I don't have a lot of new content for my new blog but I write up a storm so until something new pops out I wanted to give you all an introduction to my writing by pulling out some older stuff.
Last year I decided to dip my toes into the realm of fan fiction. I see so much of it online in various places but I get most of my fixes at www.screwattack.com ... well, I felt the itch to try it myself. At the time I was particularly inspired by the video game "LA Noir" Rockstar Games creates such rich characters and I wanted to play with the main character Det. Cole Phelps of the LAPD. I delighted in taking the opportunity to cross another game character from another Rockstar game into Cole Phelps' 1947 Los Angeles.
My Fanfic, "Worlds Collide" was well recieved when I initially posted it on ScrewAttack and I was asked if it could go up on his LA Noir fan site... He edited out the cursing and complained that it was too long to read and changed the ending... I thought he liked my story!? Anyway, he didn't steal the credit at least. I cannot find that site anymore so I'll reintroduce it to the web here. Enjoy!
Worlds Collide: A “L.A.
Noir” Fanfiction
*Contains “Red Dead Redemption” Spoilers*
By Nic Patrie
(nic920)
Phelps
suddenly drifted back into consciousness. He had a tendency to dream during the
day, he re-lived the sticky, blood-stained, memories of the War. The action in
Los Angeles was heavy enough to keep him busy though, the department was
knee-deep in the high-yield harvest of wicked and desperate men. Today was a
beeter day in L.A. the action was much slower to come…Cole had too much time to
let his mind wander and remind him, the scars of the past are occasionally reopened
by the lingering memories of Okinawa. He was drawn out of his state by his desk
phone that shattered the office silence with its harsh, monotone chattering.
Phelps sat up, inhaled deeply, fixed his gaze and pressed his lips together…his
poker face…even though he was merely answering his phone, he always played his
role.
“Detective
Cole Phelps, Vice.” Cole spoke into the phone clearly so as not to be
misunderstood.
“Phelps,
Its Galloway…” his former Homicide partner. “Are you busy?” His strong voice
sounded like dogs barking through the phone receiver. Galloway was a old-timer
and had the tendency to shout into the telephone. “Koalski took a bullet at a
robbery call and I need a man to help on this situation at the nursing home on
Broadway and Fifteenth Street. It sounds like a quick and easy job but I still
need a second guy”
Cole
scrunched his nose in an uncharacteristic moment of private confusion. “Why
would a nursing home need two homicde detectives?” Galloway interrupted Cole’s
impending long-winded logical deduction “You’ll believe it when you see it.” Cole had some down time while his partner,
Roy, was on another of his escapes in Santa Barbara. He cleared the assignment
with the equally bored desk captain and hit the streets.
When
Cole arrived at Paradise Valley Nursing home he saw that the staff had wheeled
the fifty or so occupants out onto the sidewalk. The attendants looked
disturbed; many of the patients looked thankful to be outside but seemed
oblivious to the concerns of the frazzled nurses and orderlies. “Cole Phelps, LAPD…where can I find detective
Galloway” he said to a nurse with a clipboard (she looked like she had the most
responsibility and seemed most qualified to help). “Inside…the second floor…he
said you’d be coming…” she could only speak in fragments of sentences, she was
clearly overcome by whatever tragedy has befallen the home, and she was
middle-aged and must have been dealing with death on a daily basis for some
time. Cole felt apprehension… uneasiness. Cole put on his poker face and
marched up the stairs with a little extra gusto as the situation seemed to
warrant it.
As
Phelps entered he could hear unintelligible but distinctive shouting from
upstairs, It was Galloway. The Coroner, Malcom Carruthers, met Cole in the
reception area. He seemed irritated as he brought Cole up to speed. As it turns
out, first responders had been standing off against a single gunman standing
over his victim up on the second floor until Galloway joined them and took
charge. Carruthers, smugly, requested that the crime scene not be compromised
by LAPD officer blood as Cole rushed to the second floor.
“Alright
you cowboy piece of shit, drop the piece and move away from the stiff” Galloway
was sounding hoarse, like he had been yelling for some time. Cole saw him and
the two patrolmen in cover behind the doorway to a patient’s room. The hallway
smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and a hint of gunpowder, there were shots
fired recently, Cole took cover behind the patrolman nearest to him in the
hallway, so as not to cross the doorway. He switched places with the
first-responder to get closer to Galloway. “Shit, Cole… What took you so long?
We got a stiff in the bed, he checked out a little early by way of a gunshot
courtesy of our scruffy friend in there. The sonofabitch is armed with a
revolver but he hasn’t move in a while.” Cole was confused again...“this isn’t
like you Galloway, I’m shocked you haven’t shot him down yet.” Galloway smirked
and quickly snapped back “he hasn’t tried to do anything yet…but he ain’t
talking either…he’s just standing there with his gun.”
Cole
peeked into the room; the first thing he saw was the corpse of an old man in a
hospital bed, dead. Cole was careful to note that there was one clear gunshot
to the heart, marked by red spatter on the white sheets. Blood was dripping
from the victim’s mouth and had seeped into the pillow behind his bald head.
Cole noted five bullet holes spread wide across the wall, the plaster damage
suggested that the rounds were big…45s maybe. He was able to crane his head
around the doorway enough to catch a glimpse of a dingy revolver pointed at his
head…he could see that the six-shooter had not been reloaded but he was still
terrified for the moment…however he didn’t move. Cole stepped into the doorway
and watched the dark silhouette’s finger pull the trigger to a loud and pointed
sounding click. “It’s over” said a whiskey-shredded voice from behind the gun.
The man
lowered the gun and then dropped it on the floor resulting in a thud dampened
by the linoleum surface. The man was not very tall, though his figure seemed to
be much taller in the old stained duster and hat that he wore like a cowboy
from the movies… but much dirtier. Cole could see that behind the leather
duster, the man wore a smart suit that was better suited to the present. The
man was old, his face grizzled with time…he could have been a vet from the
first War, but he seemed much more like his violent past was played out in the
wilderness. His dark, leathery and scarred face revealed that much. His eyes
were dark and sharp, and they seemed to stare right through Cole. Upon closer
inspection, the duster was full of holes and very old. His even older-looking
leather hat seemed to belong to some kind of Indian rather than a rancher or
actor. There was something that seemed to be very genuine about this man. The
man was a killer, but he had a lucid look and a manner that did not suggest
rage or madness as his motivation so much as closure.
“Sir,
you are under arrest for the murder of…” It occurred to Phelps that he did not
know the name of the victim. “Warren Holland of the U.S. Secret Service…and a
murderous asshole.” the man murmured. Cole felt that that response was
satisfactory though the colorful commentary made his blood boil. Disrespect for
the dead was one of the many things that Cole could not stand for though he
learned to curb his emotional response during the time he spent in homicide.
The man offered an unsolicited response to the question that hung in the air
but that nobody had thought to ask: “I am John Marston Jr. and I shot Holland
dead.”
“And
there you go.” Galloway contributed with a smirk “Let’s rustle this dirtbag up
and take him to Central fast cause I’m a little dry.”
Marston
sat quietly in the interview room in his grey suit vest, and a clean shirt and
tie. He still wore the old hat and though his clothes were clean. His salt-and-pepper stubble along with
weathered wrinkles made his face look dark with filth. His folded hands on the
table seemed forever cracked and stained with calluses and caked on grime…like
your typical day laborer. Marston had not said a word since he was taken into
custody. He was as quiet the victim of his admitted crime except for the
occasional wheezing fit and tobacco related cough.
Cole
walked briskly into the interview room. He closed the door and took a seat in
what seemed to be one fluid movement. Cole was young for a detective but he
carried himself like a seasoned veteran of police work. He liked to move like
the cops did in the movies, they were confident and sharp witted and he liked
that approach. Galway waited outside as if he were standing guard, he advised
Cole that he needed to get Marston to repeat his confession and to find out
more about the man.
“Mr. Marston, you have already confessed to
shooting retired Secret Service Agent Warren Holland, aged 78.” He paused to
wait for any response Marston might offer, Marston stayed still, his eyes
glittered through the opaque shadow of his hat brim that concealed half of his
face. “I have looked through files on a John Marston and all I can come up with
is the record of a very bad man who was gunned down by the army at Beecher’s
Hope Ranch near the Mexican border…” Cole paused to see if anything was
affecting the hardened shell of a man across from him “…in 1911.”
Marston remained unresponsive and
Cole decided cut to the chase. “According to the U.S. Government records I can
be led to one of two conclusions about you:” Cole raised his voice suddenly
“You are either a liar or a ghost! What aren’t you telling me?” Marston snarled
and jerked up a little to the secret delight of Cole Phelps.
Marston
lifted his hands to light one of the complimentary cigarettes that Galloway
left on the table. He took a drag and entered into a coughing fit. Marston spit
into a handkerchief which he stuffed into his pants pocket. “I used to think
that I would die in a hail of gunfire.” Marston looked up and removed his hat,
the interview room light somehow revealing a softer, more vulnerable character
“It appears that sickness will get to me first…It’s the cancer, detective.” Cole held his words as a wave of sympathy dug
a foxhole in his chest. He kept his poker face as he waited silently and
visibly impatiently for more pertinent information.
“That
record you have is my father’s” Marston said looking straight into Cole’s eyes
“I am John Marston Junior, for the short time I spent with him…he called me
Jack. When the government attacked our family Ranch, my mother and I were able
to escape to Mexico.” Marston replaced his hat and the darkness again shrouded
his face
“When my mother died from grief a few years
later, I took it upon myself to take revenge for her death… and my father’s… on
the government agents who stabbed him in the back…” Marston paused to reflect
on his long journey. “For near 35 years I have been trackin’ and killin’ the
men that were present on that day…Holland was the last.”
Phelps
cut in: “You mean to tell me that the government doesn’t know you exist?”
“I went
to great pains to keep it that way son.” Marston replied.
“Why
did you allow yourself to be caught at the nursing home?” Cole was trying to
find some reason to this point “Why didn’t you just disappear?”
“I am not
an outlaw” Marston said in a darker offended tone of voice “I am the arm of
retribution for the murderers of John Marston. I vowed that they would be
killed by my father’s gun and blade and a few years ago I resolved to join them
when I finished…my parents I mean.” Marston sat back in his chair which seemed
to creak as if it were under the weight of a much bigger man…he continued to
smoke and reflect on his statement.
“So you
are looking forward to your execution…” Cole said quietly
“You
can shoot me now, hang me..or gas me…whatever it is you do these days” Marston
smirked defiantly “ I would prefer to be tried so that I can say my piece and
then promptly executed before the cancer takes me…justice will be served”
Cole
smiled out of one side of his mouth “I’m sure that can be arranged… but I would
like to ask you one more question before we end here” Cole produced the old
dingy revolver from beneath the table and a ten-inch blade that was in much
better shape. “You are saying that you committed all of the murders with these
two weapons?”
Marston
nodded subtly. Cole now understood understood Marston’s anachronistic style.
There were many folks in the decaying remnants of the frontier that still hold
onto Marston’s values. To Cole’s understanding they didn’t generally venture
out in this direction-or if they did, they got..in a word…civilized. Cole
pondered internally on what it was like to hold a grudge like this for so long.
The memories of Okinawa were fresh in his mind, and this old man in front of
him hasn’t been able to shake the trauma of his parent’s deaths in a setting
that is regarded now, in this very town, simply for its novelty and
entertainment value. Cole wondered how
permanent the mental scars of the war would be and how this would affect his
future. He decided to prod at Marston I hopes of finding a hint as to how long
the damage lasted.
“Something
is bothering me, John Marston.” Cole picked up the revolver and gave it a slow
glancing over “In Warren Holland’s room, you fired five shots into the wall
over Holland’s bed and shot Holland with only one clean kill shot at close
range.”Cole paused to find the words “You are clearly a good shot, why would
you shoot the wall?”
“That
Holland was a bastard” Marston started to show a upwelling of emotion “The
others were easy to find and kill, but Holland was slippery…” he started to try
to regain his composure “I missed him once in Virginia, after dubya-dubya one,
he knew I was out to kill ‘im. I chased
this one man for a long time….” John started to sob pitifully “he left me notes
that taunted me…he was always a step ahead. When I finally caught up with him
he was old and in that home…an invalid.” Marston cleared his eyes “he said…”
Cole
was seeing the signs, he now knew what he may have to face. Suddenly Marston
exploded as he got up and frustratingly chucked his chair against the interview
room mirror breaking it .The broken window revealed a dumfounded Galloway
holding a coffee mug in his hand and a cigarette hanging off his lips. Marston
roared “When I found him, he said he wasn’t scared of death!” Marston calmed
down a little to speak but the rage burned through. “He was and Old man, ready
to die when I found him. I wanted him to fear me…to be scared of me and show
remorse for what he done…That defiant bastard!” Marston slammed down a scarred
hand on the table and wrapped it around the grip of the revolver.
“Gun!”
Galloway shouted as he drew his .38 and trained it on Marston “Put it down
dipshit! You ain’t goin’ nowhere but down” Cole reached through the broken
window to lower Galloway’s gun for him.
“Easy
Rusty, it isn’t loaded” Cole said stearnly. Even after some time away from
Galloway, he was reminded of how he disliked the veteran detective’s callous
nature.
Marston
aimed the revolver at the empty blue wall of the interview room; he pulled the
hammer back and then pulled the trigger on the empty chamber. “I shot the wall
to remind him of what a gun sounded like…the way it shatters peace on the
prairie. Everybody in the home was scared but him. I shot again closer to him
that is when I saw his inner-peace break” Marston smiled and chuckled a little
bit at himself “by the fifth shot he was grabbing his rosary…shaking so bad he
couldn’t finger the beads to pray. I told him that I was going to take his life
before God did and I put the sixth bullet in his chest, I heard it hit the
bedpost behind his head…I loved that sound, but not so much as I loved to hear
him whimper as he tried to breath his last breath.“ Marston looked at his feet; he took off his
hat and ran his hand through his long graying hair “shit…” he murmured “… I
forgot to leave a bullet for me.”
Cole
Phelps was shocked and completely entranced. This is a man who had lost his
mind and somehow managed to get it back and keep it in a jar for when he needed
it. Cole found himself staring into the abyss of emotional trauma. He was
terrified and couldn’t figure out why he brought this side of Marston out in
the first place. “John Marston. You are hereby charged with murder in the first
degree of Warren Holland. You will be transferred to Los Angeles county jail to
await your hearing.” Cole put him in cuffs and moved in close to whisper into
Marston’s ear: “May God have mercy on your soul… Goodbye”
Galloway
took Marston roughly by the arm to lead him out giving a wink to Cole as he led
John Marston away. That night, Cole went home and kissed his wife and daughter
and life in Los Angeles went on.
No comments:
Post a Comment