Friday, April 08, 2005


It was a dark and stormy night, because it was always a dark and stormy night when the world went to shit. It was raining cats and dogs. Not literally. That only happened about once a month when the people down at the Inhumane Society got tired of kicking whatever dogs and cats that they happened to be able pick up. Once they had their fill, they would load them all into a big catapult and fling them across the city. I had been called out more than once to do cleanup duty when an airborne shi tzu had nailed someone's grandma walking home from the bingo parlor. My name is Frank Datson and I work for the Hollowton police department.

If there ever was a place that lived up to it's name, it was Hollowton. When most people hit rock bottom, they land here. Yeah, there are enough people who try to make a decent living here, but all to often I get called out because of the people who like to cut other people's throats to watch them bleed and listen to the gurgle. There's every type of wretched scum imaginable here. Pedophiles, rapists, molestors, arsonists, and murderers. It's gotten so bad here that the city has been officially removed from the map. All of the roads that come in have signs warning the unwary traveller to turn around. They say that God is everywhere, but I know that he hightailed it out of Hollowton years ago.

Tonight, the rain was driving especially hard and no matter which way it turned it always seemed to be in your face. It made it hard to see who it was that was approaching you and so I gripped my gun even harder, just like any pedestrian. Here, simple muggings had been known to breakout into all out firefights between parties who weren't even involved. As soon as one shot was fired, everyone who was packing started firing. No one was unarmed, or at least not for long.

I had been called out to investigate some shots fired in the warehouse district. It could have been anything from a simple mob hit to the sodomites killing this evenings prey. The warehouse was at 2173 Market street. More so than anywhere else, this place was known for it's shady dealings and it's ability to generate bodies. I was surprised that anyone had even called this one in. Usually citizens just tried to avoid calling attention to themselves and their illegal activities by pointing out someone else's activities. The warehouse at 2173 looked like all of the other warehouses, dull and grey and worn by time and the weather. It belonged to some company called Branner Holdings. It was a front for one of the local mob families. I just wondered which particular "dealings" this warehouse was used to facilitate. Did it house drugs or was it where the prostitutes were "trained" or was it just a local meeting ground for the thugs that these people employed?

My gun was drawn and my trigger finger was itching for some action. My coat flapped in the wind as I edged around to the back of the place. I peeked around the corner and got a look at tonight's guard. He looked to be about 16. Probably some high school kid who was being paid to shout if he saw something.

Friday, January 21, 2005

Untitled 1

Ralph was the surliest bastard that you ever could meet. He was constantly pissed off at something. Even if he had nothing to be pissed off at. But he was a damn good cop.

Raplh Dennison had been working with the Tritown police department for going on 15 years. He was a detective and a he was good at what he did. He was responsible for putting away some of Tritown's worst criminals. He rarely ever had complainrs and was a model officer, except for the fact that he was a bastard to everyone around him. But he did his work and he did it by the books...