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aion-rsa · 3 years

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The Incredible Hulk’s Diminished Legacy in the Marvel Cinematic Universe

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Love it or hate it, one of the things that makes the Marvel Cinematic Universe work is the long term synergy. With Avengers: Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame, over a decade of movies came together to pull off one of the most entertaining spectacles of our time. It’s a universe that, for the most part, feels consistent and it builds on itself as each movie feels like an essential cog in a larger machine.

Some cogs are bigger than the others, though, and when it comes to “the others,” one can’t help but notice that 2008’s Incredible Hulk is something of a black sheep in the Marvel movie roster. These days, they’re just starting to dust it off as a property with the return of Tim Roth’s Abomination in She-Hulk and William Hurt’s General Ross’ gradually increasing role in the universe itself (he’ll appear in Black Widow and possibly other projects soon enough).

Now, there are plenty of reasons why Incredible Hulk is the green-skinned stepchild of the MCU. It made the least amount of money (about $42 million less than Captain America: The First Avenger, which was the second worst showing), the lead actor was recast afterwards, and its status as a Universal co-production meant that it would be the only movie in the first three Marvel phases that would not get its own sequel, no matter how popular Hulk was in the Avengers movies and Thor: Ragnarok.

It’s not like the MCU acted like Incredible Hulk never happened, but the creators definitely had a tendency to shove it into the corner and be somewhat vague about its existence. It became easier as the MCU became rich with more and more properties, but early on, it was very much the rage-filled elephant in the room.

The Hulk Design

There were a couple of ads for Avengers: Endgame that included shots from all the previous MCU movies in chronological order. For one, when it came to Incredible Hulk, all it had to show for it was Hulk’s fist bursting through the wall. In another, they just used shots from later movies and hoped nobody would notice. That’s because CGI or not, Ed Norton’s Hulk and Mark Ruffalo’s Hulk were two very different beasts. Not only did they roughly resemble their actors, but Norton’s Hulk was more of a giant, angry bodybuilder with green skin while Ruffalo’s came off as more Cro-Magnon, like a shaved gorilla.

It means that while they could talk about Hulk’s exploits, they could never really show any flashbacks, as it would just look awkward. Similarly, Incredible Hulk filmed a cut opening where Banner tried to shoot himself, but the Hulk wouldn’t allow it. While it was a bit too extreme to show, Banner at least got to talk about it happening in Avengers.

The Effect on the World of the MCU

When you look at the events of Incredible Hulk, it keeps things focused on the characters and not the world at large. Sure, it would have been bigger news if the Abomination defeated the Hulk and went on an even bigger rampage, but that problem was nipped in the bud. If you’re a citizen of Marvel Earth, all there is to know is that some soda has been recalled and there was a monster fight in Harlem.

In the movies themselves, the only time the Harlem fight is brought up is in the background of Iron Man 2, where Nick Fury’s map signals it as a place of interest.

With the exception of the Hulk straight-up existing, the most lip service his movie got early on was the scene in Captain America: The First Avenger where Steve gave blood for further study. They needed something to give Emil Blonsky down the line and turn him into an angry Ninja Turtle.

Speaking of…

Whatever Happened to the Abomination?

Of Marvel’s Phase 1 villains, one died, a couple vanished confusingly into space only to come back later, and three were taken into custody. Ending up in custody means you’ll be back soon enough because prisons usually can’t hold the type of enemies who can throw down with the Avengers. Usually.

In other words, it’s pretty damn impressive that the Abomination has been kept off the grid since the Hulk choked him out in Harlem. She-Hulk will be his first real appearance since then, but his name has been on the tongue of Phil Coulson on Agents of SHIELD a few times.

The scene of Tony Stark appearing at the end of Incredible Hulk to confront General Ross is something that came off as a big deal at the time, but afterwards didn’t make too much sense. Piggybacking off the Iron Man post-credits scene, Stark was seemingly trying to recruit the Hulk into the Avengers. That didn’t exactly jibe with what they were going for afterwards, so they released a short film to make sense out of everything.

The Consultant featured Agent Coulson and Agent Sitwell discussing the unfortunate decision by the World Security Council to demand the Abomination join the team. After all, Blonsky is a decorated veteran and the Harlem incident could easily be blamed on Banner. Fury wasn’t in a position to refuse the Council, so the only hope was that General Ross – the guy in charge of Blonsky’s captivity – turned them down. And so, they sent Tony Stark. That final scene in Incredible Hulk was reframed as Tony Stark obnoxiously asking for the keys to Abomination for the Avengers and Ross being so annoyed by his antics that he straight-up refused.

Afterwards, Abomination was namedropped a couple of times in Agents of SHIELD, which is par for the course considering early Agents of SHIELD was about reminding us about stuff that happened in the movies and saying, “We’re part of all that!” According to the show, Abomination was kept in a special prison in Alaska that only a select few know about. There was an episode where SHIELD’s main prison lost power and one of the writers realized that they probably needed to note that Abomination wasn’t going to be an issue in this situation.

But hey, at least he finished his story. The Leader on the other hand…

Samuel Sterns and the Fate of the Leader

At the time, it was the right play. Tim Blake Nelson played the kind of surprise villain you’d find in your average CGI animated Disney movie. As Mr. Blue, he existed as Bruce Banner’s potential salvation, only to be revealed to be kind of over-the-line and sinister in terms of his gamma experiments. After turning Blonsky into the Abomination, Sterns was knocked to the floor and a sample of Banner’s irradiated blood dripped into the open wound on his head. Sterns seemed especially jazzed with a crazed expression as his head started throbbing and increasing in size.

And then…nothing! Not even a mention in a different movie or Agents of SHIELD. That’s what happens when you set up a villain for a sequel and then have legal reasons keeping you from making that sequel. That said, there is a follow-up to what the hell happened with Sterns.

Back in 2012, a prequel comic was released to coincide with the first Avengers movie. The Avengers Prelude: Fury’s Big Week showed that the events of Iron Man 2, Thor, and Incredible Hulk all happened over the course of a few days. We got to see those storylines from the perspective of SHIELD, especially a very overwhelmed and fatigued Nick Fury. That makes sense for the stuff with Tony Stark in Iron Man 2 as well as Mjolnir and the Destroyer in Thor, but what of Incredible Hulk?

As shown in this story, Black Widow was in the background of its events, keeping an eye on everything and realizing that she was way in over her head. She played clean-up on the Sterns situation by coming across his giant, mutated head in the aftermath. Sterns was quick to figure out her homeland from traces of her accent and thought to bribe her in some way, but she stonewalled him with a couple of bullets to the legs.

A year later, Sterns was shown floating in a tank, unconscious, as various SHIELD scientists studied him.

Will we ever see the Leader pop up in the MCU? I can’t imagine Tim Blake Nelson is too busy to appear on She-Hulk at some point.

Betty Ross

Bruce Banner’s old flame is now nothing but a footnote. Considering Banner moved on to another relationship and then another planet, there was never a reason to reintroduce Betty. The only nods to her were Tony Stark naming his Hulkbuster armor “Veronica” (get it?) and the Russo Brothers saying in an interview that Betty was one of those turned to dust by Thanos.

Maybe one day we’ll see Red She-Hulk. Don’t hold your breath, though.

Thunderbolt Ross

General Thaddeus Ross does the heavy lifting for keeping Incredible Hulk relevant. The guy came back for Captain America: Civil War, a movie that didn’t even have the Hulk in it! But it did give him the Henry Gyrich role in a time when Gyrich was probably off-limits since he was considered part of the X-Men corner of Marvel (he already had a very minor role in the first X-Men movie). A familiar face, Ross got to be the government liaison type who spoke with logic, but came off as an antagonistic killjoy.

Right or wrong, Ross’ insistence that the Avengers sign with the Sokovia Accords ruined the team in the face of Thanos’ rampage against the cosmos. He still got to show his respects as Tony Stark’s funeral at the end of Endgame.

Yet, that’s not the last we’ll see of him. In Black Widow, Ross is shown in the trailers. We don’t know his role quite yet, but there’s a lot of fan speculation that Ross might tie into the next roster of the Avengers. Maybe a team that’s government sanctioned and controlled. Maybe a team that’s an awful lot like the Thunderbolts.

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It does seem that as the MCU reaches further and further outward, it looks back more and more on the events of Incredible Hulk. Then again, I doubt we’ll be seeing Ty Burrell’s Leonard Samson turn into a gamma-irradiated psychiatrist with long, luxurious hair any time soon.

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deafwestnewsies · 5 years

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stop and stare

The Losers must keep living after the summer of ‘58. Living and breathing the air that was stolen from the victims of that horrible monster.

richie x eddie, bill x stan

read it also on my ao3 and ff.net!

This town is colder now, I think it's sick of us

It's time to make our move, I'm shakin' off the rust

There were whispers now. Whispers that Eddie just couldn’t seem to shake.

As he walked through the pharmacy aisles, searching for the bandaids with the little prong things on the end that wouldn’t fall off when he moved his elbows, he heard the first whispers. “That little Kaspbrak boy. Over there. So tragic, what he did to his mother.” Eddie’s back stiffened at the other woman’s titters as the pair of old ladies walked away from the cough syrups. Not even knowing who they were, he glared at their backs until they strolled into the next aisle. Swiping whatever bandages were in front of him and stowing them in his front pocket, Eddie stormed out of the store and into the alley behind it.

Bill’s expectant gaze met him first as he held out his hand. Eddie put the box of gauze down and stood near the wall, almost leaning, but not willing to risk the germ exposure. Everyone watched with bated breath as Bill’s steady hands cleaned out the gash in Mike’s arm and began dressing the wound. His strong hiss of pain made Eddie jump and cover his eyes, making him feel four years old again. He felt a pair of arms wrap around him, covering his face from the scene and murmuring It’ll be okay, Eds. He’ll be okay. Not having the willpower to correct the boy on the juvenile nickname, Eddie relaxed slightly into Richie’s chest and tried not to wince at the wimpers coming from Mike.

Henry Bowers might’ve been gone, but that did not mean there were other gruesome bullies waiting anxiously to take his place. Bullies who were just as mean (because when there wasn’t a maniac clown to deal with, there were tenth graders) and just as vicious (because Derry was cruel that way) and just as armed. This time it meant waiting for Mike on the path he always took into town with a barrage of insults and a serrated blade. When he retold the tale later, clutching his bleeding arm and staining his work boots, Mike said that they called him names that even Mike wasn’t really allowed to say, that they had heard he was one of the crazy kids who claimed they were attacked by a demon. If you want something to be scared of, boy, we’ll give it to you. Ain’t no monster under your bed. They had whispered it, right before slashing his arm wide open.

That was the latest town gossip, and the whispers that seemed to invade every moment of Eddie’s waking life. A group of seven kids emerged from the decaying house on Neibolt street, bloody yet victorious, when eight had entered. They would tell anyone who would listen that they fought off a killer clown, the same that had killed Betty Ripsom and ripped off Georgie’s arm and left him for dead. Instead of believing the children, everyone made snide remarks about the poor Bowers, both father and son dying under mysterious and inexplicable circumstances. Of course, the initial blame was handed directly to the Loser’s Club, but as the investigation went on they found that the blood on their clothes belonged only to each other and the fingerprints on the knife used to kill Detective Bowers didn’t have a match. They still spent a night in jail. One cold, dark night with only one another to keep warm.

So no, it wasn’t a surprise when Mike came staggering up to the Aladdin, where they had all planned to meet. Each of them had been attacked at different times, some getting it worse than others, (people liked to pick on the color of Mike’s skin, the way Eddie blushed when he walked into the boy’s locker room, Ben’s size. The list could go on.) and every time, they banded together and stood as a united front. There would always be a small voice in the back of their minds, however. The same that played in Eddie’s as he clung to Richie, trying to be strong for Mike’s sake. Maybe this town is as sick of us as we are of them.

I've got my heart set on anywhere but here

I'm staring down myself, counting up the years

Richie began making the plans absentmindedly, mostly as a way of escape during boring classes and sleepless nights. As soon as he turned eighteen, he would turn on his heels and run from Derry, run from all of the monsters who lived here, run from the clown and his parents and everyone who had ever called him useless. He didn’t quite know where he would run to, but the maps in his mind always led somewhere bright, where it didn’t rain quite as often and he could wear his shorts during the winter time.

At sixteen, he realized that his daydreams could all be tracked with some scraps of paper, red yarn, and a bulletin board, so he began doing exactly that. Behind a poster on his wall, Richie began sketching out the Great American Roadtrip (Richie Tozier Edition). First, he would work on making sure the truck he had inherited was reliable enough to drive across the country.

He began working part time in the town’s auto shop, picking up spare pieces wherever he could and making some half-hearted tips. The only reason Mr. Kurtz, the head mechanic, had hired the boy was that for the most part, he lived oblivious to any town gossip. All of Richie’s coworkers avoided him like the plague and tried to whisper warnings to Kurtz when he first began the job. Staring curiously at the gangly boy who kept his head down and did all of his work in a prompt fashion, the man waved all of the rumors away. “Leave the boy be,” he’d respond. “Ain’t nothing wrong with a tale to tell.”

With a decent engine and enough money to make it wherever he was planning on going, Richie began looking for work that he could do while he was out there. He wasn’t half bad at the whole mechanic thing, and once he was nearing eighteen he began to consider it very seriously. Richie, ever the trashmouth, could still make whole crowds hysterical with a well-timed joke and a fake voice or two, but he didn’t dare tell anyone that he almost wished he could do that for a living. Maybe that was why he finally settled on Los Angeles, a place that people would speak of in hushed voices and stars in their eyes. It was seemingly perfect, except for one minor detail.

It was dirty. Not that that bothered Richie, of course, he once had a record of not showering for three weeks and two days. No, this would bother someone else, someone who had always been in the back of his mind, someone who Richie just couldn’t imagine living without so he put him on this metaphorical trip, right alongside him. Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie Tozier had done everything together since the beginning of time, and now Richie was going to ask him to do one more thing that would change their life completely. So Richie set off to do the final thing on his checklist: Ask Eddie to throw his entire life away and be reckless, for the first time in his tiny, asthmatic life.

The knock on the Kaspbrak’s door seemed too loud, too forceful, and he winced when Sonya, Eddie’s evil hag of a mother, answered the door. “Hey-y-y-y, Mrs. K. Eddie ‘round?” Her frown was enough to tell him exactly where Eddie was (down at the Barrens) and how she felt about it. (She hated it.) “See ya later Sonya!” Richie shouted as he turned and began running in the right direction. Her grumbling was lost on deaf ears as he could only hear the wind whistling through his hair and the sun beating down.

By the time he arrived, Richie was sweaty and completely out of breath. He wasn’t sure why he had run, maybe it was just the feeling in his chest that if he didn’t ask Eddie right now he’d explode. So when he saw Eddie peacefully reading a book on top of a blanket and slathered in sunscreen, Richie also couldn’t explain the way his heart fell into his feet.

“Richie?” Eddie called, book sliding to the floor. He smiled so warmly at Richie that he had to remind himself to move his feet, lift them off the ground, one by one.

He settled on the ground next to him. “Hey Eds. I’ve got somethi-”

“Don’t call me Eds.”

The sentence that Eddie had said before, maybe a thousand times over, made Richie’s throat ache with familiarity. Suddenly he felt twelve again, with glasses too big for his face and feelings that he would never be allowed to talk about with anyone. “Eds. Please listen to me.” Eddie made a displeased noise, but leaned his chin in his hands and gazed up at Richie with wide, expectant eyes. “I’ve been thinking,” He began, nervously pushing at the bridge of his glasses. “That I can’t stay here. Derry, I mean. There’s just too much shit to remember and now that we’re older and everyone still manages to hate us- and I hate them, I think. I don’t wanna ever spend another moment here if I don’t have to. So uh, I’m leaving. Four days, to be exact.”

Eddie’s eyes kept widening, kept growing at a pace that was almost worrisome. “Four days?” He whispered. “Four days and you leave me? How could you, Rich! We swore we would never-”

“I want you to come with me.” Richie cut his rambling off.

“No. Absolutely not.” Eddie said it with an air of finality that made Richie almost unwilling to fight back.

“Eds…” He almost whispered.

They were so close, their noses only inches apart and staggered breathing intertwining. Eddie turned away suddenly, looking at a spot that was somewhere over the creek. “Don’t call me Eds. I’m not moving away with you, Tozier. My whole life is here. My college is here. My mom is here. It’s selfish of you to even think I’d go.”

He felt his heart splinter into a million pieces. “Okay.” Richie said dumbly. “Thank you for giving me my answer.” Eddie’s sniff filled the air, and Richie realized he wasn’t the only one on the brink of tears. “Eddie?” The smaller boy’s head turned slightly, still not making full eye contact. “Please tell me one more thing. Did you ever… did you ever-” He cut himself off before he let his trashmouth be the death of him again. The insinuation was enough. Eddie understood.

It was a bold move, but one Richie had to make before he left for good.

Eddie’s eyes swept over the creek one last time as a perfect tear rolled down his cheek. “No,” he whispered softly. “I don’t think I did.”

Richie left four days early on the Great American Roadtrip (Richie Tozier Edition). He was set on anywhere but here, but he left his heart in a diddly little town in Maine, on a creekbed.

Steady hands just take the wheel

Every glance is killing me

His knuckles were turning white with force as he gripped the leather steering wheel, trying desperately not to crash the car. The nerves of driving back into his hometown were practically choking him, ghosts of the past reaching down into his throat and cutting off all circulation until he had to pull over to the side of the road. Gulps of air came flooding in as Ben stared at his surroundings.

It was a bright, sunny day, unusual for the middle of April, and he was parked right underneath a cheery sign that read Welcome to Derry! The irony was enough to make him laugh, but it escaped as more of a wheeze, and Ben hit his head on the steering wheel. Truth be told, he really couldn’t pinpoint the reason he was so nervous to be back in Derry. Life was halfway terrible when he was a kid, but that was because of childhood bullies that would sneer awful remarks at him on the playground. Surely they had all grown up, right? No one would call him fatso or loser when he walked past the shops in town, even though the storekeepers were the same as his middle school tormentors. Ben knew that he could walk through town and name the baker, the town drunk, the new ninth grade science teacher, because no one left Derry. No one left, no one came.

Benjamin Hanscom was what most would call an anomaly, because he got to escape the fate of a childhood growing up in Derry. Ben, a beautiful redhead named Beverly, (January embers, Ben thought in the back of his mind. What did that mean?) and someone he could only remember as Richie the Trashmouth. These were the kids who actually made it out of the small town. There was a postcard tucked under his bed in a box of junk addressed to a house in Connecticut. Ben had moved there was he was fifteen, four years after- Ben couldn’t quite remember what that was after. Four years after something important happened. Something that made receiving the postcard fill his stomach with dread.

December 12th, 1965

Ben! We’ve missed you! Wish you would write more, Stan thinks you’re pulling a Bev on us and never looking back. I told him that you’d never forget about your old panty waists back in Derry. Stan says hi, by the way. Yes. Hello Ben. Miss you. So do Eddie and Mike. And that’s what I’m writing to you about! Guess who made it out! The trashmouth himself! Richie upped and left for California two days ago without telling any of us. For some reason I can’t find it in me to be mad at him because I’m so damn proud he made it out. Eddie’s real bummed though. Only speaks when he needs to and always leaves early. But it’s fine though. Richie’s like you and Bev, he’ll really make it now! Maybe he’ll go the rest of his life without seeing It. Sorry, not a funny joke. Stan’s laughing a little bit, though. And that means it was probably not a great joke. We miss you, Ben. Please try to write. We sent you some stuff to inspire your inevitable poems of your life and times here in the shithole.

Losers forever,

Bill Denbrough

Ben pulled the box from his backseat now, the strange urge that had him bring it with him now telling him to rifle through. A small, leather bound notebook with the title Derry’s Unofficial History by Mike Hanlon. There was nothing else written, just an ominous page written by a boy he didn’t remember. A green bouncy ball. Handful of arcade tokens. A bridge built with toothpicks. One bottle cap off of a cheap brand of vodka. Shoelaces tied into a noose. A book of town history. Finally, another postcard, splattered in something red, smelled vaguely cherry-like, and written in handwriting Ben would never be able to recognize.

Your hair is winter fire.

January embers,

My heart burns there too.

(Really takes ya back, huh Ben?)

Back to what, though? Ben had read this poem a million times over and still, nothing ever rang a bell. It was like having a kernel of popcorn stuck in your gums or a phantom rock in your shoe. Always in the back of his mind and never seeing the light of day.

Giving the poem one last glance and then tossing the box to the side, Ben slowly started the car again. He drove past the sign and into the main center of town, just a row of damp store fronts with sad, dull signs advertising the different sales. All of a sudden Ben couldn’t quite remember what he was here to accomplish, why he had left his comfortable life to visit the place he grew up. Nostalgia wasn’t the answer since there was nothing to reminisce about, just a handful of vague emotions that left him feeling uneasy.

Thinking he should just turn around and go home, Ben began to pull a U-turn when he saw a man standing on the corner of the street. He had a vendors cart with him, but there was no description as to what he was selling, just a bunch of red balloons tied to the handle. Ben couldn’t quite see his face since the balloons swaying in the nonexistent breeze covered him up. As he turned around and drove back up the street, he glanced in his rearview mirror once more. The balloons were gone. The man locked eyes with Ben and leered, for just a second, long enough to make his blood run cold. His smile was terribly wide, lips stretching over his teeth in an inhumane way and pulling the flesh to be shiny and tight. Black holes stood where eyes normally did. Big orange puff balls suddenly decorated the man’s apron. When Ben whipped around in his seat to get a better look, there was nothing left. Just a single red balloon, floating up, up, up.

Time to make one last appeal

For the life I live

No one said a single word. If they even tried, Stan shut them down. “Shut up.” He’d say, even if Richie began thinking of a joke. There was no room for laughter in a holding cell.

They had been arrested and Stan was trying to figure out a way of telling his father without being murdered before he was bar mitzvah-ed. Well, more murdered than the crazy fucking killer clown had tried to accomplish before Richie clobbered him over the head with a baseball bat and they all just started screaming and throwing things and at some point Stan definitley ran him through with an iron rod. But that was nothing compared to Mr. Uris and a good reason to yell. No, the true horror awaited him when he got home tonight. He could already see his mustache trembling with anger, the red creeping up the sides of his neck.

Stan took a deep breath and clenched his fists, feeling the crescent of his nails bite into the soft skin on his palms. This was momentary distraction from the monster headache he currently had, courtesy of the painting lady. A shudder ran through him as he thought about the woman who wasn’t truly a woman, just an evil twist of a face that had skittered at him, like a cockroach.

“Guys?” He called out, the panic settling in. “Guys, where’d you go?” No response. The quiet hung in the air, heavy, only penetrated by random drops of water. Stan swept the flashlight around, trying to figure out which pothole he had just emerged from, when a piercing giggle erupted out of nowhere. “Hello?!” His voice more frantic, more desperate for Richie to just be fucking with him in a bad moment, for Bev to start breaking out in her normal peals of laughter and reveal that she had been okay this whole time. The laughter was more of an echo this time, sending chills down his spine. It was an echo… but it was closer. Closer. Closer.

Behind him!

Like the sound of his mother’s drumming nails when she was irritated with him, the lady in the painting flew at him. Stan jerked backward only to hit the wall, knocking the wind out of him, rendering him useless for a second. That was all she needed. Her smile widened as rows of teeth, dank and dripping with gray water, flashed in the quickly dimming beam of his flashlight. He screamed, screamed with terror and hope that Bill would come flying out to save the day, but her jaws stretched and suddenly he could only feel unimaginable pain. Her teeth bit into his skin and he had given up screaming, and now was writhing around, which made her clench down harder on the sides of his face. Stan was giving into the darkness that crept into the sides of his vision when a loud clang rang through the sewers and he heard a bewildered “What the fuck is that thing?”

The woman leeched off into the darkness before Stan could register what had happened, and suddenly there was a crowd of people surrounding him. Stan! Stan, are you okay? Stan please say something! S-S-S-Stan! Stan’s eyes flew open at the sound of Bill’s voice and he immediately began screaming again. “You left me!” He scrambled backward and hit the wall again. “You all left me and you swore you wouldn’t!” Hot tears ran into the wounds, causing them to sting. When did he start crying? Still pushing back at them, accusing them of things beyond their control, Stan began growing hysterical. “You left me! You left me! You

‘ve left me no choice, laddies.” Mr. Nell said, causing Stan to jump back into the present. “I hafta call your parents ta come getcha in the mornin’.” Nobody but Richie was bold enough to groan at this statement, and he only did after the policeman was out of sight. Stan knew he was in for it once he got home. He might’ve almost died three hours ago, but he was definitely never going to see his twelfth birthday.

Leaning his head against the wall, Stan tried to close his eyes and ignore the pounding in his head. Some shuffling noises were made as Eddie curled into Richie, buried himself in the fabric of his t-shirt and Richie threw an arm around the smaller boy. Beverly made no noise while tipping her head onto Ben’s shoulder and squeezing Mike’s arm, and both boys smiled softly in response. For a moment, Bill stayed completely still, but then reached for Stan’s hand. Stan jerked his eyes back open to only find Bill staring at him with the inevitable question in his eyes- Are you okay? Lacing their fingers together and squeezing hard, Stan closed his eyes again.

In the morning he wasn’t only berated for coming out of the Neibolt street house half alive, but also that the Uris couple found their son lying cheek to cheek with that no-good Denbrough boy, fast asleep with their limbs entangled together. He got an earful, but Stanley didn’t mind much. He felt much braver than he ever had before.

Stop and stare

I think I'm moving but I go nowhere

Beverly Marsh was almost fourteen years old and she was trying desperately to remember the name of the boy with bug-eyed glasses. It began as a joke she was trying to tell to Ella, another freshman who kept her head down and avoided the popular girls at all costs. “Tangled up there, lass?” Beverly had remarked when Ella came out of the bathroom stall with her skirt caught in her underwear. The girl laughed and asked what accent that was supposed to be, and Beverly began to answer when she caught herself short. “Well… it’s called the Scottish Cop.” She said slowly. “This boy… he used to do it all the time… even straight to a policeman’s face.” Ella then laughed once more and led them both out of the bathroom, a place they never willingly spent more time if they didn’t have to. (Another feeling Beverly couldn’t quite place- restrooms made her nervous. Like she was helpless.)

Spending the rest of the school day thinking it over, she still didn’t have a name when she pulled her bike up to her aunt’s back door. A quick hello and a dash up the stairs led Beverly onto the floor of her bedroom, thinking about her life in Derry.

She was born in Derry, Maine. Raised in a house with light blue shutters and a broken living room window. Inside lived Beverly and Al Marsh, a sweet child with cherub cheeks and a father who liked to beat his daughter senseless whenever he had the opportunity. Al had died in that house too, but from what? A lot of dying was happening, Beverly could remember that much. That’s why she was sent to Portland. Her father… but who else? Who else had died- G-G-Georgie. Georgie Denbrough. Little brother of Big Bill Denbrough, a tall boy who had a stutter but also a sweet dimple and layers of freckles that Beverly suddenly remembered being incredibly charmed by. Bill was the leader of the ragtag group of kids that followed him around on his heels and took heed of every word he stuttered out, and Beverly was no different. Like a puppy and it’s owner, Beverly saw stars when she looked at Bill.

That was a long time ago. She was tougher now, she didn’t let any boys tell her what to do or when to do it. Not that the boys she had loved back in Derry were mean, they were just in charge. Beverly was the captain of her own destiny now.

However, there were days when a sickly feeling would crawl up the back of her neck and make her turn around fast, for one second, to find nothing but a breeze behind her. There were days when walking into a bathroom meant going straight to the toilet to throw up, because the sight of white-tiled walls made her inexplicably nauseous. There were days when she would cross to the other side of the street to avoid a storm drain with an open grate. There were days when Beverly Marsh did not feel in control at all, and she wished that Bill Denbrough was there to tell her what to do.

He was back in Derry, however, and sent her postcards every once and awhile to remind her. They were never waxing letters of love and longing, (although she had one of those too, but it stayed in the back of her closet and in the back of her mind) but instead cheerful reminders to write to her old pals back in Derry. She had tried once, but after crying in frustration when she couldn’t figure out the name of the place they used to spend all of their time, that dusty forest with the great big cliff drop off, the letter went into her wastepaper basket. Beverly now kept the postcards in a plastic pencil case box at the top of her closet.

They now sat scattered around her as she tried to figure out the kid’s name. Bill’s letters mentioned Stan the Man, Trashmouth, Eddie, Benny Boy, and Mike, but Beverly couldn’t decipher the differences between all of them. It was like they were characters in a book she had read long ago, all blending together to make a ball of personality- Someone hated taking their shirt off when they swam, another kept an inhaler glued to his hand, one worked on a farm and brought them all apples when the season was right. Bill was the only one that stood out in her mind, but that was because he had always stood out. He was first the boy with the dead brother. He then became the leader of the group. Bill never wore glasses, though, this much she could remember.

Giving up after a last ditch skim through the letters, Beverly lied down on her bed and curled up into a ball. Perhaps it was for the better that she couldn’t quite remember Derry. After all, she had left her father there, and that was definitely for good.

In the morning, Beverly had forgotten all about the conundrum of the boy with the bug-eyed glasses and ate her toast and jam in complete peace. After kissing her aunt on the cheek and grabbing her brown bagged lunch, she mounted her bike (an old, rickety thing that glinted in the sun and caused her aunt to worry when she made a sharp turn around the corner of the neighborhood) and lifted her fist in the air, crowing with triumph, “Heigh ho, Silver away!”

Yeah, I know that everyone gets scared

But I've become what I can't be

He dropped to the floor, clutching his ears and trembling. The bang of the gun was too much for him to handle, even though it had been ten years since he had a reason to actually fear it. Staring the sheep right in the eyes to mirror the eye contact Henry had held with him before attempting to blow his brains out was a bitter pill for Mike to swallow.

One he often choked on.

The farmhand, a younger boy named Thomas, tried to hide the sigh that escaped as Mike took a deep breath, calming the tremors that ran through his body. He didn’t chastise him for the disrespect, because he knew he would’ve done the same thing if he was fifteen and working for a crazy man. “Do you mind finishing up here?” Mike asked. The boy nodded and picked up the abandoned gun, hanging it off of the shelf and slung the sheep around his shoulders. Mike’s stomach turned with the sight of blood dripping from it’s head, the one he had just put a bullet through, and pushed through the barn doors.

Dropping to his knees and taking in deep gulps of breath, Mike let the heat of the sun beat down on his back. The memories of that day were too vivid in his mind. Things were never truly the same afterwards, he knew it, the Losers Club knew it, even his parents understood that there was a change in their boy. He was no longer the delicate yet strong boy they had raised. He no longer wanted to explore all of the unbeaten paths of Derry. Mike had lost the spark of curiosity that made so many people love him. Each member of the club had reached a level of adulthood that no eleven year old should be able to understand.

They handled it in their own ways. Beverly, for starters, moved away. Completely. It wasn’t really her choice, but she wasn’t arguing. She had told them all once, in a hushed voice at one of Bill Denbrough’s sleepovers, that she heard noises in her house still. Dripping water pipes. Child-like whispers. Faint circus music. Beverly Marsh left Derry with a skip in her step and a promise to write them all at least once a month with a review of the latest horror movie in theaters. (They never heard from her again. Bill kept sending letters, however. They would gather around and write it together, jutting in with their own handwriting and stories of things they thought she would like. Mike always wrote lengthy descriptions of the butterfly migrations. Bill would sign each one with Losers Forever.)

Bill began to write. He was always good at english and he came up with the best lies to get them out of scrapes, but this was something different. Pages and pages of horror stories began surfacing, dropped off at their doors with varying notes. (“Is this something to actually be scared of?” “Can you check my grammar?” Mike was always asked to see if the story was historically accurate, to see if pilgrims would’ve been in Utah during November, 1650, or something of that nature.) The group never acknowledged it, but the stories became increasingly real, increasingly familiar, until they just had a specific recount of the day at the Neibolt house and they all gathered together and cried, as thirteen year olds are wont to do.

As if nothing ever happened, Stanley Uris would refuse to talk about anything that had occurred. He began spending less time with the group as well, and they all hated to see the strained look on Bill’s face when any of them questioned where Stan was. Sometimes they saw him riding his bike around town, or birdwatching in the park, and none of them really said anything about it. Stan was affected in a different way that day, because he had to face the monster alone. When they made a promise to come back and fight if It ever resurfaced, Stan’s hand shook when he held out the broken coke bottle. He was with them until he wasn’t.

Richie and Eddie became RichieandEddie and no one was brave enough to bring it up. Not brave, there was no bravery in that sort of confrontation, but no one was willing to take away something that made them happy. They each had their thing, and they happened to be each others. So if cuddling so tightly you couldn’t distinguish who was who during movies nights, Richie comforting Eddie alone during his panic attacks, them spending more time together than with the Losers made them happy, what else could they do except stand there and think Thank God we are safe and we have one another?

Ben and Mike began spending more time together as well. They both migrated toward the library and found solace in the quiet stacks of books, arming themselves with knowledge and words instead of weapons and fire. It began subconsciously, showing up at the same time because they had wordlessly made a schedule, sharing a table and putting each other’s books away as a favor. Then one day Mike wasn’t there because of some chores and Ben called his house breathlessly wondering if Mike was okay and if he could speak to him, please? Suddenly showing up was a lot more purposeful now, Ben bringing two sleeves of Necco Wafers, Mike having enough paper for both of them to take notes. Library days became Mike’s favorite because he knew that he wouldn’t have to face the world for a while, and he had a great pal beside him.

This is where Mike found himself drifting to, ten years later. Benjamin Hanscom had left Derry when they were fifteen years old, but Mike still loved the library and the peace it brought him. The rattle of his beat-up Ford slowed to a stop outside of the Derry City Library and Mike suddenly didn’t feel as nauseous as he once did. Greeting the librarian with a quick smile, he took his spot at the table he had occupied for so many years and cracked open whatever book was lying on the end. A tale of princesses and knights in shining armor.

The lazy afternoon light filtered in as time went on, and Mike looked up. The clock on the wall told him it was definitely time for him to head home. As he put the book back, something etched into the surface of the table caught his eye. Result of a day where Ben and Mike tried to convince the others to meet at the library, Richie had taken out his pen knife and carved LOSERS FOREVER BITCH into their sacred reading table. Ben had almost cried when he saw it and Mike threatened to punch him before Bill had stepped in and calmed everyone down. Mike knew that it was Eddie who had snuck back in and scratched out the ‘BITCH,’ risking the chance that he would be teased mercilessly. He grazed the carving lightly, remembering fondly of the moments where he felt invincible standing next to the rest of his friends. He felt a surge of protection even seeing it, feeling guarded by the ghosts of the Losers Club. And by God, isn’t that what Mike wanted? To feel safe again, even if for one day?

Stop and stare

You start to wonder why you're here not there

The top button of his shirt was making his neck itch something fierce. He wasn’t quite sure why he had to wear it so tightly around his neck, but the striped tie he also had held it up fastidiously. The itch, in the end, did not matter. Because when you’re attending your little brother’s funeral, trivial things like the top button of your shirt seemed to be important for only seconds at a time.

Technically, the funeral had already passed. Bill had spent the morning in the local church, holding his mother’s hand as she cried. He had been strangely stoic for a just-turned eleven year old boy, but maybe it was to show his father that he was a man, that he was strong enough to be his son. It didn’t matter. Zach and Sharon Denbrough cried through the entire service, and their adventurous (alive) son sat between them, unblinking. On the way home Sharon accidentally caught Bill’s eye in the mirror and for the first time in his young life, she did not smile back.

Bill’s top button was itching him as he sat in the middle of the upstairs hallway listening to the people that were gathered downstairs. A low murmur crept up from the crowd, people apologizing to his parents while trying to mask their secret relief that it wasn’t their own child’s funeral and eating crudites. For a while Bill had stood with them, but he got antsy and his dad tapped him on the back, relieving him of the duty. Not really sure where he wanted to be, (not his room because he could see Georgie’s bed and Georgie’s toys and Georgie’s things but there wasn’t a Georgie anymore) Bill slid down the wall and hid from the rest of the people.

He untied the tie around his neck with clumsy fingers, just pulling at the knot until it came loose, and then unbuttoned the itchy culprit of a top button. Just as he sighed with relief, pairs of footsteps came bounding up the stairs and almost stepped right on top of him. “Hole-lee shit!” Richie exclaimed. “I faouwnd ‘im, boys!” For an inexplicable reason, hearing Richie’s terrible Cowboy Joe voice relaxed Bill just a bit more, and looking into the eyes of his best friends made him release all of the tension in his small, eleven year old shoulders.

Eddie and Stan looked impeccable, as if anything else was to be expected of them. Both in little suit jackets that were broken out for special occasions, like Sabbath when Stan’s Bubbe came to dinner or Christmas when Eddie was dragged by the ear to church for an incredibly boring amount of time. Richie was in a clean pair of jeans and a button-up, since his parents did not believe in buying such an expensive item of clothing for a growing boy. The trio looked very nice, but they also looked out of place, as if their very faces told the story that they should not be dressed in their nicest clothes on a Thursday afternoon. The slump in their shoulders and pity in their eyes said I should be playing in the sunshine, not mourning the loss of my best friend’s little brother. However, there they stood. At the feet of the boy with the dead brother.

“H-H-Hey guys.” Bill said quietly, smiling half-heartedly up at them. They all crowded down with him and wordlessly wrapped their arms around each other, making Bill the center of their small universe. He said nothing, just let them pat him slightly and make comforting noises for a second before slinging an arm around Stan. A small sniffle escaped from him, and the boys all let go for a second. They settled in the middle of the hallway, a tight circle with their knees overlapping each other. Eddie was wrapped up in Richie’s side, and Bill didn’t let go of Stan.

They still sat in silence and watched Bill fight back tears, tears that he wasn’t allowed to shed in front of his father, tears that he would probably get made fun of by Richie for later, but tears that suddenly spilled over when Stan carefully bumped his forehead against Bill’s. The small act of sincerity reminded Bill that he would never be able to feel Georgie’s small hand grasp for his when they were crossing the street, and now he was a blubbering mess. He didn’t dare try to say anything because he knew his stuttering would be terrible, but the other boys seemed to understand everything he was feeling. So Bill just cried, and his best friends held him while he did.

Later, Bill sat on his bed, his feet dangling off of the edge, staring at his closed door. Eddie was brushing his teeth, Richie looking through his meager record collection, and Stan sat next to him, reading from a book about birds. “Hoopoe is a national bird of Israel and one of the birds that were considered sacred in-”

“I-I-I-I wis-sh-sh it had b-b-been me.” Bill cut Stan off. The soft slap of a record hitting the floor came from Richie. “H-He d-d-d-didn’t deserve t-to d-d-die. Sh-Sh-Should’ve b-b-been m-m-m-me.” The Big Book of Birds closed with a thump. “I s-s-sent hi-him out th-th-there with-thout anyo-o-ne.” Stan reached for his hand, but Bill drew it away with a suddenness that made Stan jump. “D-D-Don’t p-p-pity me. I-I-it’s t-t-true, and I-I-I c-c-can’t take it b-b-back.”

Bill jumped off the bed and flung open his bedroom door. He stared at Georgie’s bed with a hard look in his eye and then made the decision that he would never close the door again, because he deserved to be reminded of the thing he had done, and he wanted to make things fair. Georgie had died because of him and Bill was going to make himself pay.

And you'd give anything to get what's fair

But fair ain't what you really need

This isn’t fucking fair, Bill thought. My friends are going to die because of me, and that just isn’t fair. The clown had him by the throat, his breath hot and rancid and making Bill feel slightly dizzy. “As I feed on your fear.” It finished, giving that wide, maniacal grin. “Or.” He tried turning his head to look at the thing, but it tightened its grip, the talons biting into his flesh. “You'll just leave us be. I'm taking him, only him. And then I'll have my long rest and you will all live to grow old and drive and lead happy lives until old age takes you back to the weeds.”

Bill’s shoulders fell with relief. His friends could live, really live, have long lives where they got to do more than build a dam in the Barrens or watch crappy horror movies all day long. All he had to do was convince them to leave. Their spouts of protest suggested otherwise, but he knew that they would go if he told them to. He was Big Bill after all. Always the one to make the decisions. “Leave,” he commanded. The room went quiet for a moment, because that’s what the world seemed to do when Bill Denbrough spoke. All of creation paused just to hear him speak. “I’m the one who dragged you all into this. Go!”

Like deer in headlights, his friends stared at him as they tried to make their decision. After a pregnant moment of silence, Richie took a step forward. “Sorry, Bill.” He shook his head. “I told you, Bill. I fucking told you, I don't want to die…” Bill took a deep breath. Richie was going to lead them all out of the sewers, Richie was going to save their lives, Richie was going to leave him to die. And Bill wasn’t even angry about it. “It's your fault. You punched me in the face, you made me walk through shitty water, you brought me to a fucking crackhead-house. And now… I'm gonna have to kill this fucking clown!” Before Bill could react, Richie swung his bat with the power of God himself. “Welcome to the Loser’s Club, asshole!”

A flurry of pipes being thrown and children grabbing onto his back and Bill being released from it’s terrible grasp then commenced. He immediately joined in on the fight and they all fought back, harder and harder until it took the form of a man none of them had seen before. Except Beverly.

The man had asked a question Bill did not understand, called her a name he had not heard before, when Beverly screamed a terrible and ugly scream and rammed an iron rod down his throat. They all watched as it flung itself down the larger sewer hole and stood together, beaten and bruised, but alive.

In the quiet, Bill came to a decision. Maybe his life wasn’t fair. If it was fair, Georgie would be almost seven by now and starting the second grade. If it was fair, he would be able to sit with his parents and feel the love and light his home used to carry. If it was fair, Stan would look at him just like Beverly did. His life wasn’t fair, but he tried his hardest to make it right. Bill fought for Georgie, for his parents, for his friends. Fair wasn’t what he needed. Bill needed things to be just.

hello this is really fucking long jesus @ me. anyways pls leave a comment and i will show up outside of your window at midnight with a boombox to serenade you

#it #it 2017 #it chapter one #it chapter two #it 2019 #eddie kaspbrack #richie tozier #ben hanscom #stanley uris #beverly marsh #mike hanlon #bill denbrough #stenbrough #reddie #reddie fanfiction #stenbrough fanfiction #it fanfiction

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flying-hybrid · 5 years

Text

The People Story - Episode 1: The presence of the present

Hello! Here’s the first part of my story! :D Please enjoy! Put under “read more” due to it being a long one.

The year was 2119, and things were much different than the past. The past stays as history to the people in 2119, and the future is now. Flying cars, machines no man before could make.

As the time ticked on one more for the next day, a man slowly wakes up from his bed, the effects of the sleeping pill slowly wearing off. He sits up and glances around the room. His same old room, his same old life.

“Hey, Holo. Give me the time.” He mumbles while sitting up to rub his eyes.

“Oh, Master Henry, you must have forgotten your sleeping pill is set to wake you at the right time, but I can still certainly tell you the time.” The hologram showed up, there in blocky text it said 7:00 AM. Henry adjusts his eyes to look at the time presented to him.

“Alright, about a hour to get ready for today’s meeting… You can go now.” Henry stood up as the hologram disappeared. He pulls up his pants to keep them from falling, the pair of pants he has not taken off in two days.

Henry grabs his mug as he walks into the kitchen and puts it under a tap. A scanner scans the barcode in the mug and automatically fills it with coffee. He puts it on a cup holder hover and walks off as the cup follows him. He takes a sip as he plops down on the couch tiredly.

Just as he sits, a door slides open very quickly. Stomps get louder and louder as his daughter Anna walks down to the living room, readying herself, then diving right onto Henry. Henry grunts as he lightly pushes Anna aside.

“Hi dad!” Anna greets him with a cheesy wave. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

“Hey, I’m dressed and I got my coffee. I’m prepared for anything!” He justifies as he drinks more coffee. “You should be getting ready for school, miss.”

Anna shrugs, obviously giving up. “Alright, you win. Make sure you really are prepared though! Cya!” She shouts as she walks to her room but stops at the door frame. “By the way, check the time.” She enters her room.

Henry looks up at the clock, 7:30 AM. “Oh fuck, I gotta go! Anna!” He falls his daughter’s name. “Please don’t skip school again, and take the bus!” Henry yells to her as he leaves the house and goes to his flying car. He turns on auto drive as he leans back and drinks more coffee. “God… That girl can be crazy sometimes.” He wonders as he reads the newspaper on his cell phone, iGlass 7.

Headline: Elementals going missing in downtown Flintwood. No evidence for their disappearance, law enforcement still searching for clues to their whereabouts. More information will be coming out as the investigation continues.

Henry shrugs, looking back out his front window and seeing the location getting close. He puts his phone away and goes back to manual drive. Finding a good place to park his car, he gets out and walks into the big building with glass windows everywhere.

He stands at the door to the elevator, waiting for it to open. A woman and a man walk out, wearing business suits and carrying briefcases. Henry rolls his eyes, and goes inside the elevator. “Alright, floor 7, wasn’t it?” He mumbles to himself as he presses the floor 7 button, hoping it was right.

The elevator rises higher and higher until it makes it to Henry’s floor. He takes a step out, and looks around at the professional business people. He looks down at himself, wearing his usual clothes like he always does. Feeling unprofessional, he blushes slightly.

Henry makes it through the hallways and finds exactly what he’s looking for, the office meeting room. He takes a deep breath and opens the door to go in.

No one is there, just Henry. A code menu appears in front of Henry. Henry shrugs and types the code he remembers. The meeting table begins to glow, and rise up to create a portal for Henry to enter in. He gladly enters the portal and enters into the E.M.R, short for Elemental Meeting Room.

“Well, you’re surely late.” The light king says, standing up and walking towards him. He gives Henry a icy, cold glare down at him. “Please, don’t be late again. We nearly started without you.” He walks back to his seat and sits down.

“S-Sorry, Aalok.” Henry gulps and sits in his respected seat, his fire throne. Covered with streams of wood painted like Magma, ash and obsidian decorated around it. “So, what’s the meeting about?”

“Well, glad you could ask.” The light king adjusts his collar proudly as he coughs. “Ahem. I gathered you all here to discuss about the earth kingdom. How it crumbled down and how the king was taken down.”

“Don’t forget the queen, pale ass.” The darkness queen mumbles, crossing her arms and showing a aura of not wanting to be here.

Henry shrugs at her poor behaviour and looks back at Aalok. “Sure, whatever Miss.” Aalok continues where he left off. “Anyways, Their legacy was strong. I’m proud to say they were a very, very incredible kingdom. Keeping the balance of earth strong!” Quite surprisingly, somebody raises their hand. Aalok shrugs. “What?” He asks to the raised hand.

The water queen answers. “From what I learnt in my history books, the king and queen were the creators of this very meeting room. They had a lot to do with some of our traditions and kingdoms that still stand to this day!” She adds onto what he said.

“Yeah, exactly Wai. We need to make a plan in honour of them. To honour their work and what they’ve done to help us be who we are today.” Aalok goes on. “I have a special idea that will be very helpful to complete that.”

Betty shrugs and rolls her eyes. Henry listens, interested in the plan. His attention snaps and looks over to Brise. “I know too!” Brise starts rambling. “We should totally build a giant statue of the queen! She was so nice and wonderful from what I heard of so we can totally do tha-”

“No, Brise, that simply wouldn’t do.” Aalok cuts off Brise.

“Oh! Maybe we can have a celebration for her! I can help supply snacks! Maybe some chocolate, her favourite.” Wai wonders out loud about her idea.

“How do you know that’s her favourite?” Henry asks. “You’ve never met her.”

“Oh! I’ve read it in a book. A book about her legacy.” Wai responds. “I can give you the book if you want!”

“Oh, no thanks. I’m not a reading type.”

“Alright then, you’re missing out on a good read.” She grins and looks off from him. Henry sighs.

Aalok, frustrated already, shrugs loudly to get everybody’s attention. “You guys never listen, do you? Oh well, it’s a Friday. Meet at the tree by Monday, when you guys are actually willing to listen.” He stands, and walks off while pulling the light queen behind him.

Everybody sits there, watching him leave. Thinking about how frustrated he was, but being too nervous to fix it. Betty sighs and stands, pulling a lollipop out of her mouth.

“You guys really are some brain washed fools, aren’t you?” She leaves, throwing her lollipop out in the trash as she walks over to her portal.

“Yeeeesh, what’s wrong with her these days? She’s been so grumpy during these meetings!” Brise mutters. “I miss when she was able to laugh at my jokes.” He leans to his husband for support. His husband simply pats his shoulder.

“Look, I’m sure it’s just a phase. Maybe her period?” Henry questions.

Wai snaps her view to Henry, looking offended at his comment.

“Sorry, that was wrong of me. Look, maybe this is just temporary. I don’t get why she has to be so rude to Aalok though, he literally wants to do something very caring for the dead earth rulers!” Henry insisted. He sits back down and thinks for a minute. “I still wanna know what the idea he wants to do is. I’d like to know.” He rests his cheek on his hand, the other one tapping on the table.

Hours later, Henry returned home. Henry walks up to his automatic food maker and summons in fast food burger. He sits at the dinner table and begins to eat it. “Mmmmm. Man, I really needed that.” Henry exclaims, then takes another bite. The sound of the flying bus pulls up in front of the house, Henry looks over to see Anna coming out from the bus and heading home. She bursts the door open.

“Hey dad! Uhh, how did your meeting go?” Anna questions.

“Oh, it went alright, I guess.” He takes another bite. “Oh what am I saying? It was shitty. We got literally nothing done. Aalok just got angry and left!” Henry rants on with his mouth full. Anna gently pats his shoulder.

“Dad, quit eating with your mouth full, you’re gonna choke. Also, that sucks. Maybe going to visit Billy would help?” Anna said.

“What’s up with Billy right now?” Henry asks.

“Oh, you know. He’s been exploring some new hobbies, shit like that. Painting, you get the jest.”

“Oh.” Henry shrugs, looking at the clock. “We do have some time to go over and see him.”

“OH FUCK YEAAAA!” Anna rushes to her room and runs back out, holding a book. “LET’S GO SEE BIG BRO BILLY!” She kicks Henry’s thigh, then runs to the car. Henry shrugs and gets up slowly, following after her.

He sits down in the driver’s seat, Anna sitting next to him. “Hey, Anna, remember how to start the car?” Henry asks.

Anna rolls her eyes, in a over exaggerated type of way. “Yeah dad, of course.” She takes his key and starts the car. The car begins to float. A hologram shows up, giving options on where to go. Henry presses Billy’s house to drive to. The car begins to drive off to his house.

Anna taps her lap as she waits to see Billy. Henry sighs, and leans back. “I looked at the news this morning, elementals going missing. What’s up with that?” Henry asks.

“Oh, I don’t know. Kids at my school were talking about it. They’re saying a horrrribbble beast is kidnapping them! Ooooooo!” She giggles, her scary persona crumbling. “Seriously though, we’ve been worried. One of my classmates in science didn’t show up, she was the smartest in the class!”

“Don’t think negatively, she might of been sick.” Henry responds. “I’m sure she’ll be alright.” He takes out his iGlass and looks at more articles. “Even if she is missing, she might be safe.”

“I guess.” Anna leans back, watching the cars in front of her driving. “Man, I wish we lived closer to Billy.”

“Yeah, me too. He loves the big city though, especially since he found a boyfriend there a year ago, he’s been very independent.” Henry smiles, thinking about Billy. His smile fades off after a minute. He sighs, kind of sadly. Then Henry shakes his head and continues on driving.

They pull up to Billy’s house, a well kept house with a beautiful, small tree in front of their house. By the time Henry gets out of his seat, Anna has already made it to the front door. She knocks repeatedly, until Billy opens the door. Anna punches Billy.

“Owch! Anna!” Billy gasped as he grabbed his chest.

“Oops, Sorry Billy!” She apologizes as she hugs him. Billy hugs her back, accepting the apology.

Billy looks up to see Henry. “Oh, hey dad!” He goes up to him, smiling as brightly as ever. “I heard you had a meeting today. How’d that go?”

“Ughhhh, it was definitely shitty at best.” Henry groans as he rests his head on Billy’s shoulder.

“Hey. you wanna come inside? We got lunch all ready.” Billy offers. Henry accepts, and follows Billy inside. Henry smells the freshly summoned food sitting at the table, ready to be eaten.

“You’re very lucky we got a lot of food, my boyfriend and I were gonna save the rest for leftovers.”

Henry walks over to the dining table, seeing Billy’s boyfriend sitting at the table. “Oh! Hello Mr. Helvete.” He greets.

“Shane, I really hope you don’t mind my dad and sister joining in.” Billy says as he sits next to Shane.

“Oh, it’s okay. Maybe we can have our ‘romantic date’ for dinner.” Shane chuckles and holds Billy’s hand. Billy blushes and giggles too. “Alright, now let’s eat before this gets cold.”

The family begins to eat, enjoying the delicious meal that was prepared for them. Billy ate slowly, wondering about the taste. Anna looks up to Billy and grins.

“Hey, Bill! I bought that book that we found at the library. You know, the study of food? Whatever it was called.” She tells him.

“Oh sweet, thanks Anna!” He grins. “I don’t know, lately I’ve been wondering what’s been up with our meals. It seems quite odd to me.”

“Like how?” Shane asks, shoving a piece of meat into his mouth and slowly chewing.

“Like, uhhhhh.” Billy glances at Anna. She hands him the book and he begins flipping the pages. “Aha! Here it is."

“Over developing years, scientists have conducted experiments to automatically summon food in homes so cooking isn’t a requirement. After many, many failed experiments, a new hope was raised to get the system going after teleportation had been invented. After using teleportation, the mission had finally been completed. Machine builds the food, and it stays ready until the requestor teleports it over.”

“Ahhhh, I see. That’s very interesting. I like our food though, it’s nice.” Shane responds as he continues to eat. Billy sighs and goes back to his food too.

“I know there’s like, illegal restaurants and shit.” Henry adds. “Ever been to one?”

“Hmmmm, I don’t think I have. I mean, they’re illegal after all. If anybody’s found out, they’ll be thrown into jail for years!” Billy sighs. “People say cooking is gross, that the automatic food maker is a better alternative.”

“That’s a good point.” Henry finishes his meal and wipes his face with a napkin. “Thank you for letting us stay to eat, guys.”

“Oh you’re welcomed, dad.” Billy responds. He glances out the window. “Sorry I couldn’t come to the meeting this time, by the way. I’ll try to make it to the next one. Where is it?”

“It’s at the tree, ya know. The Maple Tree.” Henry mumbles. “I think we’re trying to do something to honour the earth king and queen. Don’t know though, he got pissed and ran off before he could say.”

“Ah, I get you. I’ll definitely join in.” Billy says. “Shoot me a message when it’s time to go, I don’t usually do much since I don’t have a job yet.”

“Alright, cool.” Henry stands up. “Alright Anna, we should head home now.”

“Awwwwww man! Alright fine.” Anna stands up, and stretches her back. “I’m ready.”

Henry and Anna make it to the door. “Bye son, bye Shane.” Henry waves goodbye to them.

They leave to go back to the car. The car starts and they choose to go home. Henry sighs again and looks at the articles one last time.

Update: At least 10 people suspected to be taken by one man

Henry reads, interested about what the results were.

Evidence found that 10 people have been kidnapped from their homes late last night, the kidnapping pattern being the same, or very similar from one after the other. Law enforcement say to be cautious, lock your doors and be prepared, but they also say this doesn’t seem like a immediate public threat.

Henry sighs. “They think ten people have been taken by the exact same person. Isn’t that crazy? I don’t think anything of the sort had happened in such a long time.” Henry begins to ramble on about a kidnapping event when he was younger, trying to avoid saying the name of the lost victim.

“That’s cool.” Anna says, distracted by a game she plays on her iGlass. Henry chuckles slightly, seeing how she wasn’t listening but trying to. He leans back in his seat, watching the sky road.

He begins to think about the earth king and queen. Their legacy, their honour. They, however, were dead. Life can’t be brought back, the dead is dead. Why are we talking about them now when it’s been over 100 years by now. He sighs, happy that at least they were gonna pay some respects.

#TPS #The People Story #Original Story #Story #Episode 1 #Henry Helvete #Anna Helvete #Billy Helvete #Shane Brown #Betty Kungur #Wai Shinju #Brise Laminar #Aalok Photonos #Dawn Photonos #Long post

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itsworn · 5 years

Text

Traditional 1928 Ford Model A Hot Rod is Driven Everywhere!

Most couples celebrate milestones like birthdays and wedding anniversaries with some sort of splurge: a trip, a fancy night on the town, maybe a new piece of keepsake jewelry. Vic and Debbie Hager have their own way to mark those special occasions: They build hot rods.

When the high-school sweethearts were dating, Vic drove them around in a ’57 Chevy pickup. It went away, as a lot of high school cars do. But as the years went by, Vic started looking for another like it.

Hot rods and airports have a relationship that goes back almost as far as gow jobs and dry lakes. Thanks to one of Vic Hager’s many friends, we photographed his Model A roadster at historic Minter Army Air Field in Shafter, California.

Debbi beat him to the punch, buying him a similar truck for his birthday in 2001. They drove it to their 30th high school reunion, and it remains Vic’s daily driver today.

For their 35th wedding anniversary, Vic and Debbi decided to build another truck, this time a hot rod ’40 Ford pickup that had been taking shape in Vic’s mind for a while. Drawings on napkins at the dinner table morphed into a tattoo of the chopped, slammed, and fenderless Ford on Vic’s right forearm—before the truck was even built.

Not only did Vic want a car with early parts, but he also wanted to build it using the same kinds of processes available to a young rodder in the late 1940s or early 1950s. So the Model A’s single-stage paint job was sprayed by Vic and Bob Gleim in Bob’s driveway.

“But there’s only one way I’d do it,” Vic says, “and that was if Debbi helped me. And I don’t mean just bringing me iced tea in the garage while I work. I mean really helped me. Side-by-side, every step of the way.”

That’s exactly how it happened. The two of them essentially built the car from scratch, with Vic teaching Debbi how to weld “so we could fabricate what we needed,” he says. The result is something far more meaningful to the couple than another bauble on a bracelet. Not to mention a whole lot more fun.

Close examination of the tail panel reveals some of Jason “3 Sheets” Janes’s black-on-black pinstriping, including Vic’s mother’s name, Betty, at the lower right corner. The script mimics her signature, so it looks like she signed the car herself.

So when Vic’s 60th birthday rolled around, Debbi kept the couple’s milestone tradition going by buying Vic a Model A roadster.

“He was ready to retire,” she recalls, “and had built a shop in back of our house. I asked him, ‘Why don’t you finish the shop and do a car?’”

Doing a car turned into a five-year project for Vic and Debbi, with help from friends, family, and fellow members of the Bakersfield-area 99s car club.

Vic says one of the hardest parts of the roadster’s build was getting the decklid right, as the skin oil-canned when it was pulled away from its inner structure to punch the louvers. Vic Heliarc-welded the skin back to the frame, then heated the metal with a shrinking wheel and cooled it with a rag “about a million times” to get the metal right again.

As he had done with the ’40 pickup, Vic formed a very clear vision of what the roadster should be. “I wanted to build the car as a lakes-style hot rod, like a kid would have done after the war. The kind of car you’d drive to the lakes, take everything off of it, race it, then put everything back on and drive home. I wanted to use as many original Ford parts as possible, and use the same methods and processes available at the time.”

That vision meant taking a whole different approach than what he and Debbi had done with the Ford truck. Instead of fabricating what he needed, Vic would have to hunt down those period-correct parts he saw in his mind’s eye. As it turned out, much of the five years it took to build the car was spent searching for parts.

With help from buddy Bob Van Meter, Vic built a flathead for performance and reliability. The 286ci French block is fitted with Mercury heads and spins a Scat reciprocating assembly with Ross Racing pistons. Smith Auto of Dinuba, California, did Vic’s machining work, while Reynolds Machine balanced the flywheel and clutch assembly. Spark comes from a rebuilt Joe Hunt magneto out of a 1980s sprint car. Vic fabricated the stainless-steel exhaust system, with 1-5/8-inch header pipes flowing back to 2 1/8-inch tailpipes.

Vic admits he made some concessions to the all-vintage-parts plan, but they were made in the name of durability. “Debbi and I wanted to drive the car everywhere, and we live in 100-degrees-plus in Bakersfield.” A cool-running flathead was high on his list of priorities, as was a sparkier 12-volt ignition system, albeit one fired by a rebuilt Joe Hunt magneto. (See sidebar for Vic’s cooling tricks.)

Debbi’s present was a great place to start. The ’28 Model A was “pretty straight and had no rust,” says Vic, but also had no front fenders, running boards, or hood. “It looked like they were going to hot-rod it, but it was still pretty stock.” There were some issues with the rear decklid, and the fender behind the driver’s seat had a dent where a ladder had fallen on it. “That’s why the guy sold it. After the ladder fell on it, he realized he’d never do anything with it.”

The EAC Mercury heads were milled 0.20 inch and pocketed to make room for 1.6-inch stainless-steel valves. A Howard cam offers 0.405/0.395 inches of lift at 0.050 and a 111-degree lobe separation angle.

The car was a roller, sitting on its stock frame and still fitted with its Model A axles, mechanical brakes, and spoke wheels. Vic cleaned up and painted the frame, but didn’t box the rails or fill in any of the original holes “to keep it as original as possible.” He did add a dropped front crossmember to accommodate a big radiator, a ’32 K-member to hold the flathead, and a new center X-member. The front axle, springs, and wishbones are from a ’36 Ford, while the rearend, rear springs, and ’bones are originals.

The handsome gray wheels, from a ’40 Ford, came from Vic’s buddy Steve Long, who was also the source of “those beautiful ’36 headlights,” says Vic. The lights had been in Steve’s parts stash, and Vic had had his eyes on them for a while. “I always wanted lights like that on a car,” Vic would say to Steve, “but he’d just hem and haw.” One day Steve dropped by Vic’s shop to check out the hot rod’s progress, and he was impressed. “Come get them,” Steve told Vic after the visit. “I want them to be on your car.”

The motor has been stone reliable, except early on Vic felt it “seemed a little lean on the bottom end. I messed with it, but it never seemed perfect.” One day on the way to breakfast, “it just quit. I thought I had fouled a plug and couldn’t get it going.” Vic suspected trouble with the mag, so he drove it up to the Joe Hunt shop near Sacramento, where the issue was traced to a hairline crack by the No. 8 cylinder wire. “So I was really running on seven cylinders the whole time.” With a new cap “everything’s been perfect since.”

The generosity of friends and family is a running theme in this car’s build history. For instance, when it came time to paint the car, Vic wanted to do it the old-fashioned way: “outside, with single-stage paint.” But he had never painted a car before. So he asked a friend, Bob Gleim, for help.

“Bob had been around long enough, had been around hot rods in the Glendale area when he was a kid, so he knew what they did and didn’t do,” says Vic. “I asked him to teach me. Not do all the work, but teach me the process and paint with me. That started a two-month process, working every day of the week. He’d spray some of it to show me, then I’d spray. First the sealer, then the primer, then the black. He was a real good teacher. He knew what he was doing. I didn’t, but I was willing to learn.”

The polished Offy Super Dual intake (which Vic port matched with the block) mounts Stromberg 97s with OTB smooth-dome air cleaners.

Gutsy move, especially given his choice of color. “Yeah, I picked the hardest color on an outdoor paint job on an old car. But it turned out pretty all right.”

Another friend who pitched in was Bob Van Meter, who “taught me how to build a performance flathead,” says Vic. Its foundation is a French block, “a 59AB/8BA combo,” as Vic describes it, displacing 286 ci. Within the block is a Scat crank and balanced H-beam connecting rods mounting Ross Racing pistons. Vic relieved the block at the bores and pocketed the EAC Mercury cylinder heads (which were also milled 0.020) to clear the 1.6-inch stainless valves. Vic port-matched the Offy Super Dual intake manifold and fabricated the stainless-steel exhaust system.

Backing the flattie is a ’38 Ford passenger car transmission that Vic and Bob Gleim filled with truck internals with “better synchros,” says Vic. A torque tube sends power back to the car’s original rearend, filled with 3.54 gears.

Front axle and springs are from a ’36 Ford, while the Model A’s original Houdaille shocks damp the ride. A ’40 Ford provided the hydraulic brakes.

The Model A’s cockpit blends some original Henry parts with handiwork done by Vic, Vic’s brother Paul, and an upholsterer whose name is so long and convoluted that Vic says he goes by just the initial J. Vic fabbed the pedals and the nickel-plated dash bar (where a tonneau attaches), and modified the shift knob into a remarkably accurate self-portrait. Paul is responsible for the woodwork on the car’s floor, toe board, and around the cockpit’s trailing edge.

J’s job was the car’s upholstery, turning what had been a Dodge Caravan rear seat into a tuck-and-rolled, leather-clad beauty. He also made a matching cushion to bolster Debbi when she’s behind the wheel.

When Vic asked J to make a tonneau for the car, J had no idea what he was talking about. He’d never heard the term. Vic described what he wanted, and a light bulb went on in J’s head, as he had done similar covers for boat owners.

The original Model A rearend gets power via a torque tube. Given the undercarriage’s cleanliness, you’d never know that this was a driver until hearing the stories from Vic and Debbi about the miles it has traveled.

As a super-subtle finishing touch, Debbi’s brother, Jason “3 Sheets” Janes, pinstriped parts of the body and the headlight housings—in black. The name “Betty” appears in that black-on-black treatment on the lower right corner of the tail panel. The Model A is named for Vic’s mother, and Jason applied the script in a copy of her handwriting, as if she’d signed the car herself.

“She and my dad, Cecil, would have loved to ride in the car,” Debbi tells us. While it was being built, “they both loved talking about it and sitting in it.” Betty and Cecil passed away before the car was finished, but Betty, at least in name, goes with Vic and Debbi whenever they take the car out.

Vic’s prized ’36 headlights wear more of his brother-in-law’s pinstriping. Getting the lights positioned took a lot of trial-and-error, with Debbi and the couple’s daughter, Rae, holding them and moving them around while Vic checked their height and position relative to the car. Once Vic was satisfied with their location, he made their stanchions.

And take it out they do. When the Model A had barely 50 miles on it, Vic and Debbi drove it to a car show in Tehachapi, some 40 miles away, “in 110-degree heat,” says Vic. “That was a real test of that flathead motor.” They have since driven it to the Ventura Nationals, the “Burgers-N-Burnouts” HOT ROD 70th anniversary show in Pomona, and to their hometown track, Famoso, to the California Hot Rod Reunion and the March Meet. As we write this, they plan to go to the SCTA’s season opener at El Mirage, taking the same backroads that the pioneer lakes racers did.

We first spotted the car at CHRR and featured it in our “Scene at …” show coverage in the Mar. 2019 issue. Vic also graciously agreed to carry our own Dave Wallace, an honoree at the Reunion, during the event’s pre-Cackle parade.

Nearly all of the sheetmetal on Vic’s roadster is the Model A’s original steel. Two exceptions are the Brookville grille shell and the Rootlieb hood, the latter used to help mate the Deuce shell to the gennie Model A cowl.

Those are the kinds of things Vic and Debbi really enjoy about the Model A, the things that go beyond the car’s nuts and bolts. “It’s not just the car,” Debbi says. “It’s the people we meet and the adventures we go on. The car makes that happen.”

Leather tuck-and-roll, by an upholster known only as J, covers what used to be the rear seat out of a Dodge minivan. The dashboard and instrument panel are original to the car; Vic filled the cluster with a mix of original and Mooneyes gauges. The Bell-style steering wheel is also from Mooneyes.

Vic fashioned the car’s pedals, while the woodwork on the floor, toe board, and around the cab was finished by his brother, Paul.

Vic modified an off-the-shelf shift knob to create a pretty accurate self-portrait.

Like the brakes behind them, the 16-inch wheels are from a ’40 Ford. They are finished off with Mercury hubcaps and wrapped by Coker reproduction Firestones, 6.00×16 in front and 7.50×16 in back.

The Hager’s roadster is deceiving. At first glance it looks like simplicity itself: a nicely proportioned highboy wearing its single-stage paint like a plain black dress. But this is a car that rewards closer attention. That’s when you spot things like the handmade blister in the hood to clear the mag, the nickel-plated (not chrome) dash bar, the hand-fabricated spreader, and just enough brightwork to accent the plain black wrapper.

It’s not easy to build a hot rod using primarily pre- and post-war parts. To finish such a car and also have it be a reliable driver in the summer heat of California’s Central Valley is harder still. But Vic and Debbi pulled it off, with the help of family and friends.

Too Cool for Old School

How did Vic Hager and Bob Van Meter build a flathead that keeps its cool in the Central Valley heat? It helps that the engine is based on a newish French block rather than a vintage one. “Those old blocks tended to have silica casting sand left in the water jackets,” Vic explains. “Most people back then just ran water in the cooling systems, and water is corrosive over time. The water pumps were primitive, there were problems with seals, all kinds of things.”

The French block, on the other hand, “doesn’t have a silica casting sand problem, and it has really big water jackets, like a later motor. I run a hybrid mix of coolant with a little soluble oil in the radiator to keep corrosion down.” That radiator is a four-core ’32 Walker radiator, “the best you can get,” Vic says. Coolant flows from ’52 truck water pumps with an extra impeller. “It slows the speed of the water but lets a bigger volume of water through. I also have a huge, six-blade, high-pitch fan that will suck a T-shirt right onto the radiator.”

Did his plan work? “My car runs exceptionally cool,” he says. “I did all this because I was worried about heating issues in our area. But it has been totally the opposite. When we go up the hill to L.A., we see a lot of new cars pulled over, overheating. But we’re going by at 75, 80 miles per hour, and running 160, 170 degrees at the most. It has never boiled over.”

The Anniversary Pickup

For their 35th wedding anniversary, Vic and Debbi built this ’40 Ford pickup together. Vic had envisioned the truck well before building it, and had that vision tattooed on his forearm before turning any wrenches.

The post Traditional 1928 Ford Model A Hot Rod is Driven Everywhere! appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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unconventional-hero · 5 years

Text

Chapter 11-- The Plot Thickens.

Written by “Slug 5″

(In which there is a bank robbery.)

* * * * *

A year has passed. A year of infinite pleasure for Jack Morningstar. It seems so natural for this and the other one to call him “Ashton” and he has so accustomed himself to the polished ways and manners of the metropolitan that he finds himself wondering if afterall, it is the same old “Jack” who landed at the central depot in New York just a year ago.

But the aimless life, the careless, lazy, easy going life of the circle of young men into which he has been thrown, in which every day has no definite object or aim and where no thought is taken of tomorrow is far from him. He must be active; so the position he has taken as Mr. McClure’s cashier gives him both physical and mental employment. He has changed his abode to a neat but less luxurious suite of rooms on East fifty-ninth street, and walks to and from the bank. And then, too, he has need of economy-- Jim’s demands have grown large.

Jim Paxton has passed the year in the whirlpool of fashion ans still, under his sobriquet, is the “pet” of society.

Clyde is safely tucked away at Mrs. Brown’s. Ah! well, what good is there in life for some men if they can’t break a dozen hearts! Take away the most sacred thing of womanhood-- love-- basely throw it to the wind and then-- seek for more hearts to conquer!

* * * * *

“There is no use to throw away all these words Jack; I tell you I must have it and that tonight-- tonight! man do you hear?”

Jim Paxton is seated before the cozy fire in Jack Morninstar’s parlor making demands for a financial loan which have come in frequently as late.

“And I tell you again Jim Paxton I’ll lend you no one, not even a brother, a cent to help them out of a gambling scrape!” says Jack as he walks excitedly up and down the floor.

“You won’t! You won’t d’ye say?” By-- by all the powers in hell I’ll make you! And he grinds his teeth in bitter enmity to the friend who has been far more than friend to him. “I must have the thousand and that tonight so if you’re not available old fellow-- well we’ll see-- Jim Paxton is not to be foiled yet-- and you’ll wish you had! But au revoir my fine man. It is now 1 o’clock and I’ll not bother you further.” With a mocking yet stately bow he moves to the door, lets himself down in the elevator and departs. He no sooner reaches the street than he whistles softly and the figure of a man emerges from the dark alley and joins him. He is dressed in a plain but neat looking suit of brown and low felt hat; below which a mass of silky black hair gleams in the gas light; in this garb no one would have recognized the red-haired valet of Jim Paxton, but that gentleman greets him familiarly as he reaches his side.

“Now, see here, Simon, no time is to be lost. Walk up the street a square or two with me; then take this back to the house I just left, call for ‘Mr. Ashton,’ and hand him this note-- this telegram rather. No explanation is needed; but mind now you stay in the shadow near the street door until you see him leave the house with a bundle in his hands and then lose no time in coming to me at the ‘Manhattan,’ where I will await you. Obey all my orders and a thousand of these are yours!” And he tossed a shining coin temptingly before his servant’s eyes.

“Yes, yes, trust me Mr. Morningstar! I’ll do anything for you. Shall I go now?”

“Here, yes take this.” And Jim Paxton thrusts a yellow-looking missive into the valet’s hands, and listened to his retreating footsteps as he himself turned and walked toward the hotel, with a sinister grin upon his face.

“It’ll catch the blockhead I know-- in three hours all will be done-- Ha! Ha! You’re no fool Jim Paxton!”

Jack Morningstar is still where Jim had left him; his hands on his knees deep in thought. He is greatly troubled; he despises with all his manly soul the mean traits of Jim’s character and yet he can not throw him off. He respects his hasty words. What if Jim should do something desperate to obtain the money; he felt as though he himself would be the cause of it, and he has almost made up his mind to give the money to his friend when a knock at the door startles him.

He arises hastily, flings the door open and a telegram is thrust into his hands, and the messenger departs like a flash. “For me-- what can it be-- why! why!” tearing it open and reading aloud:

“Bozeman, Montana

Sept 14 18--

Jack: Betty is dying; come quick.

Mrs. Tucker.”

He reeled backwards. “Betty! Betty! O, God, keep her alive till I get there!” He threw the telegram on the floor; jumbled a few articles into a portmanteau, snatched his hat and overcoat from the rack and started for the door. But upon reaching it he turned, walked back again to the escritoire and wrote hastily.

“Jim: Enclosed find bank note for one thousand. I leave for Bozeman tonight. Betty sick.

Jack.”

He sealed, stamped it, put it in his inside coat pocket, looked for his door and hurriedly descended to the street. A dark figure darted past him as he did so but he carefully deposited his letter in the mail box, hailed a cab and landed at the depot and in five minutes was on his westward journey, never dreaming of the conspiracy which has been so deeply laid for his destruction.

Meanwhile Simon hurries to the Manhattan where his master await him. Jim is watching for him and rises immediately upon his entrance.

“Is it all right?” he enquires hurriedly.

“All’s well,” replies the obliging valet. “Left five minutes after delivery. Baggage in hand.”

“Gone at last! By all the saints in the calendar-- here take this as part of your pay-- now follow me.” He tosses the meek looking valet a dollar and passes out into the night air.

It is the hour of two, and the part of the city through which they pass seems hushed and quiet. Now Jim Paxton speaks hurriedly to the man at his side and now he hurries on again. At last they turn down a dark forlorn looking alley and come up to the rear of the great bank of which McClure is president. They stop and peer cautiously about. All is quiet. By the selective lights within they can see the night watchman standing against a column with his back to the rear end of the room.

“Give me a lift Simon. Now’s our chance!” Jack whispers to his servant.

The valet stands erect beneath the iron barred window, and by his aid Jim Paxton mounts to the casement. One of the iron bars is loose. He discovered it by accident through the lense of his eyeglass while talking to McClure only yesterday. He inserts a chloroform syringe between the railing and then steps backward to note the effect on the watchman. A second and the man reels, staggers and falls to the floor. Jim loses no time. With a sharp hooked instrument he hastily wrenches the iron bar from its fastenings and climbs through the window; once in he fastens the bar into place again and then creeps along the floor to the watchman; gives him a double dose of the potion from the syringe makes sure he is safe, and then finds his way on hands and knees to the vaults. He has been a frequent visitor of late at the bank and while seemingly engaged in conversation with Jack and Mr. McClure has studied accurately through the powerful lense of his eyeglass the combinations and workings of the different locks therefore it is but the work of a moment to transfer a thousand dollars from the safe to his own pocket. Then he hesitates. If a thousand why not a million. The crime will be so much the heavier for Jack; for he has determined that Jack shall be implicated. Jack was supposed to be the only one of the employees who knew every combination. And his going away would cast the theft upon him immediately. So Jim Paxton snatches a larger roll of bills from the safe; puts them away carefully with the rest in his inside coat pocket; closes and adjusts the lock to its proper position; and creeps stealthily to the window again. -- The watchman stirs-- groans-- Jim is out of the window-- the bar is put back into place-- and no trace is left of robbery.

The next morning, in trimmest garb, Jim Paxton saunters leisurely down to the bank. He is cool, collected, and has an air about him of the utmost indifference. When he reaches the bank every thing is confusion; the members of the firm are standing in groups talking excitedly and the employees are hurrying to and fro. “Hello! any thing up?” he inquires of Mr. McClure as he carelessly takes his cigar from his mouth and picks up a morning paper.

“The bank last night was robbed of two million dollars!” replied Mr. McClure looking serious.

“Two million! By all the powers-- no-- Why McClure-- McClure, it can’t be!” Jim Paxton rises from his chair excitedly and stares at the banker with a look of deep commiseration.

“Yes, and what more it looks very much as if ‘Ashton’ knows something of the robbery. He has not been to the bank this morning and his rooms are deserted. They have been searched.

“No, no, not Ashton! Surely not Ashton! You must not think it of him. He’s too good, too noble.”

“So I thought, the worst men are sometimes hid in sheep’s clothing. Evidences are very much against him.”

“Poor Ashton! It can’t be that he is guilty. McClure-- I tell you it can’t be!”

“Yet I tell you he is. Every door and window was just as we left it last night-- he carried a bank key. We trusted him. And see! here is a handkerchief found in the vaults. Can you deny that does not belong to him?”

Jim examined it. On one corner was stamped in plain letters-- “Henry Ashton.” He recognized it as the one he had picked up from the floor on leaving Jack’s room the night before and which he had purposely dropped in the bank. A secret joy shot through his frame at this stroke of good luck but he looked horrified, and exclaimed in a tone of deep uncertainty;

“No, it can’t be Ashton! I’ll go search his rooms again. I may find a clue.”

He rises hat in hand and is about to depart, when his valet enters with a letter in his hands.

“Beg pardon Mr. Morningstar. A letter of importance was left for you sometime ago. You did not come so thought I’de bring it.”

“All right Simon; you needn’t stay.”

The valet departs and Jim opens the letter. It is the bank note Jack left for him the night before.

“Luck upon luck!” he feels like throwing his hat into the air and shouting, but only hands it excitedly to McClure. “You’re wrong. I told you so. He would never have written that were he guilty!”

“It is greater proof I think. I shall keep this, however, until the affair is straightened up. Where is it he says he is going, here?”

“Bozeman, Gallatin county, Montana.”

* * * * *

Meantime Jack Morningstar has reached his destination and is taking long strides up the hill to the little brown cottage which he remembers well. There are the old faded hollyhocks looking over the garden fence at him just as they used to look a year ago. He does not stop to recall old associations, however but hurriedly lifts the latch of the gate. The click of the latch startles both Betty and Mrs. Tucker and they come to the door to see who their late visitor may be.

“Why it’s Jack, ma, sure as I’m alive! O, Jack I’m so glad to see you,” and quite regardless of the fact that she is a “grown up” girl, she throws herself into his arms.

“You, Betty-- you-- but you don’t look sick-- are you-- what made you send the telegram, Mrs. Tucker?” says the astonished Jack.

“I never sent no telegram to no body, what do you mean?” and Mrs. Tucker is far more astonished than Jack.

“Didn’t send no telegram?-- What can it mean?” Jack passes his hand across his brow-- he is dazed-- “It said Betty was dying-- and your name was signed to it!”

“Mine! it’s a fraud! a conspirator! Jack Morningstar, them city dudes has got to be too much for you!”

“What does it mean? Whose work is this--” a sudden thought flashes through his brain that Jim may be the cause-- “Great Heavens! Betty, something’s wrong. I must go back to New York immediately!”

Betty claps his arm in terror. “O, Jack-- look! look!-- see there coming up the walk!”

Jack turns and sees the burly form of the city sheriff almost at his heels-- he stares in bewilderment but he has no time for reply-- that authority of the law steps up to him and clasps him firmly by the arm.

“You are wanted in New York for the robbery of the McClure bank, and I have a warrant for your arrest!”

#Victorian era #period drama #romantic drama #1800s #late 1800s #An Unconventional Hero #Slug 5 #volume 2

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