Let's write a Noir...

[Stratego]

No rules except these:
No absurdities, please stick to realitistic situations.
No dues ex machina plot twists that are totally unrelated to the developing story.
No parodies.


Everything else, free rein... write as much, or as little as you like--minimum two sentences, max about four paragraphs.

If you don't know what noir fiction is like, here's a definition (To view links or images in this forum your post count must be 15 or greater. You currently have 0 posts.).


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It was late.

That time of the night when only a star or two looks down on a sleepy metropolis dank with rain, dirty with the soot of industry. An awkward beast with stone teeth and gritty glass eyes. It was the place of a thousand stories spawned behind closed doors and in the back of noisy bars with sand on the floors and the taste of hardship in every glass. Straight, no ice.

At the edge of town, where the blunt city's edge began to fade to dry, yellowed grass and lonely scrubland, the steel of the railroad tracks gleamed under the pulsing orange light of a streetlamp. They marched through the trees and off into nowhere with relentless determination, a narrow road to oblivion.

Jack wanted to walk that road to it's end, even if it meant he'd fall straight off the face of the earth. Better than where he was.

*snick*

The snap of his lighter broke the silence like a tight whisper in a closed room. The light from the flame cast his features into sharp relief, the curve of his brow in heavy black, the corners of his mouth downturned and faded at the edges; his blue eyes paled to gray in the glare.

He took a drag and exhaled, watching the smoke twist like a lover in the still air. He waited another long moment, and pushing up the sleeve of his coat, checked his watch.

3:42

Middle of the fucking night. Where was he?

And just as if the thought alone were enough to bring him out of hiding, the man he was waiting for burst out of the trees as if he were pushed, staggering like a drunkard on rubber legs.

Jack cursed and opened his door, pitching his cigarette into the tall grass, closing the car door softly behind him.

"It's about time, Nero." He muttered, "Where the hell were you?"

But something was wrong. Before the sentence died in the still air the light from the streetlamp cut across the smaller man's face in a dagger-shaped flash and illuminated a pool of wetness beneath his chin, something that looked an awful lot like...blood.

"Help... me...." Nero gasped, before he fell at his feet.

[Stratego]

**one day earlier**

The door opened and let in a square of bright light, illuminating the dank, cavern like recesses of McGinty's, a watering hole off of 49th.

The bartender, an old Irishman named Mickey, set a draft beer on the counter, and after it was whisked away grabbed an ancient cloth, starting to swab the grimy bar in rough circles. In its weave it had the stains of past sorrows spilled from glasses once held in unsteady hands, the drool of a hundred men strung out on the rough wood beam like it was pillow, a sodden bed. Without turning around he asked, "Whattaya have?"

"Rye," Jack answered, sliding into a seat, "no ice."

Mickey turned at the sound of his voice, and his hard, lined face broke into a grin.

"Well bless me balls. If it isn't Jackson Prentice risen from the dead," he exclaimed in mild County Cork accent, slamming a meaty fist on the bar for emphasis. "Where ya been hidin' you old SOB?"

"Had a job, but it went sour. Took off for a while." Jack answered, and didn't elaborate.

"That so?" Mickey countered, from over his shoulder, pouring out a shot of Overholt into a glass, "luck ran out huh? Or was it that dago goon you had with ye?"

Jack didn't answer, choosing instead to shuck off his overcoat and take a look around the place. Not much had changed. Same hard bastards at the tables, tipping it back with a practised turn of the wrist, surrounded by the haze of cigarette and cigar smoke that hung over their heads like a grey veil, washing out their features until they looked like granite gods sitting round a table. Large, hollow eye sockets and sharp noses, many of them broken, a square jaw without the pad of youth to soften the lines, the line of a mouth severe and the creases between the lips in dark shadow. He suppossed he looked the same.

The dull *clunk* of the heavy shot glass broke through his attention, and he turned from his survey to swig it down, grimacing a bit at the taste.

"You got any business for me?" he asked.

Mickey took the shot glass and poured another without asking; he didn't need to, he knew Jack pretty well, after all.

"What am I, a social worker?" he said, setting the glass down, "you want the classifieds or somethin'? I'm not your bloody secretary, ye know."

Jack bolted down the shot, swallowed hard. He was starting to feel it now, the hot slam of the whiskey in his throat and nose, warming him.

"Just asking."

Mickey set his elbows on the bar and leaned forward. "Why? You wanna get somethin' goin?" he asked, curious now. "You never can keep out of it, for long, can ye?"

"You know me," Jack answered. "I could use the cash."

And a bolt of light cut through the dark as the door opened once more, making all inside turn towards the entrance as a small, dark man in a white suit stepped inside. His black eyes scanned the place and stopped when they found Jack hunched over the bar with an empty shot glass in his hand. He seemed to study him as if he knew him, a look of recognition in his eyes. He made his way across the room and took a seat next to him, loosening his tie as he sat down.

"Whattya have?" Mickey asked, with narrowed eyes.

"Nothing, señor. I am here to met a man."

"This isn't that kind of place," the barkeep answered with a smirk, "better beat it."

"But I have business with him."

"What kind of business?" Jack asked, despite himself.

"Please, señor. That is not your concern. I need to find this man and speak to him right away."

"What man?" asked Jack

"I don't know who he is, all I have is a name."

"Oh yeah? and what name is that?" Jack asked, curious now.

"Jackson Prentice."

Jack started, but hid it well. "Why? What do you want with him?"

The Mexican hesitated a moment, sizing him up. "I was told he could help me. I have job for him."

"What kind of job?"

"A recue mission, of sorts. The recovery of an ancient treasure."

And that was how it started. This whole debacle. And now he was stranded he at the railroad crossing with a man bleeding to death before his eyes...




(note: please excuse any racial slurs. I do not hold these views myself, it's all part of the fiction. If I offend anyone, please excuse me.)

[Cincinnatus]

Jack rolled him over and immediately wished he didn't. The reddish-black fluid started to collect from behind and spread out. He tried to apply pressure to the wound, and successfully ruined his $50 white oxford shirt. "Dammit!" Jack muttered as he temporarily forgot what he was trying to accomplish. He wasn't a doctor, but being so far from the hospital, there was no question he'd die from the blood loss. He decided to squeeze the little man for as much detail as he could.

"Jesus Christ, who did this to you?" he spoke as his mind racked up a list of questions, and a pecking order for said questions.

"G... Gar..." Nero said with panicked eyes only seen on dying men.

The panic was replaced by a blank stare. It was of no use; he was gone. Jack took a deep breath and closed Nero's eyes. He hadn't seen a man die in front of him since the war. He never really got used to seeing the last bit of life ooze out of a man, but that's the brakes. Searching for any information he could get his hands on, Jack rifled through the pockets of the recently deceased. He found a lighter, half-pack of Lucky Strikes, $150 in an odd money clip, and two plane tickets to Mexico City. "Well, it's better than nothing, Jackson," he said to himself.

*Snap* A twig broke in the darkness. Jack wasn't alone...

[Stratego]

Well, I was thinking--if no one wants to participate that's fine. I have a really great story cooked up for this, if I might continue on my own. I have no intention of making it that long, because I don't want to test everybody's patience/humor.

Upcoming Characters:

Virginia Dahl, the granddaughter of the Yale educated archaeologist, Warren Dahl. A spinsterish librarian and Latin scholar--
Warren Dahl, expert on early Mexican and Central American artifacts, mesoamerican culture and history--
Earnest Mann, a detective with the Chicago PD who's investigating a Latin crime ring with American connections--
Rey Gordo de la Noche, a South American Mob boss, real name Alarico Eugenio Ladislao de las Montañas.
Potro, a henchman

and few more that I haven't named yet.

Yay!!! Thank you, Cincinnatus!! Awesome. I'm totally happy now. Coo-ull.

[Cincinnatus]

Grabbing his service revolver, he quickly moved out of the way of any bright lights. Jack didn't want to be the second dead body at this crime scene. Moving around the front end of his car for cover, his eyes adjusted for lower levels of light. There appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary: the chain link fence and shrubs didn't move, and nothing came out into the light. Jack was about to holster his weapon when he noticed an access road off to his far right. Quickly, he snuck down along the fringe of darkness.

It only took him a few seconds to find a car stowed along the brush. The hood of the car was still warm to the touch. He'd found the wheels to Nero's assailants. The only nagging question was: why didn't they leave? That question had very little time to pass through his head before he felt the long, cool impression of a bat making its acquaintance with his back.

With a "Sonofa...," Jack rolled on the dirt road. Unfortunately, he also dropped his gun at the same time. This was not looking good. A quick glance to the sky showed a repeat performance, and Jack darted out of its way. Making it to his feet, he tried to zero in on their faces. There were two of them. One was heavy set with a pencil thin mustache, and that was due to the extra light provided by his cigarette. The other was much taller and wielding the bat. The third swing was a little more sloppy and Jack managed to position himself by the car and flung open the door in his attacker's face. This left his opponent open for a moment. Jack kicked the bat out of his hand and landed a right cross that would've taken care of Jack Dempsey.

*fwick* "Enough!" the tall figure shouted as the white gleam of a knife appeared.

However, lady luck smiled on Jack as it wasn't the only white gleam he saw. He picked up his revolver just in time to roll out of the way of the switchblade.

*bang*

The tall man collapsed under the weight of the .38. He slumped over the end of the rear fender, then surrendered his life on the ground. This was enough time, however, for the fat man to position himself in the driver's seat and start the engine. The dormant beast came to life and spun it's tires. Mud insulted Jack's face as the car lurched forward and out of sight. That did not stop him from shooting a few more rounds off at the getaway vehicle. Oddly enough, there were no plates on the car. They must change them out frequently, he thought.

Jack paused, it was over for now. He needed answers, much, much more than he did thirty minutes ago. With that, he looked down. "Aw, my good suit! Dammit!"