Happy Bloody New Year

Cooperative: ''This story is coordinated by Laveaux. It is open to any new writers with characters alive during the year 1947. The coordinator asks that any writers that do join the story, complete a character description in accordance with this article. Note that writers can only write for their characters, the coordinator will write for all other characters and events. Use the talk page if you have questions or suggestions.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Wed Mar 02, 2005 12:54 am

Patrick staggered about the streets of Dublin armed with a pistol, a few shots of smooth whiskey, and uncounted pints. The sound of the city around him was constant, like rushing water. He was pretty well lit by midnight, and he hadn't even hit either of the major parties that would surely run well into daylight. If there was one thing to be said about modern Ireland, it was that whiskey was great. They had always had spirits, harsh and painful to drink, probably made from potatoes, but what they could make in the new breweries and distillers was a delight. They could mull a drink over so many times it tasted good. God did it, too. Pat had spent the last few hours avoiding home and his parents, and he was now in the mood to get pissed and go to a cheap hotel with a nice catholic girl in tow.

The Irishman was medium height and slender. He was thin and sinewy, with a short mop of curly black hair, and rough black whiskers. Patrick's eyes twinkled emerald green in the various lights of the city at large. It was all one big party, even with all that was happening in the world. That's why he had brought the gun. The .45 caliber pistol was a gift from his father, american made. It was obviously military, Patrick wasn't even sure if it was legal for him to own, but a lot of things weren't legal these days, leastwise, not for Catholics. There was still a struggle for power, and Patrick wanted in. He just wanted to aid and support his IRA cause, the cause of his family. The americans called the pistol he carried an M1911 Colt .45. He did like the name, and the picture of the young stud bucking like a true rebel, trademark symbol for the weapon's makers.

Patrick sighed as he kept walking up the street, toward the noise and commotion of the bigger parties, and checked the security of the gun to the holster, and the holster to himself. He then tugged on the sides of his leather jacket, making sure the weapon was hidden from sight. He then patted his pockets down, searching desperately for a cigarette. He had left his silver case on some bar somewhere, with his cache of cigarettes for the night. It had taken him nearly an hour to roll that many, and now all was lost. Patrick simply reached up and ruffled his hair, then continued to walk, heading for the first sign of a cigarette he could find. Patrick's new year's resolution was to get plowed, take a variety of drugs and wake up without a clue where he was. Pat was sick of being ignored and treated like a child, it was time to be the life of the party. How hard could it be just to roll with it, and do what you want? At least it would be less stressed than the old Patrick. The new Patrick was suave and debonair, handsome and irresistable. In any case, morality issues were overlooked as the need for nicotine crept steadily into the slightly inebriated Irishman's body and mind, perhaps even a bit of his very soul. Smoke.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Mar 02, 2005 7:30 am

Cold and heavy air settles over Ireland with a thick fog. A recent snow has cascaded Dublin under a somewhat peaceful untouched white layer. Lights from the still busy night throws yellow and orange shadows into the sky. New Years celebrations reaching their climax, throw people into the streets with spirits, song and dance.

A rundown series of buildings and dizzyingly array of narrow streets marks the oldest part of Dublin. The area's pubs and restaurants are bustling with the New Years crowd. Party-goers sing, dance and celebrate in the streets. The streets of the Temple Bar were rolling with festivities and Patrick's quest for a cigarette was short lived.

In the daylight the group of Irishmen that Patrick stumbled upon would be considered seedy, questionable, and perhaps dangerous. But with free-flowing liquor, music, and lights, they were nothing more than drunken locals. Each of four of them were smoking and drinking. Sometimes with the same hand.

There were five altogether, dressed in drab and tattered overcoats with humble small-brimmed fedoras. They had grinning faces, but did not seem to be doing much chatting.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Wed Mar 02, 2005 10:26 am

Patrick's head reeled from liquor-induced self-confidence. Pat was a slick Catholic boy, and he could outshoot the best of them. He never stopped to notice the lack of conversation as he approached, but simply made his request, smiling.

"Can any of you fellows part with a cigarette?"

It was not much to ask, but in some parts of town it was a bit of trouble. Selfish people get violent during hard times, but probably not tonight, while they all had something to get drunk about. Patrick knew he himself was going that route tonight as well, and he had made himself a promise. Cool cats like Miles Davis in america didn't melt in the heat, neither would Pat. He looked around at the drunken locals and smiled, hoping to just get his cigarette and move on to a pub where he could get more after that. As well as booze. There was definately a need for some whiskey.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Thu Mar 03, 2005 12:42 pm

Hardly noticing Patrick's arrival, the party veered drunken heads when he solicited the need for a smoke.

"Fek, mate, this is the fifth fekkin' mooch tonight."

Another smacked Patrick on the shoulder, fumes of whiskey pouring from his mouth.

"Yeh, I got a fag fer ye, if you can answer me this: what's red, bulgin' in the trousers, and rises up fer a fek?"

Before anyone could respond he busted out with, "The bloody empire is what!"

The five thought that was so funny they didn't stop laughing, even after they lost their breath. The joker handed Patrick a cig and brought him closer to join in on the fun.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Thu Mar 03, 2005 11:09 pm

Patrick didn't much react until the sweet feeling of cigarette paper touched his fingertips. He took it between his first and second finger, then flipped his hand over, and put it between his lips. With his other hand, he dug around in his pant pocket, fishing out a lighter, flipping open the lid and flicking it to life below the tip of the cancer stick. Pure happiness burned down the young man's bronchial tubes and into his lungs before he sighed in contentment. He had been smoking a while. It was a nasty habit, which his mother apalled, but as an adult, he made his own decision. He flicked the lighter closed and stuck the warm metal thing back where it had been and looked up to the man who spoke. Patrick smiled and puffed again before plucking the cig from his mouth and nodded.

"God damn, I'm glad ye said that...but I don't think the empire could rise up for a fek if Mother Mary was there to get the job done, the bastards!"

The liquor had loosened his tongue. He wasn't sure if he was saying what he felt, or if he was saying what they might want to hear, but in any case, the words were easy, and they rang true to Patrick, who knew how the men would take it. He barely realized that he had taken the holy mother's name in vain. Pat wondered momentarily if the rosary would simply burn its way from his left wrist, where it was wound a few times for a perfect fit, the stoic image of Jesus Christ on the cross dangling from the string of beads, meant to keep track of one's daily prayers. He allowed himself to be sucked into the fun, at least for the duration of the cig he was dragging from. Maybe then it would be time to grab some more for the rest of the early morning. Patrick glanced around, smoking calmly, awaiting the next remark. Idly, he buttoned up his leather jacket most of the way, hoping to better conceal the weapon he was carrying. The weather justified a closed jacket, though he could not feel much through the booze. If no one spoke, he was going to recommend a pub somewhere, or perhaps the brewery. He had heard about a blowout there. Who knew what other wonders manifest themselves in the new year? He had heard that there was some cocaine and opium floating around Dublin this time of year, and he was turning over a new leaf, a more open-minded leaf, when it came to religion and recreational drugs.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 10:14 am

The group exploded into laughter as the one who still kept his arm on Patrick belted, "Shite! Shutyergob before the Blessed Mary tells her son where ye been!"

Apparently they hadn't bothered to go to a pub because they were toting their own flasks. The one holding Patrick opened his flask with his teeth and passed it over to him.

"This is th' vaginal nectar of the Blessed Mother of God herself."

The others roared and with a barrage of slanderous gestures they encouraged Patrick to take a swig. The four were easily encouraged by the most vocal one, perhaps he was their leader.

He was young, brash, but his eyes had a collected calm. Unshaven, unwashed and unbrushed, he looked the part of a drifter, but his nicely chosen suit would suggest otherwise.

Next to him was a blonde man with hair that should have been cut three months prior. He also failed to shave for the occasion, but his choice in suits was far inferior than his companion.

Two others appeared to be brothers. They had the same look about them. Green eyes, red hair, deep freckles. Obese lips. One brother was well fed, the other athletic. The last was the fifth wheel. The youngest, cleanest shaven, and most uncomfortable. He laughed at everything in hopes to fit in or otherwise not be judged.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sat Mar 05, 2005 2:52 pm

Patrick smiled as his joke was well accepted, and reached out to grab a flask, kindly offered with the promise of Mary herself...sort of. He flipped his left hand over, snatching the rosary's crucifix and kissed it, then spoke.

"For any one who eats and drinks without discerning the body eats and drinks judgment upon himself, first Corinthians eleven seventeen thirty-four."

As Pat took a swig fom the unidentified liquor, a sudden sense of deja vous suddenly swept through him like a swift breeze. He felt as if he had been in this situation before, perhaps on some distant forgotten beach. It was a foreign land, and in the daydream even Patrick was foreign. The verse he had recited was one of many memorized in school, about communion. Still, alcohol was like that, you could drink judgement upon yourself. With that thought in mind, he took another draught and extended the flask to it's supposed owner.

The young man then took a look at those around him, and on one in particular. None of these men seemed completely right, but the mousy one caused a twinge of sadness and anger to rush through his veins with the various booze that already flowed freely. Patrick had been just like that poor pathetic kid yesterday. He had been a follower then, and he was different now, the irishman could feel it. Patrick wasn't when it had happened, but sometime in the night he had changed. Something inside of him had snapped, and he suddenly knew that he was not going to be oppressed any longer. The english were fucking him, it seemed the IRA was fucking him too...maybe even his own parents were. Patrick had done things for them, decent things that got other guys a bit of recognition, maybe an 'official' assignment or two. Still, nobody knew his name, while his father's reputation grew. Was it that his father was taking credit for his work, or would he simply never outgrow being Stephan's boy? To hell with that, he felt ten feet tall and bulletproof. It may have been the drink, but something about it felt genuine. After a minute of thought, Patrick couldn't help but to speak, addressing his question to the unkempt, but well-dressed man who seemed in charge. All the while, though, he kept his eyes on the last, the runt, and promised himself he would never be like that again.

"What business are you gents in, then? That's a nice suit, I'd like to have one like it, though maybe in a different color."


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Sun Mar 06, 2005 2:25 pm

The liquor could have been wine, if left fermented for a few decades. It was likely a bootleg brandy or something otherwise yet to be named. Fire spread through his esophagus and into his stomach before finally settling into a stewed simmer at the base of his stomach. The world immediately flenched around him and then settled onto a slight buzz.

The leader, still gripping their new friend let go upon hearing the Bible recite. Applauding somewhat sincerely he took a swig from the returned flask and passed it to the red-haired brothers.

"Our business is God, mate," he said, "We work for the Almighty, Himself."

The blonde stepped forward, grinning, "But we ain't in aquisitions, are we, mates?"

They roared on that one too, although it was certainly an inside joke.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sun Mar 06, 2005 3:15 pm

Patrick's stomache raged and boiled, an instant case of heartburn and a constant dizziness plagued him, but he didn't care a bit. His bible quote had sparked an interesting conversation. Could these scoundrels be priests? No vow of poverty, boozed up and telling dirty jokes about the Holy Mother? No. The young man's smile wavered for a second as he looked at the man again.

"So, that must be the Lord's suit. What does it take to get into a suit of God?"

Perhaps he was not quite as far along in the party as these gents were. Maybe it was all the grog, and they were just flicking him shit. Pat almost hoped that was the case, but he was so curious now that he had forgotten to drag off the fag, and it was already half-gone. Quickly, he puffed a few deep inhalations, and put the butt out on the sole of his shoe, before placing the end bit into his pocket. He had enough respect for his land to keep it clean, whatever his bad habits might be. Patrick was worried that his question might have seemed mocking, but he genuinely wanted to know just who and what these lads thought they were.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Mar 07, 2005 10:11 am

The disposition had not changed at all from Patrick's question. His demeanor seemed to fit perfectly with this bunch. It wasn't until the young and uncomfortable one said, "Just need orders from the Cardinal" that the energy changed.

Laughter halted and the other four threw furious glares at the young man. The leader barked, "Shutyergob!"

The blonde man turned an apolegetic smile to Patrick, "Mate, there's not much we can say in the open. I beg ye forget what Smithy said."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Mon Mar 07, 2005 11:24 am

Patrick broke into a wide grin when the runt spoke. The Cardinal, he would remember that. When the unkempt man reacted, Pat knew it had been pay dirt. What would a Cardinal have to do with these bums and hoodlums, though? That was the question. He replied still smiling.

"What? I thought I heard something, but it must have been the wind. Anyway, my name is Patrick Owen. What are you gentleman called, and where do you go to church?"

It was polite catholic speak, but there were obvious undertones. Patrick wanted a more private meeting with these men, perhaps at a church, given their apparent occupation. Patrick still couldn't pin down exactly what they did, but it was probably something he shouldn't have known. That must have been why he wanted to know so badly, but even so, he couldn't simply ask.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Tue Mar 08, 2005 12:22 pm

The leader, taking a moment longer to glare at Smithy thankfully smiled at Patrick.

"Yer a good bloke, you are, Patrick. M'names Arthur," gesturing to the blonde man he said, "that's Frankie, the big'n is Job, the little one is Ben and you've met Smithy. Boys say 'ello to Mr. Own. Hat's off, as they say."

The grunted polite and drunken hellos.

He handed Patrick some more of the Mary drink and lit a cigarette. With calm, business-like eyes he said, "Bit too late to be paying a visit to church. Besides there's so much guilt on me clothes, they'd not let me in. I've a better idea. What say you to a stroll through the Phoenix?"


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Tue Mar 08, 2005 7:57 pm

Patrick's smile renewed as he became a little more acceptable to the men. He tried to catch all of their names, but the drink had taken to him a bit, and he was still fuzzy. Pat knew Smithy and Arthur for sure, and he was somewhat confident about a Job and Ben...two of the three remaining definately were three letters long, the drunk irishman knew that much. Frankie maybe?

Thoughts suddenly shifted to the park. Pat had been there many times, as had most Dublin natives. It was a place to go and think, or on an icy new years early morning a place to get away from all the noise and people. Young irish men and women would surely be there for reasons of the most carnal nature, drunk with liquor and love. Even so, it was the perfect place to engage in conspiracy. Patrick hoped they would show him something special, a cause worth fighting for or proof of God, perhaps. Not that he would be let down if they offered him something quite ordinary, but for the last few years Patrick's heart was praying for change, or some gratification. He barely attended church any more, and it had been nearly twenty-one days since his last confession. Clearly he was drinking excessively, and carrying a loaded weapon, but if God was planning something for him, none of that would matter. God hadn't showed anything this far, but how long could one simply wait on God for direction? Patrick did not think it was a sin to take his own path, but the way led into sin and temptation immediately. If God was going to save him, why wouldn't he already?

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want...right. Why keep me waiting, God, if you're even there?

Obviously, Patrick wasn't eagerly awaiting a reply. He simply took another swig or two of where Jesus came from, and nodded still smiling.

"I often do like a brisk walk in the night air. Better yet we've got a party that moves!"

Patrick glanced around a bit after speaking, judging the distance between the two points, where they were now and the park. He was thinking quite actively about it, but he could not seem to pin down an estimate, nothing was coming to him.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Mar 09, 2005 11:05 am

Sobriety long gone from Patrick's current state, he could no more determine the location of the park than his own location. Buildings swam around in tipsy angles as street lights blared obstinantly into his senses. No matter how cold the air got, Patrick could no longer feel it. Now connected with these gentlement through the ancient rites of booze, they were inseperable on their trek to the park.

After an unknown time of walking, laughter, thoughtless jokes, and songs, the open gates to the park could be spotted just ahead. Impressive forests and an ornate gate is overshadowed by a giant obelisk.

As they approached the group became more quiet.

"What's your line of work, then?" Arthur asked, to break the silence.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Wed Mar 09, 2005 10:48 pm

Patrick wandered with the odd group toward the park. It wasn't so much that he knew where he was going, but someone did, and one didn't need to think to follow. Jokes and swigs and time and a question: What was Pat's line of work? He really didn't know, other than it had sometimes involved smuggling weapons, and people. He had never shot, or shot at a human being before, but if it was the right one he was sure he could take the shot. Maybe a nazi, or a damned english imperial. In any case, his job wasn't murder. Patrick just spat out the first thing that came to his foggy mind.

"Well, yesterday I was an errand-boy for my father, but today...today I'm waiting on God. Until He tells me otherwise, I am going to do whatever I want."

It was an honest answer, but complex. He wasn't sure how they would take it, but he intended them to know that he was in the market for a new line of work, perhaps theirs, if it was possible. Pat couldn't ask for the things he wanted directly, but if he kept them in mind, he knew he might be able to get the point across.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Thu Mar 10, 2005 5:53 pm

Arthur and the others got another jolly laugh off Patrick's casual and somewhat cryptic remark. They pulled into the park and before long they were deep in a forest with nothing around except for fresh snow and small, furry, sleeping creatures. Trees towered overhead blocking the uneventful sky.

Arthur's composure suddenly changed. His jovial attitude became very cold. His smiling eyes turned to ice. Certainly not as drunk as he let off, he skillfully reached into his coat and pulled a pistol which was promptly and with precision placed directly on Smithy's head.

The young man folded with sudden fear, knees collapsing. Whimpering in panic he threw his hands up. Tears jumped out of his ducts.

Keeping a steady eye on Smithy, he spoke to Patrick.

"You tell me who your working for, mate, and your mole here won't get his grade."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Thu Mar 10, 2005 11:33 pm

Patrick's eyes widened as Arthur turned on Smithy, the poor kid. He was going to get his head blown off for no good reason. God knows he couldn't have seen it coming. Pat's coat was still closed, leaving his gun hidden, but inaccessable at the moment. The alcohol ran through him, but he had not abandoned his morals or his God. In his heart, he felt their was a supreme power, but he was not necessarily sure what it was. Patrick had spent years filling himself with various arcane and outdated ceremonies, prayers to angels and the holy mother when it says in the bible to worship only Him? The statues in the cathedrals...were they not idols to be worshipped, kissed and prayed to, despite the second commandment? Even so, Patrick had conformed. He believed in the God, and he believed in the cause, but he did not believe in senseless violence. Patrick could not let the boy die. He tried his hardest to think clearly, but the booze swam in his blood, bubbling.

"Arthur? Whoa...what are you doing? You don't undesrtand...I'm not working for anyone at all! I'm a patsy, a chump, a twenty three year old delivery boy...My own fecking father is taking credit for my work, and my mother doesn't tell me. I don't have moles, I don't have anything. The only thing that boy and I have in common is that we got shyte jobs doing grunt work, and we'll never get anything better. One of us knows it, though. You want to know who I work for? Stephan Owen, my father."

Patrick was careful not to make any sudden movements, or gestures. He was wobbly from the alcohol, but he had no try hard. He had pretty much layed all his cards down right there. What was left to say? Something came to him.

"Wait. He's one of your lads, look him in the eye and ask him. I don't know how long he's been around, but he looks green. In any case, he's privy to some sort of information you gave him, that I am not privy to. That is what makes him part of your crew. So look him in the eye."

It was all Pat could think. He knew the truth, of course. Patrick had never seen Smithy before, and if he had, he couldn't remember. It didn't matter much, but Patrick could only hope that this boy was still green enough to look sincere. This was either going to be a wonderful learning experience, or a bloodbath. As that thought occurred, he realized how he might get his fourty-five into this game. He woundn't try anything while things were ironing out, but if Arthur didn't believe the truth, bullets would fly. Patrick tried to become conscious of his hands, not moving them, but judging the distance between them and the bottom of his jacket. If he could quickly lift up the jacket, he could reach underneath and release a couple of fourty-five caliber slugs at the scariest one he saw, which was Arthur at the moment. Patrick prayed it didn't come to that.

Dear Lord, please let him see the truth. God, please allow him to control his emotions. Save your children.

Patrick's mind repeated the impromptu prayer again and again. Waiting for God was getting very dangerous. He wanted to believe that God would step in and allow Arthur to know the truth, but the cold steel under his left arm felt like a more probable solution. All he could do was wait. Patrick kept the best watch he could, keeping ready to lift up the jacket with his left hand and reach under to grab the firearm with his right. From there, it was only imagination. The gun had one in the chamber at the moment, and seven in the magazine. All he needed to do was cock it once and it would fire the rest of the bullets in succession. The refire rate was not incredibly good, but the high-grain powder behind a fourty-five caliber bullet could put sizeable holes in anything under fifty-feet away. Compared to most guns of the day, which were thirty-eight caliber revolvers, and occasionally a fourty-four, the Colt was tough. Many a nazi met an end at the lead end of a US officer in France and Germany. It was the one thing his father really ever gave him.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Fri Mar 11, 2005 9:43 am

Arthur allowed himself to look away from Smithy for a moment, to read Patrick. A bit of a smile snuch up on his face.

"Well I'll be fekked with a fekkin' combine."

He did not lower his weapon, however. Instead, the same cold expression took over and he faced Smithy again.

"Well then, Patrick, mate, I'm sorry you have to see this."

He cocked the revolver and then cocked his head.

"We know you were meeting with your contact tonight, Smithy. Who was it? Where is the lad, then?"

Shivering, weeping, and cowering, Smithy said, "I had no choice... I had no choice..."

"Impossible," Arthur said, slouching, "yer nothin more then'a bleedin' bird."

He paused for a moment and then back to Patrick with his prior jovial expression he said, "It may be best if you go along then, mate. Forget certain faces you've been looking at tonight."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sat Mar 12, 2005 7:03 pm

Patrick's arms relaxed when he learned of his fate, but it seemed poor Smithy was a squealer, much too eager to be accepted into other groups, no doubt. Patrick felt sorry for the boy, but there was no way he could save him. Pat was drunk, scared, and equipped with a firearm. Any idiot could figure out that that's trouble, especially against multiple opponents. Smithy would get what was coming to him, that was for sure. It seemed he was guilty, his words were a confession. Patrick knew the boy would die, but how convenient that he was to arrive on this night, when a member of their group was to be executed. Perhaps it was God's way of nudging him this direction. Time would tell.

"Well, if you do serve God, and he is a traitor, give him the last rights before you kill him. However, it would seem that you're a man short now, and still have one to catch. I can help you, and take the boy's place. I'm sure you can understand how sensible the idea is, even if it lacks much sentiment. You'd be sure you had a recruit who understood the consequences of such actions."

Patrick was not quite sensible himself at the moment. He was not sure if he was shocked, but he felt a disturbing calm creeping through his thoughts. He should have been walking or running away, he should have been worried about Smithy, but instead he was trying to benefit from the death of another. It seemed this night was indeed a change for the young irishman.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Sun Mar 13, 2005 6:33 pm

Arthur thought, keeping his gun trained on his prey. A quirky grin appeared on his face and he allowed a moment to look away and nod to Patrick.

"Alright then, you can earn your trust by witnessing this and keepin' yer gob quiet."

Then back to Smithy he added, "And does this insect deserve his last rites? The Lord said to Peter, 'I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed also in heaven.'"

Smithy wailed with fear, knowing the severity of those words.

"So tell me, lad, who were you leading us to?"

A sudden round of gunfire erupted from behind them. It wasn't normal gunfire, this came from the unmistakable sound of a Thompson Machine Gun. Snow exploded on the ground around them and with the sudden release of shards, there was no time to see from where it came. They would have to run for cover.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Tue Mar 15, 2005 10:53 am

Patrick smiled crookedly as he watched the final minutes of Smithy's life lost away in scripture. He did not really feel sorry for him anymore, after his confession. Traitors were damned. It was the original sin, the sin of Lucifer himself.

Burn Smithy, and then I'll rise from your ashes and be what you could not.

Patrick crossed himself before sudden shots rang out. It must have been the traitor's informant. There was not time to think, only time to reach up under his jacket and unleash the american fury that stirred beneath his left shoulder. The gun truly was like a young mustang embossed on the grips, it practically snorted at the irishman to have it's bridle removed. It had heard the other guns and wanted a piece of the action. Though he was drunk, Patrick was rather accustomed to the feeling, and managed to hobbled with his head ducked, searching for some cover. He preferred a thick tree, but he would take what he could get. Pat flicked the safety from white to red, and cocked back the hammer. He searched for two things: A good spot to take cover, and Smithy. Patrick knew some things for sure, even given his inebriation. He knew he had eight bullets, one in the chamber and seven in the mag, and he knew that one was for the treacherous boy. To think, Pat had felt sorry for him! As he searched, he readied himself to cock the hammer back, aim and fire on the first man that came toward him, if it wasn't one of the group he had been with. If it was Smithy, Pat would pull the trigger again to make sure the bitch went down. From the moment the american steel Colt was cocked, it would be a matter of wagging a finger.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Mar 16, 2005 12:58 pm

The firefight began and the others were quick to respond, scattering like pigeons. Smithy was left with his fear for only a moment, before he scurried into a sprint. Patrick was not the only one keeping his eye out for the young man, the two red-headed brothers charged behind with little care for keeping themselves covered.

The rattling of machine gun fire spread through the park and snow exploded around the brothers' feet. Arthur had disappaered into the darkness and the other blond fellow could be spotted behind the trunk of a tree loading his weapon.

Patrick ended up behind a bush and the gunfire was directed opposite him. He could see the source coming down the park's path. A single man, not unlike an American mobster, firing with calculated ease and covered with a heavy trench coat and wide-brimmed fedora. There didn't seem to be anyone else. From his position, Patrick could either go for Smithy, or the gunman.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sun Mar 20, 2005 2:56 am

Patrick squinted and tried to slow his breath. The liquor coursed with adrenaline now, a mixture that ensured violence in any irishman. He grimaced as he finally recognized the weapon in the attackers hand. This was Al Capone shyte. A thompson M1A1 with what must have been a one-hundred round barrel clip. That was a hot number, rare in europe these days, the americans were reluctant to give them up. Their allure with the weapon was painfully clear at the moment. Pat was pretty sure his own Colt M1911 .45 was hard to acquire as well, Stephan hadn't been clear on the source. In any case, Pat had to put a stop to this rapid-firing menace. That was the only choice. He was sure the others would deal with their traitor.

Patrick wasn't very experienced in gunfights, but it seemed he had position on this attacker, so long as he could tag him a good one. The irishman closed his eyes for a minute, took a deep breath and crept slowly out from his cover, clicking the hammer of the pistol back while extending his arm. His left hand took position above the right, to reduce the recoil as much as possible. A large caliber pistol could kick, and if it did, he wouldn't be able to shoot fast enough to beat a tommygun. Some things in the universe were absolute truths, that was one of them.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Mar 21, 2005 6:26 pm

The gunman, braced and stable, let loose his spray of bullets into the park. Blinded by his own targeting, he did not see anyone in the vicinity, and certainly not Patrick's approach.

The heavy gun fired and the recoil through his arm hire than he expected. It didn't matter, though, his first shot was true. The gunman reeled back from a blast to his head, unleashing the automatic fury into the sky as he fell.

The rattling gunfire came to a deafening silence just as the brothers tackled their prey into the snow.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Mon Mar 21, 2005 8:37 pm

Patrick sighed in relief as the attackers' head was hit by his shot. His hand was numb and sore from the large caliber of the pistol, but it was well worth it. The american gun had saved him when he had needed it. Though the drunken haze, the irishman was shocked by the sudden silence. His ears were ringing, and he felt as though his nose was running. When his target fired shots into the air, Pat crouched down again, hoping not to get hit.

His first instinct, when he looked up, was to run to the body and retrieve the tommy, but rational thought prevailed. Instead, he simply shrugged down against the nearest cover and waited for some sign of conclusion. There might have been more of them. He was glad he took the time to sit down, because he caught a glimpse of Smithy getting caught. Patrick decided to sit tight and watch the show. They'd need some information first, since the gunman was dead. At the end of this, he hoped the men would accept him, but he was still cautious.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Mar 23, 2005 10:56 am

Patrick didn't wait long before Arthur crept up from behind. Slapping a satisfied hand on his shoulder he said, "Mighty fine eye y'got there, lad."

Glancing to either side of the bush he added, "Nice hammer y'got, too."

Standing up suddenly, the gang's leader waved toward the brothers and the blonde man, now dragging Smithy over to him. With a playful jab to Patrick's side, Arthur said, "The bloke thought a tommy could measure up against a group of pissed Irishmen."

The blonde went to the gunman and tossed him over with his foot, then reached skillfully for the man's wallet.

Arthur, putting his pistol back on Smithy's crying and sweating face said, "I'll let ye live. Aye."

He cocked the gun.

"If you tell me who yer friend was, then."

"Bloody American!" The blonde blurted as he took the dead man's ID, "Works for the fekkin' State Department. This bloke's a fekkin' yank G-man!"

Arthur shrugged.

"Alright, then."

And then he pulled the trigger. Smithy slammed back into the snow, the exit wound spilling velvet onto the fresh snow.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Wed Mar 23, 2005 3:46 pm

Pat jerked slightly when Arthur slapped his back, but was relieved at the compliment. He had not necessarily aimed for the man's head, at least in a strict sense of the word. He simply replied.

"Thanks."

After an incident with Smithy, everyone was enlightened. The dead man was indeed american, killed by an american pistol. Patrick wondered what had happened to the G-man's heat, glancing at Arthur. He wanted to spot that tommygun. If no one had claimed it yet, he wanted it. There were more important matters at hand, though, as a second corpse littered the snow. There was only one thing Patrick could ask.

"Why exactly do the americans want to talk to fekkin Smithy?"


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Fri Mar 25, 2005 7:38 am

"It's not Smithy they were talkin' to," Arthur said simply, "This means the bloody Yanks are onto us. Not fekking good. Patrick, you've got no choice now, mate. Yer one of us. We're blood-sucking criminals and we do it in the name of the fekking Almighty. You took the man's hat off, so yer no better'n the rest of us. Welcome to the party."

He offered Patrick a binding handshake.

The heavy red-headed man said, "The G-Man's bound to have mates, let's fly."

Arthur nodded his agreement, "Follow me and let our new friend have the Tommy. He's earned it."

The gang ran toward the gates of the park and in the distance the seesaw of sirens echoed into the air.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sun Apr 03, 2005 2:53 am

It seemed that Arthur's crew had taken care of the problems, as he was handed an automatic weapon. Patrick made a conscious decision to click the safety mechanism back before running with the pack. He panted as they fled the authorities, thinking on the man's words. Pat had never killed a man before, even one who was threatening his existance. It was strange that he felt no guilt, especially gripping the stock of the dead man's thompson. For some reason, he could not really conjure the dead man's face, as he had never seen it. Maybe that was why he had no troubles. He would have to remember that. All he could think about what how he now had matching american military weapons. It was true that both the thompson m1a1 and the colt m1911 used fourty-five caliber ACP rounds. Such wonderful coincidences. After running a bit, he called out to the men.

"Criminals in the name of the Lord, Arthur? I'm strangely comfortable with that."

Patrick then through his head back and laughed as they ran from the double homocide. Where were they going?


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Tue Apr 05, 2005 12:19 pm

The gang fled the park and took a series of back alleys in full sprint. By the time they stopped running Patrick had no idea how much time had passed nor where exactly in the city they were. Buildings were older there, teetering into Edwardian architecture. The streets were cobblestone and from the smell, the sewage was still medieval.

Taking a breath they all looked around at each other. Adrenaline subsiding the gang bust out laughing all at once.

"Fekkin' yank G-Man," Arthur said shaking his head, "I'd sooner think me mother's taken the holy fekkin' vows."

He stood up at last and then walked around the corner and opened a nearby gate where lush vines and gardens spilled out over the ancient walls. Patrick at once realized where they were: behind St Patrick's Cathedral.

"The irony's not lost on me," Arthur grinned.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Tue Apr 05, 2005 4:06 pm

Pat was gasping for air by the time they reached their apparent destination. The jubilee and fanfare seemed to dwindle in the back alleys and narrow pitted streets. Patrick had no idea how many turns he had taken, or how long it had been. The adrenaline had killed a bit of the drunk feeling and the run had upped his motabolism some. He was still inebriated, but at a more manageable level. The weight of the american machinegun was immense, though luckily the former owner had fired quite a few rounds. Patrick wasn't sure how many bullets were left, but he was sure that the clip plus one hundred rounds or so, its suspected capacity, would make the weapon quite heavy. He made a note to himself to pick up a couple of smaller magazines, perhaps the thirty-round capacity US military issue. The guns were nigh impossible to get ahold of, but mags were easy. Every side was at a shortage for bullets, and selling everything they could to get them, including used, empty clips.

Arthur spoke a little while the men laughed about their murders. It was a happy night, with a little adventure to boot. None of them, Pat included, seemed to realize the weight of their actions. It may have been because they were all raised poor and hungry, but there was something else, a thirst for blood that seemed a trend among Patrick's generation, though mostly against Nazi's, Japs, and bloody I-ties. Most of Pat's deceased childhood friends met their fate at the hands of the empire. It was a strange case, the enemies of Patrick's enemies were also his enemies. Suddenly, realization dawned on him, the men had fled to St. Patrick's. As a boy Pat had often joked about the place, and now was no exception. He smiled as Arthur commented, obviously aware at the humor.

"Well, lads, welcome to me church!"


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Fri Apr 08, 2005 5:08 am

From their reaction it had to be the single funniest thing they'd ever heard. Still laughing, they went into St. Patrick's courtyard, hidden nicely by the low-hanging trees that infested the area. With little regarded to their recent activities or weapons, Arthur opened a back door to the Cathedral.

It didn't look like St. Patrick's on the inside. In fact it was a simple stone corridor going two directions. Arthur lead them in one direction to a staircase going three flights into the basement.

The basement had three bedrooms, a living area, and a bathroom. The living area, complete with a couch, radio, and make-do wet bar, also had a gun rack representing a couple M-1 Garands, EM-2 bullpups, and an AIA No.4 Mk10. Hardly the ritualistic arsenal of a church.

Each man came in and disarmed pistols onto a nearby table and fell into the couch or chairs in the living area.

"Well it's not the fekking Windsor, but it'll do," Arthur said grinning.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Fri Apr 08, 2005 3:04 pm

Alcoholics converged outside a church, drunken to such a level that mere mothergoosery could elicit such a humorous reaction. Pat felt pretty comfortable with the gents, and followed their lead, having somewhat cemented his place among them, though he was obviously the new guy. It didn't bother Patrick, at the moment, especially when everyone went to relax, unloading weapons near a rather impressive collection of guns on a rack. Pat noted the american arms and the american contact, and wondered at the depth of the connection between the yanks and his new found pack. Patrick found the most suitable place to unload the thompson first, making sure to eject the shell from the chamber. He glanced at the large round clip, trying to estimate the maximum and current capacities, clicking the bullet from the chamber into place on top of the bullets, and stowed the gun away where he thought was best, and went to the table, drawing the Colt, and ejecting the magazine with his thumb. He caught the clip with his left hand and stood it up on the table before placing it on the top of the gun, while shifting his right thumb over to the release for the action to eject the shell. Patrick slid it back, while raising his arms sharply, hoping to launch the shell into the air so that he could catch it with his mouth. It was a petty trick, but he was in quite a good mood, and it seemed fine to him. He had practiced this through clips and clips, but he still sometimes missed. In any case, hit or miss he would simply load the bullet into his mag, and lay it down with the pistol. He then found a spot near Arthur, and tried to spark up conversation.

"So...what do we exactly do? Could you just give me a run-through of anything I might need to know? Anyone?"

Patrick wasn't sure how well information would flow around here, but he hoped it would be better than his parents. He sighed mentally as he remembered he would have to go back at some point to get his things, that is, if he was to live here. It was somewhat implied by the furnishings, but it was better to get as much info as possible.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Sun Apr 10, 2005 8:55 am

Patrick pulled his trick off and the gang cheered with excessive vigor. the red heads, Job and Ben, immediately tried to imitate him, but Frankie sat back in the sofa opening a beer and tossed the beer cap in the air, snatching it with his teeth. Taking a short bow, he commenced drinking.

Arthur smiled, "Bout time y'know what's goin' on, isn't it? There's a bloke in the Vatican who gives orders to the Dean of St Patrick's. He tells us what to do an' we do it. Not much money in it, but they let us sleep here an' they feed us."

"Yeah!" Frankie barked, "They feed us fekkin' rat poison!"

"No one else in the clergy supposed to know about this. Actually, lad, no one else anywhere else is supposed to know this."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sun Apr 10, 2005 3:04 pm

Patrick spit the bullet out, and slipped it into the magazine to replace the one shot that had killed the G-man. He then layed both the pistol and the clip on the table and turned watching the two gather their pistols and give it a try. Arthur was more reasonable, choosing not to play with a loaded weapon to prove his drunken prowess. The leader of Pat's new pack then spoke, offering the very information he had asked for. Of course it was intended that they talk about it to no one other than each other. The IRA had the same stances. Perhaps it was possible to retain loyalty to both, while gaining independence from his parents? Patrick replied to Arthur, wiping a little moisture from the bottom of his nose.

"When do we go to work?"


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Apr 18, 2005 3:21 pm

Arthur shrugged before opening another bottle.

"The Good Lord has us working almost every day. We'll need to talk to the Dean about tonight, that's for fekkin' sure. And we'll need you initiated. Don't be worryin' lad, we don't do devil worshipping, although you'll wish you were."

Arthur offered his bottle up for a toast.

"To our new fekkin' cherry, lads!"

The others cheered and pounded their drinks.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Mon Apr 18, 2005 11:16 pm

Patrick nodded as Arthur explained. He then smiled and glanced around at the group, wondering about his comment of devil worshipping. It was strange that he would bring it up, but Pat had no problem with it. In reality, Patrick was not religiously inclined. He had just been taught in the catholic way.

"All right then. Well, let's have a drink before bed."

With that Patrick scavenged some alcohol from someone, searching the place for party accessories. He planned on a having a couple drinks and then hitting the sack. It was easy enough so far. Who knew what the morning held?


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Tue Apr 19, 2005 2:10 pm

Dawn came and went and by the time the gang was rolling out of bed, the noon bells of St Patrick's Cathedral were tearing through the walls. The brothers were up first, then the blond, then Arthur all of whom badly needed water to wash away the prior nights festivities. Arthur, however, skipped the water, and took a shot of whiskey instead. Rubbing reddened eyes and stretching, the group rose to greet the afternoon.

The day went without much going on. Like most of Dublin, the group stayed away from daylight and nursed horrific hangovers. Very little discussion piped up in the afternoon, and what little there was quickly went into obscurity.

By about midnight the boys were ready to leave the church, hangovers finally subsided. They had little regret about wasting an entire day to nausea and headaches and were emphatic to continue on with their destructive ways.

Arthur took the boys to a favorite pub of his, Mick's. The establishment was very quiet, still recovering from New Years Eve. A single bartender was present along with a sketchy drifter who remained quiet in the back. The soft sound of jazz piano radiated from a record player and the lights were dimmed allowing only candlelight from the tables to illuminate the place.

The bartender was far too old to be bartending, a broken hip from decades prior kept him with a cane and his depleting hair fell victim to a wrinkled and spotted face. A permanent smile was embedded on his face from a generation of laughing at jesting at the bar. Locals knew that this man was Mick and he kept any secret that passed through.

Finding a nice booth secluded from the single patron in the bar, Arthur placed a pitcher of Guinness in the center. After everyone poured he offered a toast.

"To fekkin' fekked up fek of a fek!"

The toast was well taken and the boys took rounds.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Tue Apr 19, 2005 3:16 pm

Patrick's head reeled as he raised it from the pillow. He watched the others rise, and noticed similar results in their tired faces. Patrick himself simply got up and searched about for water indeed. Arthur seemed to have the idea of preventing a hangover by staying drunk, which did have some logic behind it.

His stomache, though was part of the problem. Pat had kept an eye at the lavatory all through the afternoon and evening, but managed to get a handle on it before heading with everyone to a place called Mick's There was a toast, and the festivities began anew. Every day was the start of a new year in Ireland. Patrick himself drank dark ale, opting for a relaxing evening. For all he knew, they would be working soon, and he didn't want to be drunk again if some shyte when down. Well, a slight buzz might be okay. The irishman was dressed in his clothes from the night before, and still bearing the colt .45, a charmed posession to him. The pistol was fully loaded, eight shots total, with another clip of seven in a slot on the back of the concealed holster. It wasn't many bullets, but it was enough to get something accomplished. For the moment, Patrick was content to play along, but he thought there was a deeper purpose to their visit than a few drinks.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Apr 20, 2005 12:42 pm

After they took their round, the table fell quiet enforcing Patrick's belief that this occasion had a little bit more to do than only having drinks. The gang looked quietly at their leader who leaned backward casting a knowing and cocky grin at their new recruit.

"Now that y'had a chance to catch the lucidity of the Almighty, we have a few things to talk to you about. The boys and I want you to stay around and since you made your bones last night there is not reason for us not to trust you.

"We're not just a group of miscreants, this is a fekkin' brotherhood, mate. Now I've got to ask you . . . how do you feel about dumping yer entire identity. No home, no family, no name, no nothin'? In the cause of God, of course."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Wed Apr 20, 2005 10:24 pm

Pat smiled as Arthur spoke, nodding in affirmation. He had killed a cop, a foreign cop no less. The irishman was ambitious and calculating, not necessarily "good" qualities, but well suited to his lifestyle. He risked his life because of his ambitions, when he had to, but it was all about number one at the moment. Patrick did feel a connection with the men, but he hoped there would be no misconception about him taking Smithy's place. Pat was not meek. He had been born with the new year, nineteen forty-seven. Arthur continued, while he remained silent, offering him the one thing he had been seeking all along. A chance to shrug off his father's name and become his own man. Perhaps they would think he died...there was a bit of a something to accomplish in making someone dissappear in Dublin, though. Patrick voiced his concern.

"Look, I'd be more than happy to forget my name, but I'm sure people would recognize me on the street and tell my father about it. If we're to stay in the city, I don't know how that will work. How far does our work take us?"

Patrick wanted more information, he thought it was rightfully so at such a cost. His identity, and he would most likely have to kill people. It was one thing if they opened fire on him, but quite another when a man begs for his life. Perhaps they would have to make their way up into the body of europe and create a stir, before retreating back to the isle.

"There are some things I need, but I can get them without being seen."


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Sat Apr 23, 2005 8:04 pm

"Well after our little visitor last night," Arthur said glancing at the others, "the entire fekkin' operation's got to go someplace else. The yanks are onto us and after we talk to the Dean he'll likely want to put thousands of miles in between us an' St. Patricks.

"Truth is mate, we've not yet decided where to go yet. Won't know really until we hear from the Vatican about our little run-in. We have time to get you caught up on all the ... eh.... particulars of this outfit.

"We'll take a holiday."

The others hooted and toasted.

Arthur smiled, "Someplace warm, eh?"

"Your sister's box?" Frankie smirked, running a smug hand through his blonde hair.

"Shutyergob, you wouldn't know what to do even if the fekkin' Almighty gave you chance to see her fekkin' box and what business of yours is it anyway, you fekkin' smeg-eaten poofter?" Arthur calmly retorted.

He paused and added, "Don't know where to go yet."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Wed May 04, 2005 10:20 pm

Patrick considered the words that were spoken, and nodded quickly, sipping his weak drink. He wondered at the operator of this place, and what the man would say, but remained silent for a moment, before speaking of other things.

"Well then, I'm good to go wherever we're needed. Consider me along for the full ride, I'm already committed. Let's get that done as promptly as possible, though, eh? Seems like the time for action to me."

Pat sat back in his seat, waiting for what they would do. Arthur was in the know, so the Irishman left it up to him. Patrick Owen would just go with the flow.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Thu May 05, 2005 1:41 pm

Arthur took a finalizing swig and slammed down the pint glass. Shaking off the effects he said, "Well, to get this fekker initiated we have to go to Rome. I say we go turn in our keys at St Patty's."

The twins toasted the decision and drank, but Frankie wasn't so enthusiastic. Pointing to two short-haired men in nice suits at the bar. They must have slipped in over the last couple minutes. They were young and built, and had the posture of soldiers.

"I'll bet you my next pint those blokes are yanks."

Arthur was equally suspicious, "What in the bloody hell is going on here?" he said under his breath.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Tue May 10, 2005 11:59 pm

It was like everyone had been hit by a truck when the suits were noticed. Moods dropped, and Arthur was quickly angered. Luckily, Patrick hadn't drank too much, just enough to get courageous. It was time to ride, the new Patrick Owen was cold to the core, he wouldn't hold back sticking the barrel of his forty-five in someone's mouth, or taking someone's face off. Pat had killed someone, someone important, apparently, and while he didn't particularly like the feeling of a dead man on his conscience, self preservation governed all. Patrick glanced up to Arthur, finishing the last of his weak ale, and spoke.

"I got this boss. Keep an eye out for more, we'll see if these are Yanks. Excuse me."

With that, the Irishman slammed the mug onto the table, leaving it and wiping his face. American steel stirred under his left shoulder, locked and loaded. Patrick didn't really want to use it, but he wouldn't hesitate, he finally had a chance to make his own reputation. These men hadn't seen the mousy Pat, the nervous Pat. He was dead anyway, it was only Patrick the gangster. As of the new year, he was an international outlaw, in a posse like the tales of Jesse James, Doc Holiday, or later Criminals like Al Capone, or Bonnie and Clyde. Smirking a bit, he walked confidently over to the men, checking them out. He spoke as he neared them, hoping to gague a reaction in their eyes. No doubt if they were americans, they would have descriptions that they were trying to match, perhaps a flare of recognition? The eyes were windows to the soul, some said.

"Oy, lads! Could ye boys be Americans, eh? I got te say I appreciate wot you boyos did fer Europe and all that, but ye should help we Irish with the Empire, ye know?"

Patrick pretended to be more drunk than he was, but kept a close eye. He would be ready to draw, cock and fire his Colt, probably firing at someone's head, if the need arose. Hopefully, they would just be some normal yanks, or some soldiers who decided to stay around on the other side of the ocean after the war. He waited for a reply.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed May 11, 2005 9:01 am

Arthur grinned at his proposal and dramatically presented the two men with open hands before continuing with his pint. As Patrick approached, the men did little to acknowledge him. Only when he spoke did they finally look up with casual disinterest.

"You've better be on your way, son," one said plainly with a distinctive American accent.

They both had untouched beers before them and Patrick could plainly see the bulges of guns in their jackets.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Thu May 12, 2005 12:02 am

The two were all too obvious, but Patrick had been forming a plan in his brain, not a good plan, but half decent. As they shrugged him off, he ordered another pint and leaned up against the counter. As he paid for his drink and thanked the keep, he whispered to the two, trying to sound scared. A shadow of his old self crept in, though, making him angry enough to do what he needed to do.

"Yer looking for yer dead boy with the tommy, eh? Listen up, one of ye follow me into the bathroom after about a minute, right?"

Patrick could only hope his bait would take. The mention of the tommygun should have been enough, since it would pin the killer. The killer they were searching for was of course Pat himself, but they didn't know that. They would have sensed something amiss if one of the lads from his table had confronted them, he imagined, but Patrick was new enough to swing this one. His heart began to thump in his chest, faster and faster until he turned from them and walked back to the table. He placed his mug down and spoke.

"Well, I'm gonna hit the bucket really quick before I tackle something te chase down with this ale, eh? We should pub jump a bit after a while, ye lads think?"

His words were slightly strained, but he winked at Arthur, and in front of his body, where the americans couldn't see, like his wink, he formed the number one, his index finger pointing up alone before drawing back, as he cocked his thumb out and mimicked slitting a throat, though low enough not to be seen. He gestured while he was speaking, to make standing in place less conspicuous, continuing by pointing at himself and placing his index finger up to his lips, the sign for "shush". He then finished by pointing at the table, moving his hand in a circular motion to denote everyone, and again formed the number one. He hoped they would grasp his meaning, which was: I'll kill one quietly, and you all can take care of the other. Patrick didn't bother to add another "shush", hoping it was implied. Who knew how many there actually were, if there were two in plain sight.

With that, Patrick headed calmly into the lavatory, and planded his back against the wall beside the door he had just entered, on the side of the hinges, if he could fit. As soon as his back hit, he drew and cocked the Colt forty-five, holding it in his right hand, beside his head. At the first sign of the door opening again, Patrick planned to level the powerful pistol out to face level. If he saw a gun, it was goodnight for them, this was point blank range. Hopefully, the public setting would prevent the american from unleashing his own steel. If that was the case, he would simply hold him up, and tell him to keep quiet. At that point, it would be time to disarm, but it wasn't good to plan too far ahead, the new Patrick wouldn't do that. His hands starting to sweat, he reinforced his grip, cupping the bottom of the pistol's clip with his palm, his fingers laying across those of his right hand. Patrick waited.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Fri May 13, 2005 7:58 am

Their disposition changed dramatically with Patrick's comment, looking at each other and then at Patrick. Saying nothing more they both finally took sips of their beers.

Arthur nodded to Patrick's plan and then leaned forward to whisper a strategy to his crew. They quietly discussed their moves as the Irishman entered the lavatory.

The moments passed like lead. Staring at the door yielding nothing but silence and anticipation. At last the door opened and one of the Americans stepped in. Taking one look at the gun, he sighed and froze.

"Your way in over your head, kid."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Fri May 13, 2005 7:58 pm

Patrick had been working on a plan, and though nervous about saying what he had to say, it was the only way for things to be layed out on the table. The Irishman kept the pistol pointed at the man's head while he searched him, until it was time to frisk the legs, that was when the Colt forty-five aimed at the american's smaller head. Any funny business, and one or the other was gone, maybe both, who knew what the future held? After aquiring and pocketing anything useful on the man, especially including wallet, valueables, weapons, badges or important looking trinkets, keys were also potentially confiscated, though even a youngster like Pat would know better than to take off in a possibly dead foreign federal agent's wheels. He was especiallly looking for a pair of handcuffs, or other means of restraint, he really didn't want to kill, though if he was dead, there might be something to steal in said vehicle, it depended on the answer to the forthcoming question from Patrick, in a quiet whisper.

"We don't have much time, Smithy was your informant, he's dead. I met them that night, where they thought I was the american. They held a gun to me first, then Smithy, and demanded we tell what we knew, luckily your lad came blasting at us with a fekkin' tommy, so I split his wig, mate. You might've noticed it was an M-nineteen-eleven, forty-five A-C-P, like you folks use. Like this one. I did what I had to do for my life, but we've already decided I'm in, not like I had a choice about it. I'm going to be frank, you need a new informant, and I need to look out for me, right? I need to know what I'm in, and I haven't really chosen sides yet, aside from Ireland herself. Make me and offer I can't refuse, mate, and quick."

Patrick kept the pistol at the agent and put his back to the door, waiting for enough information to keep a man alive. The american was right, he was in over his head. Hopefully the man would give him what he needed to tread water. Patrick wasn't entirely sure if he would agree to being an informant, or simply blast the man away, but it would depend on his response.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Tue May 17, 2005 5:02 am

His frisk turned up several treasures. Cuffs and keys, a wallet with a badge and two-hundred American dollars, a revolver, and two sets of keys, one belonging to a hotel from the look of it. The badge declared him an agent for the United States Department of War.

"We know everything. We saw you do it and frankly I'm glad you brought the whole thing up, it'll make this much easier. The Ministry of Defence has been tipped about your father's involvement in certain rebellious activities. He is being detained.

"You come to work for us and your father gets his freedom. You don't . . . well, you know how those Brits get about the spitting Irish. Chances are, they got him on enough drugs that he's made an enemy out of every revolutionary there ever was. That could all change in this next moment.

"It's up to you."

The American was rather calm given the circumstances and did not even flinch as Patrick took his things.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Thu May 19, 2005 1:19 am

Patrick was glad that the man didn't try anything funny. He pocketed everything, though he intended on keeping only a few things. It made sense that the man was not worried, since any of these things would prove him guilty of the deed, especially should he really kill this american. What followed was a compelling arguement, compelling enough for now. Patrick wanted to lay down some basic rules first though, he did have the gun, after all.

"I need full immunity for myself and my family, and I will not end up like that patsy you were whipping before me. I'm going to have to do dirty deeds to get what you want, and I can't be held accountable. I will not die for you, but I will provide you with information. We are relocating tonight, right away. If you want to know where we're going contact Shamus O'Grady. I'll trust that a big important agent like yourself can do that all on your own?"

Pat wasn't quite finished yet, as he tucked the stolen revolver into his left front pocket. He had one more thing to say before he left.

"If we work together, I can help you get what you want, but if you try to fek me...you're done. What's your boy going to do when I come out of this bathroom without you?"

After waiting for a response, he backed out of the room, holstering his Colt, and looking out into the pub to see what Arthur and the boys had done to the other american. Maybe there was a way out of this without another murder...maybe not.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Thu May 19, 2005 8:42 am

The agent listened placidly to Patrick's demands and a dart to the ceiling indicated he committed O'Grady's name to memory.

"We counted on immunity," he said, "and I'm not in America, so I couldn't give a shit on what laws you break here. You are leverage for a much bigger problem and we can provide immunity from the Brits if we have to."

At the threat the solid man cracked a smile, "Believe me, you're not that important to us. We're not after you, Owen, there's no point in double-crossing you."

Peering slightly over Patrick's shoulder, he said, "I dunno. Depends on what your boys are going to do to him."

The crew had the agent seated in between them at the table. Drinks were poured all around and they were forcing him, cheerfully, to drink up. It was an old trick. They were gaining the man's confidence and then after he was properly staggering, they'd pull him away somewhere dark. No one would be the wiser.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sun May 22, 2005 8:27 pm

Patick nodded once at the man's entire speech before he headed out. It appeared they were trying to kill the man with booze, something he had attempted on occasion, though the victims usually ended up wishing they were in the morning. Patrick knew first hand that an Irish woman did not like waking up in a strange man's bed after a night of whiskey suicide. Of course, there was very little real risk, at least the kind of risk that the other american ran. Whiskey alone very seldom put a bullet in one's cranium, in fact, it probably never had. Pat sighed silently, making his choice. The other agent should have been able to realize the trick, and if they hadn't, Pat's intrusion coupled with the rest of the lads' effort would have given a clear indicator, though it wouldn't have mattered if Patrick had done his job instead of cut a deal with the enemy. It was too late to turn back now, somehow he doubted he could explain the very intact agent that still lingered in the restroom. Before continuing with his plan of action, he muttered a prayer to the patron saint of lost causes.

Suddenly, he burst into laughter, and stumbled toward the group, crying out. The only way to save him would be somewhat suspicious, but maybe Patrick could play it off as a hungry new member of their gang.

"Boyo! Yer fekkin' lad in there spilled his stomache all over the place, mate! Ye better watch these gents, too, the sick fekkers love te see you overseas types wretch!"

Getting closer, he made eye contact first with Arthur, then with the other american if he could, and continued.

"Really, yank, ye should help 'im clean up...it ain't my job, eh? Funny...I didn't see 'im take a sip, this must not be yer first stop o' the night, judging by 'ow much used ale came out o' him. Ye do the wipin' down and I'll 'elp ya drag 'im to a seat. After that yer on yer own...yer green men 'elped save europe, but after this shyte, we're even."

Patrick laughed again, hoping to punctuate his lie. He wasn't sure if the death of this man would violate his immunity, but he didn't want to take any chances. Would Arthur let the man go, trusting the one who had betrayed him? Pat had to make sure. In a last-ditch effort to add realism to his betrayal, he quickly withdrew the badge from his pocket and threw it to one of the boys, anyone out of the view of the american, and spoke.

"Go ahead and get us all started on another round on me...I gotta watch the show."

Patrick could only hope that the badge would serve as proof enough of the man's death, but didn't worry for his loss, he would soon have another.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon May 23, 2005 9:37 am

Fortunately for the clever young Irishman, his plan greatly appealed to Arthur and friends. It would be much easier to lure the American into the lou than to take him out back and bludgeon him as was originally planned. Upon his glance to Arthur, the leader of the gang winked only barely. The redheaded brothers got out to allow the American to get up and it was the blonde who caught the wallet. Immediately opening the wallet revealed a smug grin and he tossed it to Arthur.

The American, tipsy but not completely pissed, followed Patrick's lead to the restroom.

"There must be a mistake," he explained, "we are here on business."

After they went into the restroom confusion washed on his face as he saw his partner patiently standing there.

"What's going on here?" He said.

The other American shrugged, "Meet the assassin," he said gesturing to Patrick.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Mon May 23, 2005 3:06 pm

Patrick's stomache quivered as nerves finally settled in, and the espionage began. Luckily, Arthur recognized Pat's fake plan as a good one, though he wouldn't have been as happy with the Irishman's true plan. In any case, the drunken agent was allowed to follow him back to the toilet. Once inside, things needed to be cleared up. While starting to speak, Patrick likewise searched and seized the other american, as he had the first.

"Look, nothing personal, I just need proof that you're dead. Congrats, lads, you just became ghosts. Not a bad position for what you need, just keep out of sight, or we're all dead. I gave you the name, that should put enough time between our meetings to keep me alive. We don't have long, so if you need anything...?"

Now was the time, if they had anything to tell him. Patrick secretly hoped that they would give him a clue of what they really wanted, so he could better look for it, but he would not dare jeopardize his immunity by becoming useless. Pat's future hung in a strange balance of selfish ego, patriotism, and downright evildoing. Patrick absently wondered where they would go, and how he himself would get ahold of Shamus. He hadn't seen him since they were much younger, but he did know that his father knew Shamus's, and he assumed the agents would find out in time. It was just another reason they would need to actually commit to saving his father, he could just as easily send a letter from the location to his house, but how much conspiracy and intrigue did that create? Patrick was off his rocker this year, but he wondered if perhaps there was room for him on the 'good' side of this, after it was all over. He had taken a class or two on law enforcement, but how could he have worked for the bloody empire? The americans were different, he wouldn't mind a little work with them, so long as they didn't fuck with Ireland.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed May 25, 2005 9:05 am

The first American gave his partner an accepting look and then brought severe eyes to Patrick.

"You're playing with international goddamned fire here, son, you've better be sure you play the right cards are things could get very hot very fast. We'll take your tip and keep low. You have twenty-four hours before we catch up with you and you've better have more than a name.

"These men you are dealing with can't be let free to return to Rome. Corrupt Cardinals will give them even more assassination missions if they aren't stopped.

"Now get them out of here so we can mobilize."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Thu May 26, 2005 6:33 pm

Patrick smiled as the american made harshe remarks, but he was not happy. In fact, the words sounded too much like his father's, setting his temper ablaze.

"Look, yanky-boy, the next time you want to give a speech to scare a lad into stepping in line, trying to warn him of the dangers of burning the candle at both ends..."

The Irishman trailed off. When his temper went, he tended to speak, though he knew he did not have the time. Pat addressed the first agent to follow him in, and gestured to the second, otherwise ignoring him for a minute.

"Look, your dog slipped and told me that you were here on business, and actually followed me to the toilet, when for all he knew you were dead. It was the right thing to do this time, but he was letting those lads pound drinks into him...the oldest bloody trick in the book."

Patrick let the statement sink in before patting himself down to make sure he had all the necessary evidence, and hoping the american would come off his horse. The Irishman layed his cards on the table, finishing his pre-rant statement.

"...don't pick an Irishman. We've been fighting the empire since you blokes were part of it, if anyone knows how to give with one hand and take with another, to kill or be killed, it's an Irishman. You'll find that we take everything to a dangerous state of gluttony. I have only two loyalties; the first is to God, and the second is to my people. Right now, I don't have many people, but the next on the list will be you or them, depending on who looks after me, you get it? As long as you do what you can to keep me alive, I'll do the same for you, but if the boys do a better job keeping me out of harm's way, then we'll have to call off this arrangement. I've already taken the first step...don't forget that you both could be face down in a large pool of blood, right here, before I even knew you had leverage on me. God bless, you sons of bitches."

With that, Patrick ruffled his hair, and tugged at his clothing before exiting the restroom. Once out, he was not in any mood to play games. Patrick had dug himself deep, perhaps too deep to get out, and he had dragged a childhood friend into it, though he expected sooner or later they would meet again. Shamus's father had stayed in Ireland after he sent his family on to Scotland. If he was lucky, his friend's father wasn't in the same trouble as his own, but how often had Pat really saw any of that four leaf clover shit? Not often, that was for sure. If his friend's dad wasn't in trouble before, he would be now. Once spotting the lads, he simply nodded and ignored any drinks or celebration. He spoke five words, the first four together, and the third after a pause.

"We need to go...now"

Digging into the stolen wallet of the american, he layed a twenty down on the bar for the keep. Chances are, the old man had seen more incidents like this than any of the others inside, and Patrick needed to keep that mouth shut. Twenty american in Ireland in nineteen forty-seven was no small amount, during these times. They would not know it yet, but in a week's time, the first of many would be pronounced dead by starvation, the sotty Brits were killing them by inaction. Patrick knew that he would have his day with them, but first he had to learn their came, and who better than the only country to win a violent revolution against them, the good old stars and stripes. Too bad they wanted his ass as well...who cared? They could get it too, fuck 'em.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Fri May 27, 2005 8:39 am

The Americans were stunned. Speechless. Looking at each other and then back at the enraged Irishman they both radiated the same sentiment: they had no idea who they were dealing with. After a long pause the first agent nodded.

"We understand your terms and we'll be in touch."

"I knew what they were doing ... with the drinks..." the other defended but he got a look from the first that shut him up.

After Patrick left the crew stared at him expectantly. Arthur didn't hesitate after his command and immediately rallied the others up. They left the bar and said nothing until they were outside and blocks away.

"So?" Arthur asked.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sat May 28, 2005 1:21 am

Patrick was a bit flushed as he left the pub, but he doubted that would give much away, they thought he had killed two men in the restroom, though he had really only put his own ass on the line. Hopefully his resolve and instict would carry him through this, but for now he had to lie in response to Arthur's monosyllabic query. Pat's voice was low as he spoke.

"That was really sloppy of me, but I got some good news. The first guy tried to make a deal with me...I don't know about you lads, but I am guessing that means none of us are turncoats, right? I'll admit, it did cross my mind that Smithy might not have been the only one they had contacted...have they ever tried to cut a deal with any of you?"

Pat's face was still pale, though his cheeks were far too red. He had no idea what to do now, that was where Arthur would come in handy, he continued, after a short pause.

"We should probably get out of town, like you were saying, Arthur. You're the boss, mate."

Patrick didn't want to give Arthur the impression that he was trying to run things, he had just been a little out of sorts while he left, thinking about all the things that would happen to him if he was discovered. Slowly, he withdrew the second badge and flashed it to the boys, his second trophy. Finally with that action he was able to relax a bit, trying to remain cool. On this rare occasion, Patrick even laughed at his own joke, though it pained him slightly.

"A few more pubs and we can all be big wig yanks, eh? We're a 'War Department', too, eh?"

Sad but true. Patrick awaited news of his fate.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Thu Jun 02, 2005 7:51 am

The crew listened to Patrick's disclosure as they walked and Arthur at last stopped.

"Boys, go for a pint, I need a word."

The brothers and blonde man, without question, disappeared into a nearby pub. They were left alone in the near abandoned street as a steady flutter of winter wind descended. Arthur lit a cigarette and looked around, perhaps to ensure no one was near.

"I know what yer thinking, lad. You thought we were a fekkin' brotherhood workin' in the name of our island and then you see American feds on our tail and find yourself making bones wherever you go. Yer not sure if you did the right thing so your going to find a way out.

"Maybe you buried those yanks and maybe you didn't. If I were you, I'd taken a deal with the blokes.

"Nevermind any of that. Listen, here. We fight for a cause far more worthy than any fekkin' government. We work directly for the Holy See, do you follow? None of this fekkin' matters. We are on Vatican soil wherever we go. The yanks, the frogs, the fekkin' reds they all think they are protecting their own bloody national security. You know what we protect? Eternity.

"I'm not some fekkin' preacher or religious nut and we ain't a cult."

He held up his left hand to reveal an enormous and elaborately carved ring with a blue cross engraved on it.

"This ring is only given to a person by the Pope himself. I met the bloke four times."

He paused to smoke, "There's a lot to tell you, but our immediate fekkin' problem is that our only link to the Vatican closed his fekkin' doors, so we have to get you to holy ground and fast. The sooner you join the sooner you have the power of the fekkin' Pope behind you and no yanks can take that away.

"Point is fekkin' this, I don't give a fek what happened in that bathroom, I just have to know right now. Are you in this because you don't know how to get out, or are you here to serve the Almighty. If you ain't, then we have to move on without ya."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Thu Jun 02, 2005 1:28 pm

Patrick's stomache turned when Arthur ordered the lads away. In the very core of his being, the Irishman knew he was about to get a bullet in the head. What followed surprised him, but whether it was better or worse than death he didn't know. It seemed he wasn't going to be killed, at least not yet, but Arthur's words disturbed him profoundly.

"Arthur...I...I don't care about making bones, the truth is that I've been making them since before we met. I'll be honest with you, I didn't kill the americans, I did cut a deal with them. The empire's got my father, and the yanks will be on my childhood friend in a matter of time."

The larger man's words were haunting, but not so haunting as the words that Patrick himself had spoken to the americans about his loyalties.

"I told those bastards that I had only two loyalties, the first to God, and the second to my people. I dug myself in this, mate, I didn't have to come locked and loaded the other night, and I didn't have to shoot that yank, or run with you lads, but I did. I made a deal with them so that I could figure out what I was in, not so that I could get out."

Patrick closed his eyes for a moment, certain that Arthur's arm would swing upward and release a few grams of lead into his body, but opened them a second later and continued speaking while the cruicifix wrapped about his left wrist seemed to grow heavier as he did.

"I wasn't lying to those yanks when I told them that, and I honestly don't know which side I would have chosen if you hadn't said what you said, but if it's true, Arthur, then there's no choice at all. If you don't put a bullet in my cap right now, I'm with you. If you do...well, I can't say I would do any different..."

Awaiting his doom, Patrick looked Arthur straight in the eyes. If he died tonight, so much the better for his father and Shamus, but while he lived he couldn't let them stay in harm's way. He spoke again, if he wasn't already dead that is.

"I can't leave without making sure my father is all right, and I don't even know where to find my friend Shamus, but maybe one of them can help get us out of here. My pop has been smuggling this and that, including people occasionally, and Shamus has a dad like mine. I know they can't come with us where we're going, but if we could get them out of the country, that would be enough."

Pat couldn't really elaborate further, because he didn't know what would happen next. He knew his father could help, but Stephan was in the hands of the english, and the last he knew Shamus was off to scotland with his mother. There was so much he didn't know, that there wasn't time for Arthur to explain. What the man had offered Patrick, though, felt too good to be true. It didn't even occur to him to ask who, or what, the lads protected eternity from, he just waited.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Jun 06, 2005 7:10 am

Arthur regarded Patrick with his typical expressionless face. Smoking quietly his eyes only suggested he was thinking by darting to the ground. Brisk Dublin air snuck up on them as they stood there in silence and it would last for several seconds before Arthur finished whatever it was he was thinking about.

In an instant hard to anticipate, Arthur had a pistol pointed at Patrick's head.

"The boys won't stand for what you did in there. So I shoot you, here and now. But it ain't over, mate. My bullet will miss your head and you'll run away in the night, aye? Listen, here. You get your father and your friend and find a way out of Dublin. Then you find us. If you can get us out of Dublin everyone will forget what happened here tonight."

He paused only long enough for Patrick to absorb his words and then fired his pistol just to the right of the Irishman. The blast pounded through his ears, but as Arthur promised, he missed.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Tue Jun 07, 2005 5:21 am

Patrick's heart raced as he searched for his fate in the eyes of the pack leader. When the words came, they were accompanied by a pistol leveled evenly on Pat's eyes. He thought about reaching for his gun, but it would have been too little too late, and the Irishman almost felt deserving of the bullet. He knew Arthur's story would be hard to buy for the lads, but perhaps they would know what really happened anyway. When the pistol fired, it was close, but not through his head. Patrick was silent for a moment, letting his hearing return before he spoke.

"Hide somewhere good, man, they want your asses. I will be back, and we'll get out of here."

With that he turned and ran at full pace, making zig-zags in the snow, adding depth to the lie. It occured to him that Arthur might not understand, but it didn't matter, he ran as if a bullet might come after him. Once well clear of the area, Patrick had to consider where to run to, and could only think of one place. He had to head back to St. Patrick's for some gear. It would take more than a few pistols to break his father out of a secure holding cell, and the church was the only place he knew to get any real firepower. His lungs burned, but he ran towards the church. He had to get there before they did, but he was pretty sure he would have a decent head start. Besides, if they were dumb enough to get caught by coming back here, good riddance.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Jun 08, 2005 9:10 am

By the time he reached St Patrick's, it was late. Only decorative lights on the historic walls of the cathedral lit the premises and the large doors on the west facade were locked. Those weren't the doors Patrick could enter from anyway. Using the private door Arthur presented to him later gave him access to the sleeping cathedral. Down the discrete hallway and into the basement, the Irishman found it exactly the way they left it. Lights still off, it appeared the gang had yet to arrive or, for their own interests, decided not to come at all.

Just as Patrick was gathering the weapons he needed, the light suddenly turned on. There was a priest with white hair, thick glasses and a near two meter stature standing in the doorway. Still dressed in cassocks, it appeared he'd been waiting their for a while, evident by his dilated pupils flinching against the light.

A hollow voice echoed into the basement as he spoke.

"When did Arthur take on a new apprentice? I surely hope you have been knighted already."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Fri Jun 10, 2005 2:23 am

Patrick was grabbing every gun in sight, and searching for a few things. He wanted a belt other than his own, but if necessary he would use the one he wore to bind all the guns from the racks together. Pat also wanted to grab any spare ammo for anything, piling it into anything he could find. Pillow case, maybe? His eyes were scanning the beds as he heard someone come up behind him. Turning, he listened to the priest's words, and wondered if he meant literally knighted, or some figurative term. His brow furrowed, and he gripped his guns tightly as he spoke.

"I am not sure if I am really Arthur's apprentice, though he spared my life. Look, father, there is heat coming down on this place from the colonials, you should try to avoid that...Knighted? Umm...no, father."

Patrick was admittedly suspicious, but he still had to show respect for the guise of a priest before him. He hoped it was simply the simple father of St. Patrick's, but would not surrender anything to him, and if it came to guns, guns it was. All in all, he hoped to grab both Garands, EM2 Bullpups, and the Enfield AiA, along with his own tommy and pistols and his charmed colt. His first shot had saved his life, and Patrick was fairly confident that he could repeat that feat. He intended to cap a few british arses in pursuit of his fathers' freedom, but first he needed help. Shamus was the only one he could turn to, but he was in Scotland! It would be hard to explain to the Feds a trip to Scotland, but he would hold up his end of the bargain until it was time. Still...what was this knighting all about? His short attention span drifted to the priests, awaiting an answer.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Jun 13, 2005 9:44 am

"This is the soil of the Holy See," the priest said, "the colonials can't come in here, unless they want to declare war on the Pope. However, I'm afraid if you have not been knighted you are not permitted in here."

His features lost their gentle nature and then became rather severe, "I shall need you to stay until Arthur returns."

For a moment he looked less like a priest for more like the commander of a military unit. His Cossacks alone declared his occupation.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Tue Jun 14, 2005 4:50 pm

Patrick was clutching his bundle of weapons cautiously, but had one hand free for one of the pistols on his body, if need be. He would give this priest a chance, before threatening, but he was not staying her. Even staying as long as this seemed to shorten his life-span. The yanks were one him, Arthur and his gang were on him too, and soon the brits would be on him, if his plan stayed the way it was now.

"Father, I can't stay here. Arthur gave me very explicit orders to get him out of the country, and to do so, I need these guns. It is urgent, so I'm afraid I have to go. I mean no disrespect."

Patrick wasn't sure if his words would penetrate the stern visage of a priest before him, but it was his only shot. The next step was escape at gunpoint. If it was, it was.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Thu Jun 16, 2005 3:27 pm

The priest's stern face resigned for a moment, allowing gentleness to creep back in. He paused and chewed his lower lip and then said.

"I see. Perhaps I was too rash to close the doors. Is there anything you need help with? A car perhaps?"

As an afterthought he added, "Is Arthur coming back here? I should like to see him before he goes."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Mon Jun 20, 2005 5:52 pm

Patrick let his breath out softly as the Priest spoke, letting the tension melt from his lower back. He then nodded and smiled, speaking.

"I thought you might understand. If you can spare a car, Father, it would help me a lot. As for Arthur, well, if it's like you say and they can't be touched here, then they might return, but he didn't tell me either way. All he said was to find them a way off the isle, and quickly. I have only one lead, so I've got to go with it."

With that, Patrick wiped his nose with his loose hand and loosened his grasp only slightly on his guns and ammo. They were his ticket to redemption, at the expense of british lives. Again Arthur's way was actually in line with his best interest, so he would hurry. He waited for the Priest to make one more remark, which he might make a quick reply to before heading back to his old neighborhood. He wondered what time it was...it had been late when he woke, and much had transpired during the course of the night.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Thu Jun 23, 2005 8:07 am

He paused, reflecting on a plan. After an uncomfortable amount of time, he reached into the cossacks and pulled out a small golden crucifix on a chain and handed it to Patrick. A small ivory sheild was set on the back with a blue cross painted on it.

"Don't lose this. It will be a key to the rest of the world, albeit temporary. The persistant will ask for further identification by checking your wrist."

He revealed a blue cross tatooed on his right wrist just under the heel of his palm.

"If the inquiry goes this far, simply tell them you are a postulant and are waiting to receive your rites. That should suffice. Two miles from here there is a pub called the Grin 'n Whistle. The proprietor, Mick, has a car he can lend. They are affiliated, not members, so don't tell them too much.

"God be with you."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sat Jun 25, 2005 1:22 pm

Patrick listened attentively, now that the priest was helping him, and wondered at the deeper meaning of the words he was supposed to say. Secret words and symbols had always existed in the IRA and any war, but there was a veil so tight around the things he was now probing that perhaps the Holy Father himself was involved, as Arthur had said. He slowly took the crucifix from the Priest's hands and spoke.

"Thank you, father, if Arthur returns here, tell him to listen for news of the British, and find me when it's still news."

After a nod of thanks, he slipped the golden crucifix around his neck and tucked it beneath his shirt. Thinking twice about his bundles, he decided to wrap it all up in a sheet, which he tied at both ends. Gripping it under his arm, he checked to make sure his pistols were uncocked and headed out, waving a bit without looking back. He had to make it to the pub, the Grin 'n Whistle, get a car, and make it to Shamus. Armed to the teeth, the pair might stand a chance at snatching his father, the hard part would be convincing Shamus to save the older Owen, without some sort of benefit for himself.


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Thu Jun 02, 2005 8:50 pm

I thought they loved me. I can't believe they named me Shamus. It's offical. My parents are bastards.

Shamus Paul O'Malley, son of Kathrine and Michael O'Malley, the red-haired, green-eyed, freckled child, was given the horribly cliche name of Shamus. Patrick had made sure to laugh at him every chance he got when they were kids. That, in fact, was why Shamus had become competitive with him in the first place. Good-natured ribbing, of course, but competitive all the same. Patrick's and Shamus' fathers were good friends growing up, and because of how close they were, it caused them to grow up close too. He missed him.

Shamus, of course, had just stepped off the bus from port, which he had stepped onto just after stepping off of the ferry trip from Scotland, where he and his mother had been sent. She was still over there, too old and frail to make the trip. His parents were older then Patrick's, but they still became close friends. When Shamus' father got in serious trouble with some dirty deals, he sent Katherine and their young son across the river to Scotland to live. He had asked his mother about it all the time, but she had never given him any answers. In fact, she had pretty much cut them off from all information about Ireland all together, much less his father.

That was part of the reason he was back. The heat that was on the family had cooled some years back, and Shamus was back in town. The twenty-five year old Irishman was here to find out why his father disappeared, and just what he was into. Another part of the reason was to look up his childhood friend and see what he was up to--Patrick Owen. The link they had was that their birthday was the same, though Shamus was only two years older. Despite that, though, Shamus and Patrick were pretty much on the same level, or that had been when he had left ten years before with his mother...he was still pretty close to his roots, and was curious what Patty was up to. He hated that, being called Patty. That was exactly why he called him that to be mean. In public, though, he referred to him as Trick, partly because it still held some respect, and partly because more then once Shamus--when obviously beaten--had said that Patrick had cheated; had used some kind of trick. And thus, the obvious nickname.

That, though, was priority two. The first was finding out about his dad. And so, the horridly named Shamus Paul O'Malley went unto his home nation once more, curious about what changes he'd find.


 * uthor: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Jun 06, 2005 7:09 am

Dublin was an icy terror on the morning of January 2nd. Cutting winds swept through the city from all directions. There was word of another winter storm brewing and with the ground still white from the last storm, it would not do well for the island. Bundled up beside him were the other travelers from the bus. A couple families, some business men, some military men. It was a typical collage of Irish life.

Before Shamus could call for a cab, or indeed call for anyone, a black four-door sedan squealed up to him from the belly of Dublin. The back door swung open and inside an older gentleman wearing a bowler cap and three-piece suit peered out from inside. It took a moment, but he could be recognized. This was Matthew O'Toole, a lifelong friend of his fathers. He was around rather frequently in Shamus's childhood, but had disappeared over the last ten years having gone into politics of some nature.

"Shamus, get in quickly, lad," he said from inside the car.


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Mon Jun 06, 2005 6:13 pm

Shamus shivvered as he felt the icy cold, his breath quivering as he exhaled the soft white cloud.

Shamus blinked as he noticed the car squeal up to him, watching the door swing open. He blinked for a moment, almost disbelieving his eyes.

Well, that was quick... Was his first thought, but his second was of disbelief. How did they know he was here? Didn't matter, not to Shamus.

"Uncle Matty?" He asked, gazing hard at him, Matthew O'Toole's reaction seemed rushed and nervous, so he didn't answer. Perhaps he knew what was going on with his father, more likely then he did, at any rate. It had been several years since he'd been home.

He simply nodded to Matthew, climbing into the car and shutting the door behind him, then turning to him.

"Uncle Matty, what's all this about?" He asked in confusion.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Jun 08, 2005 9:11 am

The sedan squealed away from the depot the moment Shamus closed the door. The gray-haired driver was presumably familiar with Matthew, comfortably taking the car wherever the older man wished.

"Your father is in a bit of a tiff, he is," O'Toole said looking out the windows with raised eyebrows and unblinking eyes.

"Went to get you in Scotland but you were already off. Had to take the aero back to Dublin straight-away. Now why in the name of the Almighty would ye come back to Dublin? Anyway, it doesn't matter. I've got to get you to safety."

Finally looking back from examining the streets around them he gave an obligatory smile, "How are you, lad? You grew a meter, didn't ya?"


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Wed Jun 08, 2005 12:31 pm

Shamus looked to Matthew incredulously. Teasing him with a bit of info like that and then backing off to talk about missed times? Was he off his rocker? He took a moment to sort out the information he just had flying at his head at the speed of said aero.

"Wait, hold up a right second, Uncle Matty. Lemme answer those in sequence. First off... Da's in a 'tiff'? What kind of a 'tiff'? Secondly--" He pushed on to cover all his points so he wouldn't lose them should Matthiew deign to cut him off and respond right then and there, "--yeah, I'm back in Dublin...came here to find out about my Da and about Trick, see how they're holdin' up and what's new with 'em. As fer my growth spurt...yeah, I've been stuck this tall fer some time now, Uncle. It HAS been a few years. Near a decade, as I recall." He trailed off for a moment, his thought process catching up with everything that's happened.

"Yeah, I came here to look into things. I'm not a boy like I used to be, Uncle Matty. I've grown up. I can handle this. Tell me what Da's into. Mum never told me anythin' about Da an' his business. I'm old enough. Start talkin'." He was projecting false bravado, partially because his 'Uncle' Matthew still intimidated the hell out of him, and partially because his mother seemed to deathly afraid of it all...perhaps it was some of that fear that it would be something he couldn't handle, could help out with.

No, his mind resolved, I can't be thinkin' that way. I've got to help my Da.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Fri Jun 10, 2005 7:31 am

"Ye have grown up, haven't ye, lad? Grew a mouth too, you did. Look, lad, this isn't easy, I was the last man yer dad has. The bloody empire took your dad away, put him up with Trick's dad.

"Thought my weight as a bloody MP would get him out, but now they think I've got bloody ties. Attlee's* got a chip on his shoulder, trying to measure up to the likes of Churchill an' wants to clean the bloody island out.

"There were government yanks that found Trick's father out and it was only a matter of time before they found your dad. Turns out the Yanks were just trying to get some leverage on Trick. They turned his dad in to get to him. My guess is Trick is running with a wild bunch, he is.

"To get your dad, we have to get to Trick's dad. To that, we have to get Trick. Now tell me honestly, Shamus, when's the last time you've seen him?"


 * Clement Attlees, England's Prime Minister


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Fri Jun 10, 2005 1:30 pm

He winced as his Uncle Matty commented on his mouth. He hated doing what he did, because he loved his Uncle, but he remembered that more often then not he needed to be set on track with a firm hand. Matthew's mind had a tendancy to drift, it did. Regardless, he listened to what Matthew said, his jaw falling open as he listened.

"Wh...what? Da's...been captured by the Empire?" His mind raced to figure out how to deal with the next step, but Matt pushed forward with yet more startling information about Trick and his father.

"So...lemme try and work this out. My and Trick's Das have been captured by the Empire, because the Yanks were sticking their overswelled heads in where they don't belong and quite possibly because Trick could be in over 'is head."

To get your dad, we have to get to Trick's dad. To that, we have to get Trick. His mind was befuddled for a moment as he worked through it step by step. To save Da they had to get with Trick. Two birds with one stone, so to speak...but was it just a hell of a lot of coincidence, or did Da's and Trick's problems line up too close for comfort?

"...Trick? Oh, C'mon, Uncle. I haven't seen 'im since Mum and I left Ireland, that's why I'm here to find out about him and Da. I thought you'd know that. You know how Mum was--still is. She's gotten to the point where at least every other day she's sayin' that God can just take the island, damned as it is. She pretty much despises Ireland for all the trouble it's caused our family and friends. When we got to Scotland, she cut us off from any information about Ireland at all, much less about Da or Trick." His mind only just caught up to what he figured Matt was saying, and hoping he was wrong.

"...Why? What's Trick been sayin'? Where can we find 'im?"


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Jun 13, 2005 9:44 am

"I was hoping you knew," he said with a resigned sigh.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled a flask of his choice dessert whisky and took a swig.

"I got a report from the Ministry of Defence, it wasn't much, but it may be enough to find him. Trick's involved with a presumed group of international assassins. To bait the group, the Yanks captured Patrick's dad and so took your dad as well, because they were in the same racket.

"They say that Trick killed a yank federal agent. Problem is, I don't know where to begin to look for him. If what they're sayin' is true, the only way we can get your dad out of prison is by turning Patrick in."


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Mon Jun 13, 2005 8:48 pm

Shamus gaped at his father's words, almost sputtering. He reached for his own metal flask and upended it...only to find it dry. Right. He had finished that on his way here. With the way things were going, he'd wished he'd saved it for now.

Christ! Patty's in o'er his head! What the hell is he thinkin'? That's Patty for ya, though...when he does something, he does it big, even get in trouble... 's exactly what I was afraid of, though... He forced the mild bemeausement out of his mind and instead tried to focus on the problem. How to find Patty?

"Look, your wantin' to find Trick, right? All I've got t' go on is our old neighborhood over on the east side of town...there was a lil' pub nearby, The Grin n' Whistle. Obviously the high-quality establishment, eh? Look...I need to wet m' throat, and if I'm gonna find Trick, it's likely I can start in our old neighborhood. I'll start there. Drop me off there, an' I'll see what I can find there. I imagine a few o' the old gang 's still around...Jimmy and Shawn, mebbe...anyway, it's a short rope, but it's the best I've got to go on." He thought quietly, almost afraid. Da, Patty's Da, both in trouble thanks to the Empire, Patty in wih international assassins....Patty killing a Yank suit.

What were ya thinkin', Patty? What 'm I gonna have to bail ya out of this time?

"Turnin' him in isn't an option...not yet. Lemme get his side of it first, then we'll see what's going on." He smiled to Matthew, though his eyes were tinged with worry.

I'm in o'er my head, and I don't even have a piece...fat lot of good my training does me without anyting to use...


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Tue Jun 14, 2005 7:07 am

Realizing Shamus's poor state of liquor supply, Matthew generously offered his flask to wet the whistle. Considering his friend's son quietly, he finally nodded.

"You have a better plan then me. You heard the man, Pete."

The driver nodded and took a right turn to head into the old neighborhood. Leaning forward, Matthew reached into his jacket and pulled out a revolver then handed it over.

"Yer on yer own on this one, lad. You'll be needing this."

He then handed him a card with a single phone number on it.

"I'll prepare a safe house for ye while yer looking. When you got Trick, call me and I'll send Pete after ya. There's not much time, don't doddle."

The car pulled over at Grin n' Whistle. The lunch crowd had yet to arrive and only the local drunks decorated the inside, along with the resident pubkeep and proprietor, Mick.

"Good luck to ye, Shamus. May the Almight have mercy on the lot of us."


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Tue Jun 14, 2005 4:40 pm

Shamus accepted the flask gratefully, taking a deep pull. Glad to have some liqour in his system, he handed it back, using the back of his hand to wipe away the residue.

He also gratefully accepted the revolver--likely a .38, though he would have preferred a .44 mag--eyeing it for it's caliber. He snapped it open, checking to make sure it was fully loaded with six full-metal jacket bullets. Snapping it shut again, he nodded to Matthew again, grateful as he slid it into the pocket of his trench.

"Thanks kindly, Uncle."

He stepped from the car, gazing at the Grin n' Whistle softly. Ah, yes, things had changed. He wished for his shoulder holster right about now, but the trenchcoat would have to do until he could pick up a new one. In the meantime, he grabbed his straight shaving razor to keep as an extra weapon if needed and tucked it in his pocket so it was close at hand.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced back at his Uncle Matty and waved, then stepped into the establishment. He wasted no time in moving to the front bar, slumping into a seat. Looking up at Mick, who looked a lot different from the last time he had seen him, he waved him over.

"Pint, quick as possible. I got a draught in my throat." He looked around for anyone he recognized. Not likely he'd find Trick here, but he could hope, couldn't he? Anyway, worse came to worst, he could probably try and pump some of the locals for information. Figuring the direct approach was most likely to get results.

"Hey," he called out to thebar, "A round for the house. As long as we're friends, anyone hear of Patrick Owen?" The question could get him in trouble if Trick really was walking heavy...but at least it would be a result, someone to talk to. Besides, he had a fair hand with the pistol in his pocket, and he was confident in his ability. That was one thing that never wavered.

He just hoped his faith in his ability to get himself out of trouble wasn't misplaced.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Thu Jun 16, 2005 5:48 pm

The few patrons inside the bar hooted at Shamus's generosity. Mick's skeletal face creaked into a smile and he poured a line of pints down the bar. Lining up like children at a carnival, local drunks and lunch-eaters picked up their donation and happily clasped a hand on Shamus as they returned to their seats.

"Good to see ya, Shammy and glad t'know the Scots didn't take the green from ye."

The drunks and locals grunted and shrugged at his question, but Mick didn't. Swabbing the bar with a damp rag, Mick leaned forward.

"Looking for yer old mate? Haven't seen him ..." he looked around and lowered his voice, "but he's making waves in the stage, if ye know my meanin'. I hear he is running with a loud lot."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sat Jun 25, 2005 1:43 pm

Patrick stopped outside of the pub, smirking a bit at the secrecy of it all. He had been repeating the little bit about being a postulant awaiting his rites, but it made little sense to the Irishman, though he would now have to act like one on the inside. Hopefully Mick wouldn't put up too much of an arguement to his borrowing a car, but he didn't know how long he would need it. Pat twisted his neck from side to side, cracking it slightly before gripping his sheet-wrapped arsenal by a fold at his left side, and strode into the Grin 'n Whistle.

Once inside, Patrick's hand was ready for a quick-draw shootout like he had heard about in american books of the wild west, but it was not quite necessary. Hoping to act casual, he glanced about the place, marveling at how the old neighborhoods would never change. No sooner had he spotted Mick, obvious due to his position behind the bar, did he see the very one he was borrowing a car to search for. It was strange to see him there, after all those years. Time had changed Shamus as it did all things, but he was clearly recognizable. Patrick had no doubt that Shamus would recognize him, so he simply walked up to the bar, whipping the golden crucifix out of his shirt, and took a seat one chair away from his childhood friend, and smoke to the barkeep.

"A whiskey for me please, and one for the lady as well."

Pat didn't know how or why Shamus was there, but he was grateful, at least for one task accomplished, there was also the job of locating the feds, trying to reason with them to get his father out of jail. He tried to catch Mick's eye without getting too much of Shamus's attention, turning slightly away. Hopefully the bartender would recognize the crucifix and cut right to the chase, it would take all of Patrick's coherence to convince his old friend to go on a dangerous jailbreak attempt.


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Sun Jun 26, 2005 5:56 pm

"Hardly! Are ya kiddin' me? The Scots are still as pansy a drinkers as ever." He grinned good-naturedly as he sat down across from Mick, listening to his words with an ever growing knit in his brow.

Great. Just great. This just got worse and worse, and ran deeper and deeper.

Shamus was lost deep in his own thoughts by the time Trick entered. Ironically, he was too busy thinking of how to find Trick to know he was standing right there...at least at first. One's body can change as much as it likes--and time had indeed worked it's magic on both of them, boys no longer--but one's voice, one's demeanor...these are things that time cannot change save to deepen or lighten both. The voice and the demeanor that he heard almost forced a grin onto his face as he immediately heard a bit of banter from his old time friend. He had come here for information, and had been one-upped by fate. That he found him so easily could only mean one thing:

They were royally screwed.

That's right. When God was kind enough to provide, it was usually because he'd need it more then ever. Forcing away the curse that threatened to dance on his lips immediately after the smile, he moved to reamin indifferent, and spoke softly, but loud enough for Trick to hear.

"Well, well. Long time no see. Doesn't a girl warrent a hug from her old friend?" He smirked as he glanced over ever so slightly, then forced his eyes back down. He was still somewhat new at this, but he wasn't new to the concept of subterfuge. Staring at his drink he began to talk.

"People 're talking, Trick...and I'm not sure I like what I hear. Yanks have me Da, an' I hear it was just t' get t' yers...an' word on th' street is ya downed a Yank, real permanent-like--all part of the deal when yer working with a group of international assassins, I s'ppose." He didn't care if anyone heard him, he figured he'd been slammed into one thing after the other. He was owed an explaination, and he wanted one now.

"At least, that's what's goin' on accordin' ta the Minestry of Defence."

Screw subterfuge. He wanted Trick looking in his eyes when he explained himself. He turned to face Trick head on, figuring he was owed at least that much.

"Bloody hell, Trick. What's goin' on? Why do the Yanks want ya so much? What's really goin' on here?"


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Thu Jun 30, 2005 2:55 am

Patrick paused and blinked at the blatancy of his old friend Shamus. Clearly it wasn't the time or place for this talk, but the Irishman had to say something while he awaited the whiskeys and attention from Mick.

"Look, Shamus. The yanks and I have an understanding. I am not wanted for any international assassination jobs, or anything like that, I've been in Dublin my whole life. I don't know why they took our das, but I am making arrangements to meet them and work things out. You can tag along if you behave."

With that, Patrick raised an eyebrow at his good friend, and leaned his sheet-wrapped arsenal against the side of the bar, addressing Mick, while lifting the golden crucifix up off of his chest.

"Mick, I know you know what this is. I am a postulant awaiting my Rites, and I am in urgent need of a vehicle. Can you help me?"

Patrick wasn't exactly ignoring Shamus, but he was eager to get the car, find the yanks and try getting their fathers out. Absently, he pulled out the Ministry of Defense badge and slid it across the counter to Shammy and flipped it open. There were many conclusions that could be drawn from the item, that he had indeed killed the yank, or that he was in league or even employed by them. It gave Shamus something to think about in the mean time, as well as punctuating his authoritative interest in a vehicle, should the barkeep notice it.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Thu Jun 30, 2005 8:06 am

If Mick didn't already look dead before, the sheer draining of color in his face enforced the appearance when Patrick spoke. Dropping his rag, the pubkeep leaned in closely between the two, keeping a steady, unblinking eye on Patrick. Glancing only for a moment at the crucifix he spat, "Put't away, you fekking git, 'fore you get us killed."

Resuming only after Patrick hid the crucifix, he said in a less aggressive tone.

"Patty, do you have any idea what ye got yerself into? Mother fekkin' weeps. And now Shammy, too. I may know who these people are, but don't mean I like it. Can't refuse the demands of a Postulant, so here's yer fekking car."

Mick tossed a pair of keys on the bar.

"Whatever happens, Trick, don't forget that servin' the Almighty may not be the same as serving the Almighty. If you catch my meaning."


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Sat Jul 02, 2005 9:31 pm

Shamus stared unabashedly as he heard Trick's reply, to which he just gazed down at the Yank Fed ID.

"Unnerstandin' my red arse! D'ya know what kinda trouble yer settin' us up for? Yeah, they have our Das, an' from what I unnerstand, it's because of you. I'll come along, but not as a 'tag-a-long', and none of this play nice crap. I'll come along as someone who'll have no problem kickin' yer arse from here to the Cliffs of Moore and back if ye don't get this taken care of...and I ain't leavin' yer side until I see it happen."

He looked sidelong at Mick, eyeing him at his response to Trick. He caught the hidden meaning in what Trick was saying, and stared at him long and hard.

"This talk isn't over, Trick...we'll discuss what's really goin' on later." He turned to look to Mick.

"Thanks fer the car, Mick. We'll try ta get it back to ya in as good a condition as we can." He snatched up the keys before Trick could, and looked long and hard at him.

"I'm drivin'."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sun Jul 03, 2005 2:33 am

Patrick only smiled as Shamus spoke, eyeing him with a tinge of disdain. Speaking softly, he replied first to Mick.

"Thank you, Mick. We'll see if the Holy Father has anything to say before I make up my mind."

When Shamus continued his feminine rant, and snatched the keys from the bar, Patrick had had enough. Apparently the lad thought he was dealing with the Irishman he used to be. Things had changed a bit, and now was the time for information. He whispered to his friend, though his voice was edged with menace.

"Look, Shamus, I think you've spent too much time in Scotland. If you don't trust me, get the feck out of my sight. You know the least about what is going on right now, so it would serve your best interest to keep your mouth shut until you've got your shyte straight."

Patrick snatched the badge from the bar and opened his jacket, sliding it into the inside pocket. There was another purpose to the movement, too, though, only available to Mick and Shamus. Depending on how attentive the men were, they might catch a glimpse of a black Colt .45. Patrick continued his whisper, hoping the lad was paying attention.

"They have your da, they have my da, and they have us, whether you know it or not. Now, as bad as that is, it's going to get a lot worse if we don't leave now. Be a good little boy or I'll blow your god-damned brains all over the place. I don't want to do that, but if you were in my situation, you wouldn't trust this chance encounter much either."

The smile had faded from Pat's slim face, and he spoke up, at a more audible volume.

"I was going to suggest that you drive anyway, I have some things to manage. Let's beat feet."

With that, Patrick was through lecturing, though he was thoroughly dissappointed in his old friend's behavior. Trick had every intention of informing Shamus on the situation, but later in a more private setting. The car would be the perfect place, but it was not going to happen now that Pat knew he couldn't keep his bloody mouth shut. Nothing could slip to the yanks, they had to believe he was helping them. He glanced back to thank Mick, and headed for the door, hoping Shamus would follow him. Patrick gripped his bundle and searched around for the appropriate vehicle. Once located and unlocked, he would take the back seat, and allow Shamus to hop in front.

As Trick unwrapped the arsenal, he began to inspect each weapon before loading them and slipping them beneath the seat. He would keep his pistols on him, but the big guns had to stay in the car for later, if plan A didn't work out. Pat spoke to Shamus, not looking up from his task.

"Driver, take me to my house. You remember where that is, eh Shammy? Oh, and when we see the yanks, let me do the talking."

Patrick intended to remain silent for the whole trip, regardless of what his old friend might say. Shamus's information privelages were revoked until further notice, at least after they found the americans and tried to work through things in a civilized manner. Once at his house, Patrick would expect it to be under surveilance. It would be a simple matter to attract attention, just by entering. Silently, he was glad that he had not shown Arthur and the boys where he lived.


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Sun Jul 03, 2005 9:50 pm

Figures. He sat there and listened to what Patty had to say, the entire time wanting to do nothing more then give him a hard snapkick to the gut and tackle him the rest of the way to the floor. Maybe that would help beat some sense into the boy. If not, his fists could surely help that task.

Since showing up he had done nothing but condescend and act like he was his better. Shamus was relatively sure he was the better shot--given how much time he had devoted to his practicing--but he couldn't be sure, and didn't want to push the point. He was the observant kind, though, and didn't fail to notice the Colt .45 in his pocket, and felt all along the way that the friend he knew had died long ago.

His heart sank as he felt a wave of dispair seep over him. If this was what Trick had been reduced to, then their fathers were in sorry shape indeed, and the one person he could have trusted was being swayed away not by someone else, but by Trick's own damnedable tendancies.

Shamus didn't say anything after Trick finished his verbal finger waggling, and it was at this point that Shamus knew words would get him nowhere. They progressed to the car, where Shamus took the front seat, and still words were hardly spoken. At the only spoken phrase said by his former (and who he still--perhaps veinly--hoped was current) friend, Shamus didn't even feel the need to snap off the usual witty reply. Instead, as they sat in stoney silence for the first few minutes, Shamus thought of how to word what he was going to say. Trick wasn't going to reply, but he didn't need to.

"I don' care who ya think ya are. Ya can work fer th' government 'r th' Yanks 'r th' Pope. Hell, ya could be the bloody Pope fer all I care. Th' only thing that's important to me is finding out what th' feck's going on and helpin' me Da, an' I ain't goin' nowhere away from ya until it's done." He glanced back in the mirror at his 'old friend', and wondered what happened to him that made him such a bitter, self-important creature. Less then a man, really.

"I used ta want ta know about ya, Trick, but now that I see ya..." He almost didn't finish it, but then, luckily, he remembered he didn't care anymore.

"...but now...I'm not sure I wanna know what happened to me old friend an' what ya did with 'im. I miss 'im, ya know? Th' one who I grew up with. After all, all we have is family and friends...an' right now, both 're lost ta me." He noticed the continued silence, and glanced back at Trick.

"I know yer not the kid ya used ta be...but neither am I, so lets do eachother a favor, stop treatin' eachother like it, and start bein' honest with eachother...it's the only way we can get our Das free." With that, he turned back and drove the rest of the way.

Once they arrived, Shamus would park it, exit with Trick, and follow with him. He kept his hands in the pockets of his trenchcoats--specifically so he could finger the revolver his father's old friend had given him--and kept a stoney look of disdain on his face, determined to remain that way no matter what he saw.

Trick might not be forthcoming, but whatever else was going on, He was going to learn more, whether Trick liked it or not.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sat Jul 23, 2005 9:53 am

Patrick sucked at his teeth, making a popping sound. He couldn't speak freely in such a situation, and he wanted Shamus to know that. The yanks could have him bugged, it seemed within their power. There was definately more to that than met the eye, and the promise of a glimpse at God's purpose. Their das were the primary objective, and then it was time to vacate the country. Patrick didn't know if his childhood friend was fully understanding the situation, and the less he knew the safer he would be. Shamus had to stand up to the scrutiny of the americans, and it would be easier if he didn't know everything Pat had been up to. After they spoke with those yanks, there was a decision to be made, and a course of action to commit to. Damned if Trick knew which one was "right", but they all had their own sins, and would alienate him from half involved.

Patrick noted Shamus's lack of comment about him locking and loading a slough of rifles, and approved for once. The good decision made him more willing to give up a snippet of information as they walked up to his parents' home. He hoped his mother would have left when the heat came down. He risked speaking before they made it to the door, hands in pockets where a pair of revolvers gripped his hands. He was torn, and on guard. What was to stop the yanks from taking him any time they wanted. He had to provide them with information, where Shamus would learn plenty. He wanted his friend to know that Patrick was working for them, but couldn't tell Shammy that he was having thoughts about turning coat on them, if Arthur had been telling the truth.

"Shamus, it's a strenuous time for us both, mate, but we gotta keep it together. You're right about us bickering, but I'll tell you what we're going to do now. The fekkin' empire's got our das, but I'm working something out with the Yanks. I want to include you on that deal if possible, but I don't know if they're going to budge. My da had his own reason go get arrested and yours did too. They were IRA, that's enough around here, that's why you went to Scotland in the first place, I take it, and it's no different. People are starving, Shamus, it's bad. This is the worst winter I've seen in a while, and the bloody brits don't give a feck! There won't be any change until people start dyin', and it's only until the crown cares enough. My agenda is for our island, our people, and all people, but there's a line in the sand now. Either the yanks will release our das to us after what I tell them, or they'll decide what they have is enough, keep them and arrest us as well. I don't think I'll be going to jail while there's a breath in my body, not for defending myself, how about you?"

The revolvers were warm from being close to his body for so long, but he hoped they would stay in there long enough to get clammy. He'd rather not draw and fire on the yanks, but if they wanted to take him, he wasn't going down without a fight. If Shamus didn't feel the same way, he would be caught in a position where he had to choose between his freedom, his life, and the life of his friend.


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Sun Jul 24, 2005 8:14 am

Shamus had noticed the guns, and had almost freaked out while he watched Patrick ready them, but having extensive guns training himself and knowing what Patrick was into, he wasn't surprised. After all, wasn't he himself packing heat? Instead he wisely stayed silent, listening to Tricks reply, his expression turning from frustrated to thoughtful. Eventually, he just wound up grinning.

"Well," he started a mischevious note in his voice, "Why didn't ya just say so?" He felt a fire and determination that he hadn't since he'd arrived. Now he finally had solid information and a goal. "Let's go in there an' have a chat with the Yanks, eh? If they try anythin'..." Shamus removed the revolver he had recieved from Uncle Matty and flicked it open with practiced ease to double check that everything was ready as he pulled into the place. Satisfied, he snapped it shut and slipped it back in his pocket. He made no secret of the move, allowing Trick to see that he too was carrying. "There's always 'Plan B'...the one where people start dyin'. An' I don't intend fer it to be us. I ain't goin' anywhere in cuffs, or ta any jail. It's like ya said."

It was at this point he got out of the car and looked to Patrick.

"Shall we? And don't worry, I'll just keep my mouth shut an' let you do most the talkin'." At this point he turned and took a deep breath, prepared to leave with Trick to face the Yanks and get this first confrontation overwith.

Either way, it was gonna be a helluva day by the time this was done.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Jul 25, 2005 8:28 am

The house was dark and quiet. Still snow settled uneasily on the porch's awning, but the concrete and stone porch was heavily treaded upon with no attempt to disguise it. Inside a hurricane of struggle had hit. Tables overturned, chairs askew, and lamps broken on the floor. There was most certainly a struggle and it became immediately clear what the results of the struggle were.

In the kitchen, Patrick's father was enjoying a glass of port while smoking a cigarette over the bloodied corpses of two men in nice suits. Unshaven and wearing nothing but an undershirt and boxer shorts he grinned at the two as the entered while twirling a .357 on the table.

"There you are," he said, "are these shite-eaters friends o'yers?"


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Wed Jul 27, 2005 1:09 am

Patrick left the conversation where it was when they approached the door. His hands shot from his pockets as he noticed his father, and the two well dressed bodies below him. A revolver in each hand, he kicked the bodies over in turn, checking to see if it was the two americans from before. Pat was silent a while before he spoke.

"Da, I suppose you were never detained by the empire? Those fekkin' yanks must have bluffed. Do you have any idea where Shammy's da is?"

Once he finished, Trick pocketed his revolvers and bent down to check the bodies for identification and valuables. If these were the americans, and they had been bluffing, that made things much simpler, so long as they could find Shamus's father as well. Surely one of them had a way out of the country. He voiced his concern.

"Look, Da, I need help getting some people off the island. I'll pay your costs, but we'll need to give Shamus and his pop the option of coming with. You as well, though I doubt you'll want to leave."

Upon mentioning his friend, he looked over and contemplated whether the man would come along. Patty would try his best to get them to Rome, but there was always the chance that they would just shoot him for his treachery, and Sham as well. He would have to arrange a private meeting with Arthur to see what the score was...at least they didn't have any big guns, Pat had grabbed them all. He wanted his father to reply, but knew that Stephan would most likely take his sweet time. That was one thing they didn't have to spare.


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Thu Jul 28, 2005 11:00 am

Shamus just nodded to his friend in reply, but didn't say much. He was utterly shocked to see Trick's father there and unharmed. Seemed either he'd been lied to, or the report was false. Didn't matter either way, because if Trick's Da was alright, then maybe...

Just maybe his own Da was fine and unimprisoned. Only problem was regardless, he had little idea where to start looking to check. The only ones with any information on the attackers, the Yanks, and the truth behind his father were right there in front of him, and imptience would get him nowhere.

Regardless, dead bodies of federal agents were likely not going to get cold without someone wondering where they were, so it'd be best to get out as soon as possible...assuming the location wasn't already under survailance.

He was still somewhat new to all this though, so he just did what he felt was wisest. Remained silent, gleaned what he could, and waited to see how the conversation went.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Fri Jul 29, 2005 1:53 pm

Tipping over the corpses did, in fact, confirm they were the same agents that Patrick approached in the pub. His father did a number on them, blasting holes in their chest and heads. At short range, a .357 isn't a tidy weapon.

"'ello, Shamus? I heard you ran off, fell into a ditch and became Scottish."

Smirking at his joke he offered the two port.

"It's a 60. I don't fool 'round on me port."

Taking a sip he continued, "They got your da, Shamus. He's at the Yankee Embassy. These two blokes coughed up a lot to save their skins. They say you got yourself wrapped up with some runts, Patty. Y'get one of those fleas on ye, they never come off. If y'needed a job, why didn't y'say so? Those bastards are bleedin' killers, Patty.

"Goin' against the empire that's one thing. Smacking yer willie for the fun of it's quite another."

"Now you got to leave Ireland."

He shook his head shamefully.

"An' you Shammy! What in the bleedin' juices of th' Mother are you here for? These are g-men, lads, they ain't alley-wash. Now I want to help y'lads, but it may be out of me sights. What exactly is going on here?"


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Fri Jul 29, 2005 9:58 pm

Patrick blinked and rolled his eyes through his father's blabbering on. It was no longer his position to determine what was best for him, that had gotten him nothing. Pat wanted something, to be something and a part of something bigger. There was something behind Arthur and his gang, something honorable. Pat had to find out, and he had to find out how Shamus felt about it, but talking to Stephen Owen was pointless, everyone on the island knew that. Despite his disregard, Trick waited for the man to finish before speaking.

"Look da, tell me if you can get him out legally or at least quietly, and if you can get me and a few others out. Shamus came here for answers, I assume, and we need 'em. Please help, I won't be gone forever...anyway...I need to talk to Shammy alone for a moment."

Patrick waited for anything said by either party and waited until it was settled before he took his childhood friend aside for a little talk. There was much to say, and the Irishman began in a low voice.

"Shammy, I got caught up with a few cats over at the park. We were just drinking and carrying on, but they took me for an informant of a traitor in their midst. They put a gun to my head and asked me things I didn't know about. Luckily, at that moment the real informant opened fire on all of us with a thompson. I put a slug through his skull in defense of my life, mate, the bloke was a yankee boy. Since then they've been threatening me and saying they got my da, but I didn't kill them when I had the chance. I chose not to, and still they played me for a criminal. I don't know if they got your da because of me, but I'm guessing that there would have either been arrests or dead bodies in this house before your father was captured in search of me. Look, you know it's the same with your da as it was with both, I'm still willing to help if my da doesn't have an easy way...Anyway, this guy I'm running with takes me in a gives me a bed and hides me for a bit, but I told him straight that I made a deal with the yanks and decided not to kill them. He put a gun to my head a second time, and he fired, but he missed on purpose, and told me what to do. He said he works for the church, that he's met the Holy Father, and serves a higher purpose. I want to see if he's right, and I'll risk getting out of the country a while. You have to make a decision, though, after your da is free. You can come with me and try to get in with this group I've come across, or you can go your own way."

Trick had said all there was to say, perhaps not all the details, but the gist of the situation. Time was a factor, most likely. Would his father be able to both get Shammy's da out and get Arthur and his boys to Rome, or wherever? Either one was a hope at best, but they had to try.


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Fri Jul 29, 2005 10:16 pm

Shamus, as he was wont to do, remained silent as he listened to them talk. He heard Stephen Owen make a comment, and he couldn't help but respond.

"No, but thank you fer the offer, Mister Owen. I need me head clear right now.

"Aye, sir, but i' t'wasn't my choice to be over there. My Ma and Da made that choice. I jumped the puddle to come back partly because I needed some good lager, and partly because I wanted word o' my Da and Patty here, an' help where I can. God love the both 'f ya, but if we can't get me Da out of the Yank Embassy quietly...I'm goin' in guns blazin', help or no. As fer what else trouble it seems I've stumbled onto, yer son seems to be the cause of it all." He grinned slightly and went silent again, until Trick pulled him aside.

"Aye. I knew th' risks me Da was takin', an' what could happen, search fer yer Da or no. If we have ta go in there with guns a'light, I imagine I'll go on th' run with ya. If we can get 'im out quietly, though..." He trailed off, lost in thought as he considered it for a moment, then looked up at Patrick once more.

"If that, then I suppose I'll decide when th' time comes. Depends on me Da an' his state, I s'ppose."


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Mon Aug 01, 2005 9:53 am

"Legal??" Mr. Owen snorted his 60 almost completely out of his nose, but then composed himself.

"Mate, whatever these Yanks are doing sure as shite ain't legal, so anything done in return ain't legal either. Y'want to get our mate outta the cellar, we go in like the bleedin' Royal Calvary. The good news is, the Yankees are more concerned with Berlin than Dublin so their can't be an army there.

"I can't get my lads to help . . . it isn't their cause. I'm in it, because yer me son and that's it. I tell you this, though Patty, I can't leave Ireland. You do what you have to, but the only way I'll leave is if the fekking empire sends me ashes away on a ship."

He waved them away.

"Go figure out yer shite and let me know when yer ready to go. Shammy's got the right idea, mate. Listen to him."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Mon Aug 01, 2005 5:49 pm

Patrick nodded as Shamus spoke, then snorted back as his Da spoke. Anger for the man seethed into Pat's being, what arrogance!

"Pardon me, Da, for wanting to prevent unnecessary killing. I know if you had your way you'd be the only one left alive here, I think. Shammy and I are already locked and loaded, get your shyte together."

With that, he turned, accepting no more advice from his father. The older Owen would help because he was obligated, but he couldn't be counted on for smarts. It didn't matter now, it was time for an old-fashioned jailbreak. Patrick left the house and strolled out to the car and hopped into the back seat. He sat in silence as he waited for the two, steeling himself for what they were about to do.


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Tue Aug 09, 2005 10:53 pm

Shamus refused to get drawn into the family arguement, and so wisely remained quiet. So instead, he simply pulled out his pistol and began to make sure it was completely in order.

"However, I think I'm probably gonna need more then six rounds to do this..." He trailed off, a small, thin smile on his face. Ah, there was something about the simple reassurance of knowing what one was going to do. He enjoyed having faith in his actions, his motivation proper.

He was going to get his father back, no matter what.

"Either I need more firepower--which would probably be a good idea, cause I think I can handle anything that fires better then most--or I at least need a few more rounds. Anywhere we can stop off for some more...unless someone has some spare .38 rounds?"

He tried to guide the conversation away from the wedge between father and son and more towards what would be needed to do this right.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Tue Aug 30, 2005 3:29 pm

Handing Shamus three boxes of shells, he clicked his tongue and gestured to the car outside with his head. Port in one hand and a .357 in the other he kicked open the screen and stormed over to the car.

Getting in the passenger side he hugged the seat behind him, glowering at his son.

"If yer going to act like a bleedin' corsette, the least y'could do is put on a fekkin' wig."

He reeled into normal sitting position, spitting out the window as he did so.

After Shamus arrived, he said "Y'know where the embassy is, lad?"


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Wed Aug 31, 2005 1:43 am

Patrick let it all go. He had to concentrate on what they were about to do, so his father's last remark went unanswered. Time was a factor, surely, but Patty felt a need to draw some lines. He scooped up his thompson and an M1 Garand, and left the rest to his father and shammy to pick up. The irishman smiled to himself as a thought flickered through his mind.

If a tommy, an M1, two revolvers and a Colt .45 aren't enough to take care of this, I guess I deserve to die.

Still, Trick didn't speak. He was steeling himself for the battle to come, and wondering if it was worth anything at all. Most likely, one of Arthur's lads would shoot him for his betrayal, which he deserved, but at least he could help Shamus and his father. Cal knew exactly how his friend felt, up until just then, he had thought his father in the same predicament. As far as Patty was concerned, the situation was no different. The least he could do was the right thing for once, and he loved it when the right thing involved pissing off the brits.


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Thu Sep 01, 2005 3:08 pm

Shamus blinked and stared at the three boxes of .38 shells, his mind immediately shovelling away the questions that popped up.

I dun wanna know...

Instead, he pocketed the boxes as best he could, slipping the revolver back into his pocket snugly, then turned to examine the weapons Trick had left for them to pick and choose between. He took the remaining M1 Garande wthout hesitation, and then considered a second gun. He considered the AiA for a minute, but discarded the idea. A smaller version of the Garande, and though it had a larger clip, it traded out stopping power. Besides, he already had the Garande, why grab a smaller faximile?

Instead he reached for one of the EM2 Bullpups, examining it. Nice and compact, the assault rifle provided stopping power and a spray capability the M1 couldn't even dream of. Taking it too, he left the AiA and the last Bullpup for Trick's Da.

Starting up the engine, he turned to look at the elder man, and frowned, trying to remember.

"I r'member where abouts...but not exactly where per sae...can ya give d'rections when we get in the general area?" He asked, already pulling away from the curb after he had checked for traffic.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Sep 07, 2005 9:49 am

"It's on Elgin and Pembroke," he said with a grunt a polished his port.

Somewhat peeved by Patrick's silence, he turned around again, staring down his son.

"You got somethin' to say, lad? Well, get it out there, then. Lot of good it is keepin' yer gots in a knot."

It would only be ten minutes before the car pulled up to the American Embassy. A nondescript, two-story building stood before them. It was in dire need of remodeling, however, the need for an embassy was very minor in this part of the world, considering all of the efforts in Berlin, Israel and elsewhere.

The building looked quiet, yet secure. A ten-foot fence guarded the parameter. Inside, the bottom floor had its lights on, but the top floor looked dark. There was a main public entrance, that was likely locked, a fire escape on the side wall and a garage around back.

No guards were posted, but it was certain the grounds were being watched somehow.

Lighting a cigarette the elder Owens paused to think and then shrugged, "Supposin' the fire escape is our best bet, 'lessen you want to jest drive through the front door."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Tue Sep 20, 2005 4:42 pm

Patty was pretty sure the three of them were headed into the realm of someone not making it back, and he was straight pissed at being lied to. The yanks were lucky Stephen had killed them without knowing the score, and especially lucky Patrick himself hadn't found them. There was so much between his father and him, and perhaps so little time left.

"Look, Da...I did what I had to do in self defense, and I thought that you were in trouble. A yank started shooting at me, so I popped him one in the head to keep from getting murdered and suddenly I'm an international assassin, right. Da, these guys are with the church, and I'm thinking of taking up in it after this. I want to meet the pope, but I'll be back to the Ire in due time.

"Right, so the fire escape it is. Let's keep this as quiet as possible, maybe we can catch them off guard."

Trick didn't want to speak again, he needed all of his concentration, they were pulling a high profile smash and grab operation. Any americans who were a threat could be put down, and as far as Patty was concerned, they could all just get the feck off the island and out of europe. The war was over, they could go away now.


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Sun Nov 20, 2005 9:29 pm

As Pat's Da mentioned it, it clicked in his head and he knew exactly where to go. He listened to Pat and his Da say their pieces, tempted to throw in his own lot.

In the end though Shamus decided against it for now, and instead said little as he drove, letting father and son work out their obvious differences. He grit his teeth, as he was hearing some of this for the first time himself, but tried not to let it show on his face. Instead, he continued to drive on to where Pat's Da had told them to go.

As he pulled up to the building, he said his own piece.

"Look, m' first obligation is ta me Da, but af'er that, I'm followin' Pat, wherever he goes. I haven't had a decent chance ta show 'im up yet, and the Good Lord knows he be needin' someone to put in his place every once in a while." He turned back and grinned to Pat, winking once. He knew it wasn't his place to say, but he just didn't want there to be any question where he stood.

As he listened, though, his mind switched to 'tactical' mode, and he began to consider options in regards to the building. Fire escape, or bust down the doors. Not that he didn't like the idea of busting down a door or two, but the fire escape had a better chance of survival, and thus success. Hard though it might be to believe, Shamus did have every intention of coming away from this with his life intact.

So, He slung the bullpup over his shoulder, figuring it better saved for when facing prepared opponents, and he deftly wielded the M1 Garande for the meantime for percision shots, when he could take his time. Actually, the .38 was better for percision, but he could hardly run around with just a revolver in hand with two rifles as 'back-up'. That in and of itself was a rediculous notion.

So, in the end, the Garande it was.

"Alright, so we use th' fire 'scape. But how do we get past th' fence?" He gazed at it with an annoyed look on his face, as though he couldn't be bothered with such trifling matters as a ten-foot fence.

"Did any of ya remember to bring yer spare mountain climbin' equipment?" There was no small amount of dark humor and mild sarcasm in the words, but they weren't meant to be biting, just slightly frustrated.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Tue Nov 22, 2005 5:12 pm

Shamus earned a look that was near comical from Owens Senior. Obviously wishing he had more port, he cracked his neck and turned around crawling behind the back seat. Returning with wire cutters, he said, "Right."

Leading the pack over to the fence he skillfully snapped it open enough for them to crawl through. In a few steps they arrived at the fire escape. Just above, they could see guards for the first time, patrolling at the top of the building. Only their shadows let on they were there and it was unclear as to how many there were.

Standing in thought for a moment, he whispered, "We need someone to get away from here and distract them and I ain't doing it."


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Tue Nov 22, 2005 8:17 pm

'Distract'. Everyone knew what it really meant was 'decoy', which translated into 'lower chance of survival then everyone else'. However, it was his father, who they were troubling themselves to help, and he was willing to bet he'd had more pratice with a gun then Patty...it had been a serious focus of his since he'd left, after all.

"Alright," He muttered, a dark expression on his face, "I'll do it. You two make sure ya get him and get him outta here, unnerstand?"

He gazed up at the roof, then at the fire escape. Distraction...he needed something that would gather their attention that wasn't near the fire escape, nor near their escape, the car. As he considered the situation, his mind analyzed the opposing side of the building. If crap hit the fan he'd be under heavy surpressive fire, that much was blinking obvious. These were the Americans, and they had long-since proven themselves to be quite trigger-happy.

The garage. Shamus smiled as he turned to face the elder Owens, holding out his hand.

"Gimme yer lighter." To boot, he worked his way back to their getaway vehichle, and pulled the sheet that had been used to hold the guns. He tore them into strips, a frown crossing his face. It was then he had wished he'd either kept the port, or his uncle's flask. It didn't matter, he'd make do. If he was lucky, one of the tanks would be overfull or near the top, and he could dip them then. If not...well, he'd still need to figure something out, but he trusted his own sense of innovation. He wasn't booksmart, but he could think on the fly.

As he made his way back towards the group with the strips of cloth, he looked to the pair of Owens, hoping they could set aside their differences long enough to save his Da.

"Gimme a few minutes. You'll likely hear an explosion, and as soon as the guards on the roof go runnin', that'll be yer cue."

That said, he then moved off, making slow progress, circling around the back of the building to the garage, being slow and careful to not be caught or spotted as he moved, Garande in hand.


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Sun Nov 27, 2005 12:41 am

Patrick was about to volunteer for the most risky of the missions when Shammy beat him to it. He didn't want his friend to assume that responsibility, but it made more sense that way. Trick's tommy made him the ideal candidate for sweeping hallways, with the garand for long shots and the trio of pistols if it came to that, plus he wouldn't want to make his friend deal with his old man. That man could get grouchy ass hell, but he was good inside...this proved it. Instead of protesting, Patrick looked Shamus in the eye and nodded.

"All right. You got a lighter, da?"

Patty dug through his own pockets, wondering if he had his as well, and kept speaking, directing his words toward his friend.

"You keep on the move, eh, Shammy? You can't keep these yanks preoccupied if you're dead. Clearly they underestimate the luck o' the Irish, eh? Once we get the chance, we'll go in through the fire escape, but we may not want to go out the same way...there's gotta be a back way...after you've distracted them, head that way."

Once Shammy got his lighter, Pat slung the M1 over his shoulder and the butt of the tommy against it. He waited for Stephen to ready himself as well and nodded sharply.

"Good luck, Shamus. We'll meet you with your da out back. God be with ye."


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Sun Dec 04, 2005 9:58 pm

It wasn't until Stephen Owen passed back his lighter and Shamus was all the way from the car with torn sheets before a familiar form came out from the darkness around the base of Embassy.

Michael O'Malley came into the pool from the headline. More shadows loomed behind and one by one, Patrick recognized them. Arthur and his gang stepped into the light wearing grins as they followed Shamus's father.

"You're not going to raid the fekking Embassy, boy," Michael said as Stephen bellowed into laughter pounding on the steering wheel.

Stepping out of the car he added, "But I bleedin' happy you gits gave it a go!"

Arthur had a relaxed expression, as did the gang. Holding up a bottle of whisky he said, "Now that we all know you two are crazy, we take your pappy's vouch that you'll be a fine asset to the knighthood.

"We've got a date at Mick's, if you want to pull yer undies from up on high."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Mon Dec 05, 2005 1:34 am

Patrick was a few moments from letting some yank blood loose, when none other than the man they were looking for stepped out of the darkness, bringing a jovial mood and an invitation to go to the pub. So many things passed through the Irishman's mind that he stood completely still for a moment to work through it. It seemed much of this adventure was a sham.

"Ye God, do they truly let secretive bastards like you walk the streets?! How much of the last forty-eight hours has been manufactured? Wait, don't even start yet...I need some guinness with this."

While he was surprised, there were many things that had happened in that time that demanded explaination, perhaps at the pub.

"All right, all right...we should pack up this heat and go. Still driving, Shammy?"

Patrick didn't know exactly what had transpired in his old friend's recent past, but he knew the feeling Shamus must have been having, he had experienced it just moments before back at the house. Without a further word, he started gathering rifles into the trunk, but decided to keep his lucky Colt .45 on him, along with the two revolvers. Patty was staying strapped until he knew what was what. Then with a sigh, he got into the back seat and awaited their next, and hopefully last, stop.


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Mon Dec 05, 2005 9:33 am

Shamus froze, his face going deathly white as he saw a man from his long past step into the light before them. Shamus himself was on the verge of passing out, while his own father stood before him, grinning from ear to ear like a full-blown idiot. No, that wasn't right. It had that girth to it, but it's intensity was somewhere between 'cat that ate the canery' and 'stark-raving lunatic'.

"Ten years..." he gaped, blinking at the man whose face was so different yet so similar to the one dancing in his memory. The man looked smaller, more frail, but time as well as growing larger did that to a boy and his father.

"A fekkin' decade an' all ya have ta' say t'me is..." He was a jumble of emotions. Part of him wanted to run over and slug the crap out of his father, another wanted to leap forward and hug him, and yet another just wanted to scream and runaway from this terrible nightmare that he couldn't seem to awaken from.

He shook his head clear of residual things and did what he always did when he was like this--blindly obeyed his father. So, with a sigh, he turned back towards the car, nodding to Patrick. Of course he was driving. This didn't preclude him, however, of asking a question of his father.

"Ever since I stepped off th' boat from Scotland...what out a' all a' that's been real?"


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Thu Dec 08, 2005 10:54 am

"Th' look on yer face, lad . . . that was real," Michael said as they all gathered in the car. Arthur and his gang got in a separate sedan parked half a block away.

O'Malley took the while and Own sat in the passenger side. The car was silent at first, but then Owen looked back at the two boys in the back with feigned concern.

"Ye get all worked up, did ya? Well, there's a lot more coming down sewer, but you'll be doin' the work of the Almighty. It was all a test, see?"

Glancing over at Shamus he said, "There were few ways of gettin' you two back together and yer da an' I wanted you in our club. The club's a bit selective though, so they wanted to see exactly how far you'd go."

O'Malley nodded and then added, "Didn't think you'd gone straight into the fekkin' Embassy. Scored high on that'n."

After a pause and turn, he said, "How was Scotland, lad? Learn to bathe where y'shit, then?"


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Thu Dec 08, 2005 7:14 pm

At Michael's words, Shamus wanted to punch him in the back of the head right where he sat behind the wheel. The only things restraining him was his desire to learn more, the awkward position--being in the car an' all--and the fact that his father was driving and he very much didn't want to get in a wreck right now. His voice, though, was absolutely dripping with spite.

"We ran ta Scotland because your arse was in trouble, an' ya didn't want us in th' middle of it. I lived there, but I have no love for those Scot bastards." His eyes narrowed even farther as he glared hard.

"An' you...not a word ta Ma...not a word in all those years. If'n ya wanted me, ya shoulda sent fer me rather then leadin' me on this Wild Yank Hunt." He knew if he looked at his father any longer he really would want to leap forward and attack him, so his eyes averted to look out the window.

"But hey, as long as I passed yer fekkin' test it's all good, yea?" The words were laden with sarcasm, but he pushed forward. "Since I'm part of yer little band now, how about you let me in on what the name of all that's Holy is going on here? Up until now I've been in the dark on just about everything. Patty's kept things from me, me Uncle kept things from me, Trick's Da...an' now I find out you too?" He shook his head violently, his fist slamming against the car door. "Someone better tell me what in th' Hell's goin' on, afore I jus' walk out here an' now."


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Sun Dec 11, 2005 2:16 pm

It was unclear if his father didn't notice the anger or completely disregarded it. Focusing, only slightly, on the road, he peeled around a corner revealing the very avenue where Mick's was located.

"Y'sound like a fekkin' girl, you do. Like a wee fekkin' girl. We left because of you. Not a word to ma. Tell me what's going on."

He snorted and then whacked Owen on the arm, "Least yers is quiet."

Owen then turned around and faced them both.

"Your da's been in America. We've both been involved in a different kind of world. Arthur an' his boys? They're Knights of the Order of St John of Jerusalem, an' so are we. An' now, so are you. After y'take the rites of course."


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Sun Dec 11, 2005 5:42 pm

Shamus snorted as his father berated him. He was long past caring what his father thought of him, but it was only adding to the building rage inside of the man.

"Oh, get over yerself." he fired off as Owen Senior finished speaking, pretty much ignoring them and going straight for the man who had been his fixation for years. "Ya think yerself so high an' mighty, don'tcha? An, if I remember correctly, back then ya were busy quakin' in yer own boots just like a girl yerself. At least now I know where I get it from." He snorted as he turned to pay attention to Trick's Da.

"I see. Interestin' plan. Mayhaps ya can tell me exactly what it is these Knights do? Not that I'm not interested an' all, but I'm just a little curious about what it is I'm about to get myself into."


 * Author: Patrick Owen, PostPosted: Tue Dec 13, 2005 5:20 am

Patrick was too lost in thought to really participate in the conversation, and since he knew, or at least thought he knew, more than Shammy at this point. From his friend's reaction, Patrick gauged that Shamus hadn't heard of the Knights before. In all honesty, Patrick hadn't heard their full name, and still didn't know what it was exactly that they did, other than taking orders from the Vatican. It didn't take much to get back to the old pub, Patty was thankful for that.

When they finally pulled to a stop, Trick was quick to pop the door open and step out, bringing his tommy with him. The rest of the guns belonged to Arthur and the lads, so he left them. Chances were that Arthur had been conspiring with Stephen the whole time, most likely before he and Pat met those long nights ago. While Patrick was a bit angry for the deception, curiousity far outweighed the feelings of agression. Finally he spoke, just before they entered.

"Well, seeing as how we passed the test, we should do a bit of celebrating, and since I haven't had the chance to welcome you home the Irish way, Shammy, that can be tonight too, after business is settled."

Patrick hoped the gang showed up, but there was still doubt in his mind about the reality of the two american agents, though either way Arthur should have been pleased. Trick really wondered what the two men would share with their sons now that they had passed through some sort of veil, but mostly his thoughts turned toward the rites they were to perform. He wanted to give them a chance to speak before he started asking questions.


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Dec 14, 2005 1:21 pm

O'Malley didn't continue the debate, instead just shook his head and followed the Owens' into Mick's. The pub was cleaned out for the night, but Mick was still at the bar and he'd left chairs down at one table in the corner.

Seeing the crowd enter he winked, "Tough night, lads? I suspect four pints'll do it then?"

He poured them and then left the pints on the table as the men got settled. Arthur and his crew also came in but they locked the door behind them and stayed there smoking cigarettes and chatting amongst themselves. Mick joined them and passed pints around.

"It's like this," Owens said, "the Order is the Holy See's secret army. Our job is to do whatever the Church tells us to do without question and with the knowledge our work is blessed by the Almighty Himself. Independence for Ireland is just a fekkin' training ground for this.

"Your da an' I got involved through the liberation. Lot of the guys there did favors for the knights and it was only a matter o'time before we ended up in it.

"The order's been around since the Crusades. It is fekkin' real, it is organized, an' they've got a bottomless pit of fekkin' resources. Your tiny little worlds as you know it are fekkin' over."

Owen and O'Malley drank to that.

O'Malley then said, "We're going to visit a Cardinal an' get you lads signed up. After'at we got a mission in Scotland. So you'll get to bend right back over again, lad," he said smacking Shamus on the forearm.


 * Author: Myth, Location: Salem, OR PostPosted: Thu Dec 15, 2005 6:50 am

O'Malley snorted and shook his head, knowing his issues with his da was far from over, but that he wouldn't be able to continue the discussion until he had some more potent ammunition. Besides, he could hardly refuse the offer of a pint.

As he sat with the others and listened to Owens Senior, he glanced at him with a curious expression on his round face.

Shamus could have sworn he'd heard of something like this in his school days, some sort of secret society that worked for the Church, but he couldn't remember their name for the life of him. Not like he paid a lot of attention back then anyway.

He never dreamed that they'd recuit him. He suspected it had a lot to do with his da, but he didn't really care at that point. However, the irony of a Knight named Arthur was not lost on him, despite that. Who hadn't heard the legends of King Arthur and his knights?

Knights...Knights...Knights....Temple Knights? The name of the order was on the tip of his tongue, partially because secret societies and the like had always intrigued the lad, especially when there was so little to keep him amused in Scotland aside from his ma, his gun, and his books.

Knights Templar! It finally struck him, remembering the name of the group he'd read about so long ago, amazed that he could even recall it from his own hazy memory.

As he drank with them, he didn't even notice his father's attempt to bait him once more, so absorbed was he in working his memory. Failing at recalling much more then their name and that they were some sort of super-secret society for the church, he spoke up again at last.

"I know I haven't even heard the full name spoken yet, so it might even be them--right age an' all too, if it's been around since the crusades--but is th' group anythin' like th' Knights Templar?" He spoke the name more to get a reaction out of the two fathers then out of any real knowledge about them, trying desperately to see if his guess was right.

"Regardless, I'm all for it. Bottomless resources, workin' fer th' Holy See himself...can't really ask for a sweeter deal 'n that." He turned and gazed at his friend, who hadn't properly greeted eachother the Irish way--that being over liqour--and grinned. "However, it all depends on what Patty Saylittle here has t' say, if he ever really speaks up."


 * Author: Laveaux, PostPosted: Wed Jan 04, 2006 5:53 am

O'Malley spit bitter all over the table when his son spoke. Wide eyed and with a hint of what could be called fury crossed his face.

Leaning in and with very serious eyes he said, "Look 'ere, lad. We are pretty fekking far from the Knight Templars, right? Those bastard heathens are the fekking enemy. This is the Holy Order. The Knights of Rhodes and Malta for God's sake."

In clear blasphemy he raised his pint toward the heavens, "Forgive him father, for he know's not his arse from his gob."

Owens smacked his companion upside the hide, "Shut it, you. Not many people even heard of the fekkin' Templars let alone the Order."

Addressing the table he said, "Back in the day we were called the Hospitallers. The sworn enemies of the Templars. The only one the Church trusted. Even to this hour."