credit card accounts – any and all places where your name could be found in writing. But Jay was persistent, and he knew things. He accessed every database he possibly could and systematically wiped himself off the map. There were some records he knew he could never touch, but if they were out of his reach, the chances of Farrow finding them were slim to none. He was an invisible man now.
Once he was done, he put down the headphones, shut off the monitor, and strode out the front door of the warehouse. It was only a matter of time until Farrow noticed his absence, but he planned to put a few thousand miles between them before that happened.
He was free. He’d been shaken to his core, but he was free, and that was all that mattered. He’d have plenty of time later to think about the horrors he’d seen. And who knows? Maybe this was it. Maybe this whole affair was behind him, and one day it would just become a ghastly dream, a nightmare from someone else’s reality.
But deep down, he knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
“Red 38,” Jay stated. He handed his chips to the croupier, who stacked them on the side of the table with the bets from the other players. Then he gave the roulette wheel a spin. Jay watched as the colors bled together, streaking in an ugly smear of crimson gray. After a few seconds, the croupier tossed the ball down the spinning track. It bounced and rolled every which way before coming to rest in one of the 38 slots. Red 38 exactly.
“Damn, you’re on a roll,” the croupier said. He handed Jay his original chips plus the payout. “Sure you want to keep going? This luck of yours can’t last forever.”
“I’m sure,” Jay answered. He took a deep breath, waiting for the answer to wash over him like it always did. Then he placed his chips back down on the table and stated, “Black 13. Last bet.”
The croupier shrugged and took the chips. They went through the same routine. The roulette wheel spun in its blurry circle, and the ball bounced around for a while before plunking into its final slot. Black 13.
Jay ignored the astonished remarks of the croupier and accepted his winnings silently. He couldn’t stay at this table forever, so he turned away from the Rose Bowl Roulette and cast his eyes across the casino. The night was lengthening and the room was filling up with players, most of them clutching thin glasses of cognac and laughing with their friends. He searched for any sign of Farrow’s men, but it was useless – he’d never find them in this crowd.
He didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t help glancing at the Gold King’s looming statue. It was still dark and silent. Now that the place was getting busy, though, the chances of someone winning the jackpot had risen significantly. Time was running out.
Jay hated using what he knew to win games. It was one thing to find the pattern of outcomes for a slot machine; anyone with half a brain and enough time on their hands could do the same. But what he could do was cheating. No one could ever catch him at it, which somehow made it worse. He’d decided a long time ago that he’d never do exactly what he was doing now.
But he didn’t have a choice. He was over halfway to his goal, closer to three-fourths, really, and he couldn’t afford to waste time now. If he had to cheat, then so be it. Too much was at stake tonight.
The years following Jay’s escape passed in a dreamlike sort of blur. He moved out west, hopping briefly from town to town and spending his nights in cheap hotel rooms. He had to pay in cash, of course, since his credit card account had recently ceased to exist. Luckily he had plenty to go around. He had a natural talent for hustling, and he won most of his money by playing pool games or dealing hands of poker in the back of shady bars.
He never stayed with the same car for too long. He always knew when some idiot driver had left their keys in the ignition, and he took every opportunity to hop in a new vehicle and continue the journey west. He felt a little guilty about hijacking so many rides, but it never bothered him for long. He was far more afraid of Farrow catching up to him.
Occasionally he would seek out some underground sources who had a reputation for forging documents. He needed a new identity, which meant a new birth certificate and social security card and everything. He eventually settled on the name Jay Everett – “Jay” after the first letter of his old name, and “Everett” after a small saloon he’d passed through in Denver. He didn’t get all his documents forged in one location. He staggered them, picking up a new one every few stops to try and throw Farrow off his trail.
By the time he reached Nevada, he figured he’d placed enough distance between himself and Farrow to finally settle down. He got a low-level office job and rented out a tiny apartment at the edge of Boulder City. As the years passed and his stint with Farrow faded from his memory, he finally began to live a normal life again.
He fell in love. He married a beautiful girl named Marcia Thorne who knew nothing about his past, and they had a son together. Trace Everett. He grew up like any ordinary boy, kicking soccer balls around the yard and playing hide-and-seek with the other kids in the neighborhood. When he turned seven they even bought him a small black-and-white dachshund that he affectionately dubbed “Billy.” From that point on the boy and the dog were inseparable; they often went on walks together before his parents called them in for dinner.
Jay was happy. He’d gotten away from his past; he’d moved on from a life he thought would haunt him forever. He made love to his beautiful wife and watched cartoons with Trace on Saturdays. It was a perfect routine, and he never wanted it to end.
Then one night, ten years after Jay had made his escape from Farrow’s compound, a power surge went through their entire house. The Everetts had been enjoying their Sunday dinner when it happened. The bulb above the kitchen table gave a loud sputter before dying out completely. Billy gave a loud bark and began running in circles around the table.
“Calm down boy, it’s just a blackout,” Trace said. He got out of his chair and restrained the dog before he could knock into any of the table legs.
“That’s funny,” Marcy said, peering out the window. “The neighbors’ houses still have power.” Jay joined her by the window, frowning.
“Hmm. Must be something wrong with our circuit breaker,” he said. “You two go look for some flashlights. I’ll see if I can fix the problem.”
The three of them wandered off, stumbling their way through the dark. Jay found the door to the basement and began climbing downward, clinging carefully to the railing. He knew the breaker was located at the bottom of the steps, right next to the garage. He reached the end of the stairs and fumbled in the gloom for the circuit box.
To his surprise, the door to the box was already wide open. As Jay’s eyes adjusted somewhat to the darkness, he saw that every single wire in the box had been snipped cleanly in half. Shit, he thought, oh shit, I should have known. But it was too late now. He felt the muzzle of a gun dig into his shoulder blades.
“I’ve been looking a long time for you,” Farrow said. His voice floated through the darkness in a soft, amused sort of growl. “You’re the one that got away. Isn’t that cute? You wouldn’t believe how many goddamn hoops I had to jump through just to track you down. But now I’ve got you.”
“It’s been ten years,” Jay hissed. “Ten fucking years. What could you possibly want?”
Farrow made a disapproving sound with his tongue. “We’ll get to that in a moment,” he said. “First, we have some introductions to make.”
Right on cue, Billy began barking furiously in the kitchen. Jay could hear Trace’s high-pitched voice trying to shout over him. “No, no, what are you doing, stop, he’s just a dog HE’S JUST A DOG STOP IT –”
Then a gunshot, a muffled whimper, and a shriek that could only have been Marcy. “Jay!” she screamed. “Oh god, oh god, there’s men in the house, they’ve got guns! They shot Billy!”
“Time for our big entrance,” Farrow laughed. He shoved Jay in the back with his pistol, forcing him up the basement steps. Jay plodded forward, hardly able to feel his feet. This must be a nightmare, he thought. I’m going to wake up any second now. But he knew that wasn’t true, the same way he knew so many other impossible things.
When Farrow pushed him into the kitchen, four dark shapes were waiting for him there. Two of them were Trace and Marcy, their hands behind their heads, their entire upper bodies trembling. The other two were some of Farrow’s masked associates. Each one held a pistol to the head of the prisoner beside them.
Marcy let out a sob when she saw Jay climbing up the steps. “Oh god, Jay, not you too?”
“Quiet,” one of the masked figures ordered. His voice sounded strangely distorted, like he was speaking through a filter. Marcy drew in a shuddery breath but stayed quiet.
“So, the gang’s all here!” Farrow exclaimed. “Wonderful.” He performed an exaggerated bow, his gun still nestled in the small of Jay’s back. “I’m Rick Farrow, a man of many trades. Right now I’m a man with a gun. Funny how that gives you so much power, doesn’t it?”
Jay said nothing. In his mind’s eye he could see the gun Farrow was holding, a thin barreled pistol that looked like something out of a Western. A Colt Paterson revolver, his brain spat out uselessly. As if it mattered. It would put a large hole in his chest no matter what type of gun it was.
“It appears you folks have already met my men,” Farrow went on. “They’re pretty low on the corporate ladder, but they do what they’re told, and what more could a man ask for?” He lifted the gun from Jay’s back to do a mock sort of clap with both hands. Jay wasn’t fooled; he didn’t move an inch. He was still Farrow’s prisoner, even if he was no longer at gunpoint.
“What do you want with us?” Marcy asked. Her face was damp with tears, but she’d managed to steady her breathing. Trace leaned against his mother’s legs with a scrunched up expression of anger in his eyes. He was trying so hard not to cry. Jay did his best to look away from the furry mass on the floor that used to be Trace’s beloved dog.
“What do I want?” Farrow said. “Ah, therein lies the question.” He turned his attention back to Jay, his eyes still bright and glassy blue in the darkness.
“So, you go by ‘Jay’ now, do you?” He said it again, slowly this time, as if to savor its taste. “Jay. I like it. Nice and low-key. It suits you well.” He gave Jay a casual tap on the shoulder with his pistol. A toothless smile appeared on his face when he saw Jay wince.
“You were good, Jay,” Farrow said quietly. “You were one of my best, actually. When you took off like that, I knew it wouldn’t be easy to find you. But I kept trying. The other tech-heads made stupid mistakes, botched their missions; they were disposable. But you. You were the grand prize, the golden fleece. I needed you back. You did stuff with numbers that could make a fella’s heart sing.”
Here Farrow paused. His glassy eyes were staring more intently at Jay this time, a careful sort of scrutiny that made his skin grow cold.
“But it’s not just numbers, is it? You see things. Patterns, clues, tiny details other people would miss. That’s what makes you so special. That’s why I need you.”
“Just tell me,” Jay spat through clenched teeth. “Tell me what you want to do. I’ll do anything.”
This time the smile that creased Farrow’s bony cheeks was wide and toothy. “Now that’s more like it,” he said. “Have I got a job for you, big boy. This one’ll be right up your alley.”
Jay said nothing, waiting for Farrow to break the silence first.
“Here’s the thing,” Farrow said at last. “There’s a man out in Las Vegas by the name of Jonas Carver. He runs a big casino in the heart of the city called Twin Pines. My men and I have been eyeing the place for years and we’re just about ready to strike him where it hurts.” He pointed an enthusiastic finger at Jay. “What I want you to do is take a hefty chunk out of this man’s wallet. Let’s say… $19,000. Enough to make him question the security in his casino. Afterwards, when he’s checking for cracks, we’ll sneak in and do our part.”
“Are you going to kill him?” Jay said. His voice came out hoarse and weak.
Farrow grinned. “Don’t worry about Mr. Jonas Carver. He’ll be in good hands. You just focus on playing the right games and making the most moolah.”
Jay’s neck felt stiff as a board, but he nodded. “I’ll do it,” he insisted. “Just let them go.”
“Ah,” Farrow said. “We’ve reached that little snag.” He began pacing the kitchen floor in front of Jay, swinging his revolver like a baseball bat. “See, the thing is, I can’t do that. I need a little insurance here. If I let them go, what’s stopping you from running off to the West Indies for another ten years or so?”
“I won’t,” Jay managed to choke out. “Listen to me, goddammit. I won’t run. Just let them go.”
Farrow pretended to think about it for a second. “Nah,” he decided. “Tell you what. Let’s play a game instead. Inside the Twin Pines Casino, there’s a wheel-of-fortune type game called Gold King. You can’t miss it. It’s got this ugly fucking statue of a cartoon king on top. Every night, without fail, someone wins the jackpot and bells go off and that statue waves its flashing staff at everyone. But only once. For the rest of the night it’s just a statue.”
When Farrow turned to Jay again, his eyes were icy. “Tomorrow night,” he said. “You have until the Gold King goes off to make $19,000. Otherwise your family gets it.” He made a careless gesture at them with his pistol. “One shot each, right in the head. Boom. Boom. And you have to watch.”
“I’ll do it,” Jay repeated. “I’ll play your goddamn game the way you want. But unless I fail, you’d better not lay a finger on them.”
Farrow was examining something under one of his fingernails. “Done,” he stated. He waved his hand absently toward the door. “Take them away, men. You know where to go.”
The two masked men dragged Marcy and Trace out the back door, both of them crying out and struggling to get free. “Be quiet,” the first masked figure said in his distorted voice. “If you don’t shut up, we’ll make you shut up.”
Both of them immediately quieted down, but they couldn’t hide the expressions of pure fear that were plastered across their faces. Jay felt blood pumping furiously through his veins as he watched his family getting dragged away. Farrow lifted his hand and gave them a pleasant wave as they disappeared out the back door.
In the side window of the kitchen, Jay managed to catch a glimpse of Marcy’s face for what he hoped wasn’t the last time ever. He blew her a kiss with trembling lips, but the masked men shoved her and Trace into a waiting van before she could see it. Then the two of them were gone.
Jay was in the middle of a poker game when the Gold King bells went off.
He’d managed to keep his cool throughout the entire night, but the blood drained from his face when he heard the loud clanging noise echoing through the casino. He turned to see the cartoon statue gamboling in place, flashing its toothy smile at the surrounding players. The scepter in its hand was dancing with flecks of neon light.
No, he thought in disbelief. No, not yet! I was almost there!
He’d been so close to the $19,000 mark that this poker game would probably have pushed him over the edge. The Gold King had gone off just as he was about to play his final hand. Now he watched the statue spin in lazy circles, its hideous bells still ringing in his eardrums.
“Hey,” a voice said suddenly. It was the dealer, trying to get Jay’s attention. “Hey buddy, this is the last hand. Are you calling or folding?”
Jay looked at him in surprise, then down at the cards in his shaky fingers. He hadn’t even bothered to look at them yet. What was even stranger, his usual powers of perception were failing him. He knew what all the other hands looked like, he knew who was bluffing through their teeth and who posed a legitimate threat, but he didn’t even know what cards he was holding.
He wondered how long it would take for Farrow’s men to cut through the crowd and take him away. He figured he had about thirty seconds, a minute at most. Was it possible? Could he make enough off this hand to complete Farrow’s sick challenge? The Gold King hadn’t finished its death knoll yet when the final hand was dealt. It was a technicality, but he was banking on it. It might just save Marcy and Trace’s lives. Now it was up to these last five cards to decide if they saw the light of another day.
He offered a quick prayer to a God he never believed in. Then he turned the cards over and stared down at the hand he’d been dealt.