The Bleak Streets of Twokinds: A Twokinds Forum Noir Story
Posted: Mon Dec 22, 2008 6:27 am
The Bleak Streets of Twokinds: A Twokinds Forum Noir Story
Author's lead in:
Thanks to a joke I pulled, it's been suggested I take our forumites and write us up a pulp noir-style story about us. So here's my first vignette in the dark, gritty world of the Twokinds board. If you run into a phrase you don't understand, you might try looking it up in the Glossary of Hardboiled Slang. Or, of course, you can ask. I'd be happy to explain anything that anyone doesn't understand. (I expect I'll be explaining a lot about my interpretation of pulp noir, particularly when the smoking and drinking start coming into play.
)
I should also note that the fiction contains a lot of cursing, along with some adult content and situations, so reader discretion is advised. I'm not planning any particularly explicit sections, but those will be cut and linked as standard.
This fic is dedicated to those of you who miss the Bogey and wish Calvin and Hobbes was the side story for Tracer Bullet. So dust off your fedora and get ready for a ride.
Click on the right thread in the Twokinds forum, and you can find anything.
In this case, that "anything" was trouble. Or more precisely, it was trouble that found me. I'm down at the comic club, debating the finer points of Natani's likely future nocturnal performances with her beau and shooting billiards with Kilroy. He's a crazy weasel, with the strangest taste in headgear. Personally, I prefer my fedora to an enormous cheeseburger, but maybe he's onto something -- there's got to be some reason why he's putting so much English on the table you'd think he was the queen, while my game's like my love life: I can't get a damn thing into a hole. I'm trying to line up a shot to keep this game from being a complete embarrassment when we hear a ruckus at the door. Kilroy chalks up his palms and pops his shoulders. I figure they call what he does to folks a "bear hug" because he could kill a bear by wrapping his arms around 'em and squeezing. Me, I stick with my nickel-plated forty-five. I call it "Loquacious," since when it starts talking, it puts up a wall that can take anybody down, and the other guy can't get a word in edgewise. Kilroy and I are halfway to the door by the time it swings open. I recognize the silhouette in the door, even if his pinstripe's hanging unbuttoned, like the kid ran to get here. Keldoth's a lot younger than most of the regulars here, but that's not what makes him unusual. Keldoth's a furless. That said, he's a good kid -- reliable -- and we've got a nice understanding. I'd lay odds that he's playing both sides, but he's got an appreciation for the finer things in fur, so we cut him a little slack on who he deals with.
"Avwolf, put that ridiculously named roscoe away," Keldoth tells me, a characteristic wry roll of his eyes accompanying his words.
"Hey, Kel," Kilroy smirks and cracks his shoulders loudly. I'm still not sure how a slinky weasel, no matter how big he is, manages to do that. "Need a hug?" Keldoth snorts a laugh.
"No," Keldoth states, his voice flat and dry. Kilroy looks mildly disappointed for a moment.
"What's the trouble, Keldoth?" I interject. I'm hoping Keldoth's got something that'll let me escape the slaughterhouse of the billiards table. A little voice in my head tells me that I really need to be more careful about what I wish for. Like usual, I ignore it. Keldoth doesn't disappoint me.
"There's a situation I think you need to take care of, over a couple of blocks. I can't believe you didn't hear the ruckus," he says, eyeing me accusingly. I shrug.
"I've been busy." I walk over and grab my jacket off a stool near the billiards table and slip it on. "So let's go check out this situation of yours." Kilroy glances down to the table and then back at me. His muzzle puckers into a grin, like he's reading my mind. He doesn't say anything though, just grabs his trench coat, and we head to the door.
The night's as cold as a husky's piercings on their unmentionables, and the sky's the sort of overcast that goths write poems about. Keldoth makes a beeline down the street. It's a busy night tonight -- there's a batch of members of the Noob gang out on the street, smoking cheap cigarettes and fighting over how many kids they think Flora's going to have. I make a mental note to swing back down this way to keep an eye on them. Just in case I've got to bust some heads to keep 'em on the straight and narrow.
I could smell the ashes before we got there. The thread had gone down in flames, that's for damn sure. By this time, the ruins'd gone cold, and some flatfoot'd wrapped the scene in yellow tape and locked it down. I poked around while Kilroy and Keldoth looked on, trying to figure out why Keldoth thought this needed my attention right away. Of course I was concerned: this was my part of town, and I don't tolerate this sort of [censored]. But everything was already quiet now, so there had to be some other reason Keldoth wanted me here.
From the looks of things, a couple newcomers flew into town, intent to cause trouble, and then further worsened the matter by getting involved with some of our local thugs. And when it all went down, they took the thread with them. There were singed fliers all over the place. Somebody'd found something that they disagreed with and had done their damnedest to start a riot. I take off my fedora and sigh. Frustrating, but a pretty open and closed case.
"This is all a damn shame, Keldoth, but it's taken care of. I don't see why this is such a concern now."
"You're not looking close enough then, Av," the kid says simply.
Of course, that makes me curious and I decide to take another look. They say curiosity killed the cat, but it sure hasn't done this old wolf any favors either. I start poking through the ashes. At the very least, if something else like this happens on my watch I'd like to take care of it before it gets this bad. The first thing I realize is that this wasn't a riot. It was a lynching. No signs of the intended victim though. Looks like they might have gotten away in the chaos when everything started burning. There's something else odd about the scene, but I can't put my finger on it. I'm distracted by a set of tracks leading over an abandoned thread nearby. They're kind of meandering, like the mug responsible was drunk, or had been conked good on the brainbox. I look over to Keldoth. He smirks. The door to the abandoned thread's hanging slightly ajar, a regular invitation. Maybe our mystery man's hiding inside. I pull Loquacious, just in case somebody needs a "talking to," and kick the door open.
--------------------------------------
Listen to avwolf read Chapter One. (WARNING: LANGUAGE)
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Author's lead in:
Thanks to a joke I pulled, it's been suggested I take our forumites and write us up a pulp noir-style story about us. So here's my first vignette in the dark, gritty world of the Twokinds board. If you run into a phrase you don't understand, you might try looking it up in the Glossary of Hardboiled Slang. Or, of course, you can ask. I'd be happy to explain anything that anyone doesn't understand. (I expect I'll be explaining a lot about my interpretation of pulp noir, particularly when the smoking and drinking start coming into play.
)I should also note that the fiction contains a lot of cursing, along with some adult content and situations, so reader discretion is advised. I'm not planning any particularly explicit sections, but those will be cut and linked as standard.
This fic is dedicated to those of you who miss the Bogey and wish Calvin and Hobbes was the side story for Tracer Bullet. So dust off your fedora and get ready for a ride.
Click on the right thread in the Twokinds forum, and you can find anything.
In this case, that "anything" was trouble. Or more precisely, it was trouble that found me. I'm down at the comic club, debating the finer points of Natani's likely future nocturnal performances with her beau and shooting billiards with Kilroy. He's a crazy weasel, with the strangest taste in headgear. Personally, I prefer my fedora to an enormous cheeseburger, but maybe he's onto something -- there's got to be some reason why he's putting so much English on the table you'd think he was the queen, while my game's like my love life: I can't get a damn thing into a hole. I'm trying to line up a shot to keep this game from being a complete embarrassment when we hear a ruckus at the door. Kilroy chalks up his palms and pops his shoulders. I figure they call what he does to folks a "bear hug" because he could kill a bear by wrapping his arms around 'em and squeezing. Me, I stick with my nickel-plated forty-five. I call it "Loquacious," since when it starts talking, it puts up a wall that can take anybody down, and the other guy can't get a word in edgewise. Kilroy and I are halfway to the door by the time it swings open. I recognize the silhouette in the door, even if his pinstripe's hanging unbuttoned, like the kid ran to get here. Keldoth's a lot younger than most of the regulars here, but that's not what makes him unusual. Keldoth's a furless. That said, he's a good kid -- reliable -- and we've got a nice understanding. I'd lay odds that he's playing both sides, but he's got an appreciation for the finer things in fur, so we cut him a little slack on who he deals with.
"Avwolf, put that ridiculously named roscoe away," Keldoth tells me, a characteristic wry roll of his eyes accompanying his words.
"Hey, Kel," Kilroy smirks and cracks his shoulders loudly. I'm still not sure how a slinky weasel, no matter how big he is, manages to do that. "Need a hug?" Keldoth snorts a laugh.
"No," Keldoth states, his voice flat and dry. Kilroy looks mildly disappointed for a moment.
"What's the trouble, Keldoth?" I interject. I'm hoping Keldoth's got something that'll let me escape the slaughterhouse of the billiards table. A little voice in my head tells me that I really need to be more careful about what I wish for. Like usual, I ignore it. Keldoth doesn't disappoint me.
"There's a situation I think you need to take care of, over a couple of blocks. I can't believe you didn't hear the ruckus," he says, eyeing me accusingly. I shrug.
"I've been busy." I walk over and grab my jacket off a stool near the billiards table and slip it on. "So let's go check out this situation of yours." Kilroy glances down to the table and then back at me. His muzzle puckers into a grin, like he's reading my mind. He doesn't say anything though, just grabs his trench coat, and we head to the door.
The night's as cold as a husky's piercings on their unmentionables, and the sky's the sort of overcast that goths write poems about. Keldoth makes a beeline down the street. It's a busy night tonight -- there's a batch of members of the Noob gang out on the street, smoking cheap cigarettes and fighting over how many kids they think Flora's going to have. I make a mental note to swing back down this way to keep an eye on them. Just in case I've got to bust some heads to keep 'em on the straight and narrow.
I could smell the ashes before we got there. The thread had gone down in flames, that's for damn sure. By this time, the ruins'd gone cold, and some flatfoot'd wrapped the scene in yellow tape and locked it down. I poked around while Kilroy and Keldoth looked on, trying to figure out why Keldoth thought this needed my attention right away. Of course I was concerned: this was my part of town, and I don't tolerate this sort of [censored]. But everything was already quiet now, so there had to be some other reason Keldoth wanted me here.
From the looks of things, a couple newcomers flew into town, intent to cause trouble, and then further worsened the matter by getting involved with some of our local thugs. And when it all went down, they took the thread with them. There were singed fliers all over the place. Somebody'd found something that they disagreed with and had done their damnedest to start a riot. I take off my fedora and sigh. Frustrating, but a pretty open and closed case.
"This is all a damn shame, Keldoth, but it's taken care of. I don't see why this is such a concern now."
"You're not looking close enough then, Av," the kid says simply.
Of course, that makes me curious and I decide to take another look. They say curiosity killed the cat, but it sure hasn't done this old wolf any favors either. I start poking through the ashes. At the very least, if something else like this happens on my watch I'd like to take care of it before it gets this bad. The first thing I realize is that this wasn't a riot. It was a lynching. No signs of the intended victim though. Looks like they might have gotten away in the chaos when everything started burning. There's something else odd about the scene, but I can't put my finger on it. I'm distracted by a set of tracks leading over an abandoned thread nearby. They're kind of meandering, like the mug responsible was drunk, or had been conked good on the brainbox. I look over to Keldoth. He smirks. The door to the abandoned thread's hanging slightly ajar, a regular invitation. Maybe our mystery man's hiding inside. I pull Loquacious, just in case somebody needs a "talking to," and kick the door open.
--------------------------------------
Listen to avwolf read Chapter One. (WARNING: LANGUAGE)
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
