The Big Bust-Up (final chapter first draft)

5.
The split second before kicking in the office door with her blood covered foot she thought about Otis. She thought about what they might've done to him, about what state she might find him in. She thought of how much his respect meant to her. It was not often in this vicious world that any spared a kindness for any one else, even less so respect, especially for a woman. Men had this sick need to exhibit power, not just possess it and women frequently became the canvas upon which these mad painters choose to share what little they've seen of existence. Her thoughts turned to an Otis bloodied and beaten and she could think of nothing but the bullets in her gun and how good it would feel to put one into every bastard she came across between here and the only man she had ever given herself to. All these thoughts flashed through her brain then immediately vanished as her fighting instincts took over and she began her bloody walk through what she assumed would be her final deadly mile. The offices were quiet, almost deceptively so. She knew that something awful lingered just on her horizon and the calmness of her surroundings seemed duplicitous. She imagined dozens of gunmen lurking under desks, behind filing cabinets and walls. But nothing happened the entire way to the rear exit of the office which led into the processing plant, the place where all the meat got cut up.
It would have been foolish to just bust through those doors and into the waiting rain of metal that lay beyond. Though she was sometimes flighty and prone to make mistakes she was never foolish, not where her survival was concerned. She looked around the office to see what she might be able to use. She smiled. She grabbed one of the rolling chairs closest to her and plopped down into it. She gave it a good spin, testing its weight bearence and balance. She stood up and put the confiscated gun in her armpit. She tested the weight of a few filing cabinets before settling on one that she could both lift and that the chair would support. It wasn't that difficult to put the filing cabinet in the chair but the arm that she'd been shot in started pumping fresh blood and that made her a bit light-headed. The noise from the machinery thrummed loudly and probably masked most of the noise she had made, but she doubted it.
The men beyond the door knew she was coming, and though it had taken her little to no time to complete her strategy she was curious why no one busted in on her and shot her full of bullets? It was probably ego. The man in slacks looked like that kind of a person. He must have been supremely confident in his position as a gangster to be so cocky. He probably thought he inspired an indefatigable terror. Most gangsters did. Show a little brutality and suddenly you think you're powerful. She knew the truth of that though. You can kill a brutal person just as easily as you can anyone else. They aren't bulletproof and death takes all comers.
She set herself behind the filing cabinet and gave a push. The chair rolled easily and kept a straight enough course, straight enough for what she needed. She backed up ten feet then ran with the chair ahead of her. As the cabinet and chair crashed through the door she had a frightening thought. What if the man in slacks had run off? What if she'd just wasted her time and the one chance she had at taking him easy?
The hail of bullets pinging off the sides of the metal filing cabinet at least gave her reassurance that there were still some bastards yet to kill. She had stopped at the doorway after the chair and cabinet broke through. She used the few seconds she had to survey the positions of the gunmen. There were six. Two on each side of the doors and two in front. They had sub-machineguns and let loose for a full five seconds before realizing what they were shooting at. That was more than enough time for her to shot the two on her left and dive for cover behind a big metal desk. The two gunmen directly in the path of the rolling chair had to dive out of the way to avoid getting hit so she used that distraction to take down the two others on the right side. She scrambled over to one of the SMG's the nearest gunman to her still clutched in his dead hands. The remaining thugs were scrambling to get up and return fire when she popped up and sprayed them with death. And then their was one.
The man in slacks was standing up on a platform by one of the large processing vats. Hung on a hook by chains over the vat was Otis, bloody and beaten. The man in slacks smiled and waved at her the control switch held in his hand.
"I see that you're good but how good are you really? Do you think you can make it up here in time to save him?"
She gripped her weapon until her knuckles turned white, but she couldn't hold back her smile. Otis was still alive! He looked like they had kicked the hell out of him but one eye still opened and looked at her with awe. She knew then that she would give up everything for this man, she had risked a hellfire of bullets and blood to get revenge and the gods had smiled on her. Her man was still alive! And all that barred her way was a pompous little Englishman who watched Scarface one too many times. He had no idea how good she was with a gun.
He smiled at her with a greasy desire.
"I know what you're thinking. Maybe you can shoot me somewhere and my hand won't press the button, but you're wrong. The nerves in my hand will contract and down goes your boyfriend like so much lunchmeat. Not really what you want is it? But not to worry, I can see you've got some worth and I'm willing to work out a deal." His grin told her what kind of deal that would end up being.
"What do you say?"
She looked him dead in the eye as she raised her weapon and fired at the power generator. There was an explosion of sparks and the resulting smoke set off the fire alarm, but all the machines turned off and slowly wound down. The look in the man in slacks eyes gave her the second greatest pleasure she had yet experienced.
"Wait I..." were the last words he ever spoke on this earth and then his head fell apart under the stream of bullets from the SMG in her hands.
Under the blaring red lights and fire sirens she pulled Otis to the platform and unchained him. She held him gently for a moment then held his face in her hands. He would have scars and probably lose his right eye. He looked up at her with his one good eye and softly coughed up words that let her know he would be fine otherwise.
"Hey hero, don't we have a plane to catch?"
She laughed loud and kissed him hard. Before the cops or firemen showed up she carried him out the back way and into the daylight of the street.

The Big Bust Up

by Ryan Buck

1.
If three hours ago things had gone differently she and Otis would have been on a plane to Guam, toasting expensive champagne to a job well done and planning to have lots of sweaty carnal exercise. But things don't always work out the way you want them to and so now here she was sitting in a stolen car, holding a Mauser, smoking a cigarette and wearing nothing but her slip. A shotgun lay next to her on the front passenger seat. Her long legs were stretched out on top of the dash and her eyes were keenly fixed on the back door of the scummy dive Dirty Dave had gone into 10 minutes before. She knew it was a risk to let him go in there by himself. He couldn't be trusted. He was probably in there phoning ahead and getting some kind of ambush set up. That didn't matter. She knew that one way or another this thing wouldn't end until there was a reckoning. Either she got Otis back alive or she ended up dead, those were the only things that concerned her. She hoped for the former but expected the latter.
Dirty Dave came stumbling out, a brown paper bag clutched in his meaty fists. The same fists he'd tried to beat her with half an hour ago. She had broken three of his fingers with the butt of the Mauser and given him the fat lip he dribbled from. Dirty Dave was your typical he-man woman hater and thought all women weak and easy to beat on. Like all such men they never expect a women to be as strong or ferocious as themselves. She had never been a shrinking violet and had never in her life backed down from a fight. That was was one of the things that Otis said he admired most about her. Her tenacity and bravado had won her a spot not only in Otis' little band of misfit miscreants but also in his bed. She had been all of 22 when she first ran into Otis, quite literally, outside of Bowman's bar on a hot August night three years ago.
Otis had stumbled drunk into the parking lot and she was driving drunk through it. She had hot wired the car, nearly blind from two bottles of bourbon and as she backed up she heard a thump and felt something fall onto the trunk. She didn't know why she stopped and got out of the car but one look at him sprawled out over the back of that cherry red Camaro and she was glad she had. Otis was an amazing looking kind of guy. It wasn't one thing in particular that made him so attractive, in fact taken in parts he might not have been. His mouth was just a little too large, his eyes seemed unevenly spaced and his nose just a button on his face. Yet all these things put together and drenched in his incredible charm melted her like no other man before or since. "You hit me with your car." He said drunkenly and that made her laugh and from those first words she was hooked.
Being a tough girl hadn't ever made her many friends in the masculine department. Most of the guys she'd grown up with either wanted to fuck her or were intimidated by her. Otis certainly wanted to fuck her but not in that creepy way every other guy that looked at her did. He didn't force it on her or continually paw at her until she caved in just to get him off her back. Otis gave her what no other man other than her father had given her, respect. Otis admired her. He often told her how cool she was and how together they could accomplish anything. After their first job together Otis always made her a part of the planning and put her in control of the guns. She had always been good with guns. It wasn't from any special training or years of practice, it was just one of those things she had a natural affinity for like how some people can draw or write especially well. She couldn't paint or compose poetry but she could shoot.
Dirty Dave smiled at her through his fat lip and broken teeth as he bent down to open the passenger door.
"Ah ah." she said pointing the Mauser at his face. "Just drop it in the seat."
Dirty Dave looked dumbfounded, which was no great feat for him already looking the part of village idiot half the time anyway. "You ain't taking me with you? You letting me go?"
She just smiled. "Is it in there?" she said nodding to the paper bag. He nodded up and down, sweat trickling off his beefy jowls. "Where is he?"
"He...he's at Fredrick's. Over on Culvert. Y...you know the place?"
"Yes, I know the place." Damn! She was hoping this might be simple but like everything else about this day it was going to be twice as hard.
"So w..we square now? I did what you wanted. I found out where he was." She gave him a cold glare. "I promise. I swear I ain't crossed you...again. I wouldn't do that." With those words she knew the truth. Otis was gone. It was like a punch in the heart, but she didn't let a bit of it show through. She looked at this sorry excuse of a man and shot him through the mouth. She slammed the car into gear and sped out onto the street leaving Dirty Dave dead and bleeding in the back alley. She knew she was driving towards her death, but she swore that she'd put a bullet in every one of the bastards that had set up her and Otis before she went.
2.
Twenty four hours before she shot Dirty Dave in the mouth she and Otis were sitting about a block away from Johannsen's casing the street. She sat nestled in his arms, kissing him softly on the neck.
"You know if you keep that up I'm going to get distracted and where will that put us tomorrow?" Otis' tone was playful and only slightly reprimanding. They had an unwritten rule when pulling off a job; no sex 'til after. She wasn't trying to break that rule or bait him into breaking it either, she was simply playing around. They often liked to tease each other this way, increasing the anticipation of pulling off a score with no foul ups.
"I'm just trying to look convincing babe." She said as she tugged on his ear with her teeth.
"Well, don't get...carried away now." Otis put his hand on her neck and held her gently. "This is going to be a big score. Probably our biggest yet."
"You're sure about this Dirty Dave guy?" She put her head in his lap and looked up at the scar on the bottom of his chin. "He's kind of a creep."
"Yeah. Well a creep he may be but he's always been a reliable fixer."
"If you trust him then it's all gold with me." They sat quietly for a minute or two, she with her head in his lap, he gently stroking the hair from her forehead.
"So why Guam?" she asked. He was busy surveying the street, paying close attention to the grey Volvo that had just pulled up in front of Johannsen's. She asked him again.
"Huh?" He looked down at her and smiled. "I grew up there. My folks still have a house in the woods."
"Hey, wait a minute! Is this some kind of weird way to introduce me to your parents?"
He laughed, that sweet guffaw that always tingled the back of her head.
"No, haha, don't worry this isn't some kind of elaborate proposal or anything. My folks are gone but the house is in the family and...well I just thought I'd be nice to get out of the city for a while. You know take a vacation."
She punched him in the arm. "You scared me for a second there."
He laughed again and kissed her.
"Don't worry I wouldn't mess up a good thing with something as silly as marriage."
She leaned into him and they kissed again.
"Yeah, well you better not." They both chuckled and watched as two men got out of the grey Volvo carrying leather satchels.
Otis checked his watch. "Two thirty on the dot. This thing is going to go off like clockwork."
3.
The job went exactly according to plan. There weren't any cock ups and the only people hurt were the two bagmen, both shot close range with her shotgun. The bag was grabbed and the three man crew; her, Jolly and Otis lit out like a fourth of July bottle rocket. A smooth and easy snatch and grab. All they had to do was meet up with Dirty Dave, hand over the satchels and pick up their payment. That's when everything went to hell. Jolly got his head blown off as soon as he walked into the hotel room. Before she or Otis could raise guns and fire off they were jumped by big burly thugs and dragged into the dingy room.
Waiting inside Dirty Dave smiled through yellowed teeth. Next to him sat a man in white slacks, red shirt and a tie. Otis said his name and was promptly smashed in the mouth by one of the big thugs holding him. "Lancaster!"
The man in slacks was eating a sandwich. He stopped eating and wiped his mouth as he stood up.
"I'm glad to see you have such a good memory Otis. I might have been insulted if you had forgotten your old mates." The man in slacks had a British accent. He walked to within a few feet of she and Otis.
"Well she's a pretty one." The man in slacks looked her over in an oily way and took out a handkerchief from his pocket. He went to stand directly in front of Otis. Blood dripped from Otis' split lip. The man in slacks put the handkerchief around his hand protectively and grabbed Otis by the jaw. Otis struggled but the two burly men holding him flexed their arms and Otis let out a painful yell.
"You won't be getting away from me that easy this time, mate." The man in slacks squeezed Otis' jaw forcing more blood to flow out of the busted lip. "Take him to the car." Otis gave a fight but a few punches to his neck from his captors put an end to any more resistance.
"What about the girl?" This from Dirty Dave as the man in slacks made for the door.
"Consider it a finder's fee." He smiled, put his handkerchief back into his pocket and left. Only She, Dirty Dave and the man pinning her arms remained in the room. Dirty Dave was grinning to beat the Cheshire and wiping sweat from his pouchy lips.
"Put her over here." he told the thug holding her. The thug shoved her roughly into a chair by the window. Dirty Dave kept wiping his lips and running his eyes over her body.
"Take 'em off." He stammered, his excitement getting away with itself. She didn't move. She sat there glaring at Dirty Dave. Dirty Dave pulled a Mauser from the belt of his jeans and pointed it at her face.
"I said take 'em off you cunt!" His hand trembled from anticipation. She stood up roughly and began to take off her jacket and the plain skirt she was wearing. She stood in front of the two men wearing only her slip.
"Now that's hot. Isn't that hot?" Dirty Dave was saying to the thug. He came up to her and started caressing her nipples through the slip with the barrel of the Mauser. She stood resolute not flinching as he leaned in close to her neck. Before he could put his mouth on her she had twisted the gun out of his hands and shot the thug in the belly. Dirty Dave, being as physically slow as he was mentally, didn't have time to deflect the butt of the Mauser as it came slamming into his mouth. Her knee connected with his balls at the same time and he blacked out.
When Dirty Dave came to about ten minutes later it wasn't gentle or coaxing. He was being slapped in the face repeatedly and hard.
"You bitch! I'll fucking gut you!" He wanted to lunge at her, grab her by the neck and squeeze 'til her face turned purple but the belt holding his hands to the table wouldn't let him. She sat across from him, his Mauser in her hands. She had him tied so that his chest was flat against the table, his arms spread out wide. He could barely raise his head to look up at her. He pulled at the restraints for a second then gave up.
"Where did they take him?"
"What the fuck are you talking about you cooze?" With a quickness that Dirty Dave could not follow she smashed the Mauser onto his right hand. There was the sound like celery snapping and then Dirty Dave let out a high pitched yell. She had a glass of water next to her and threw it in his face. He stopped yelling and gurgled on the water, choking. When he was done she asked her question again.
"I...I don't know."
She raised up the Mauser as if to smash it down again and he began to stammer.
"I..I don't know, but I can find out. Honest. I can find out for you. Please don't hit me again. I can find out for you. I can get you your money to." She didn't care about the money. She wanted to get Otis and put bullets into the man in slacks.
"I'll shoot you in the mouth if you're lying to me." Was all she said and untied him.
4.
She sat in Dirty Dave's car at the parking lot across from Fredrick's Meat Packing Plant. The place was a gangster fortress and had a sinister mythology amongst the street operators of the city. It was the place the Big Guys took you if they wanted to put a nasty hurt on you and take there time doing it. She knew they'd be waiting for her. She was sure Dirty Dave had called ahead. The paper bag he'd given her was full of money, but she was sure that was only meant to calm her down, lower her defenses.
The way she planned on going in was guarded; three at the gate, two at the door. She'd been watching them for twenty minutes and they started to look bored. Then a skinny dude came out and talked to the five guns and suddenly they went back on the alert. Someone must've found Dirty Dave and phoned it in. Good, she wanted them to know she was coming. She wanted them on edge. She checked her shotgun and double checked the Mauser. The Mauser had five bullets left, the shotgun six shells. She didn't spend any more time thinking about her plan. She threw the car into gear and sped straight toward the front gate of the Packing Plant.
Across four lanes of traffic she sped without hitting any oncoming cars. She slammed the two ton bullet into the gate and through the three guns stationed there before they were able to get off a single shot. The two guns at the door had more time to make a move and one of them had gotten off a shot at the wheels of the car. The wheel popped and the car careened to the side and punched into one of the concrete support pillars by the front door stairs.
She was out of the car and squeezed off two rounds into the closest thug, hitting him in the arm and the eye. The thug went down and she swung around to get the other one in the leg. This thug was a bit faster and managed to graze her left leg with a bullet, taking out a quarter sized chunk of meat with it. It stung a little but it wasn't the first time she'd been shot and it certainly wasn't the worst. The thug dove for cover and she ran straight toward him, not giving him any time to recover. She came up to him.
She said, "Hey." and he turned to face her. She put a bullet through his ear and another through his forehead. His head popped like an over ripe watermelon. She tossed the expended Mauser down and brought up the shotgun. She turned toward the double doors of the front entrance. Two more thugs burst out and ate two exploding shotgun blasts at close range. Their faces turned to hamburger and a fine red mist sprayed across her white slip. She jumped over their dead bodies and dove inside the building.
She stood and looked around fast, taking in the layout and positions of all the shooters aiming at her. There were three men with guns waiting for her; two behind packing crates and a third up top near a conveyor belt. She dove to her right to avoid the bullets that were being fired at her. She came up next to a stack of packing crates. There wasn't much cover in the 10 feet between her and the three gunman. They were spending bullets like money in a Mexican whorehouse and not a one came anywhere near her. The crates she was standing behind dripped bloody meat from the numerous holes now lining the side facing the gunmen. She waited for them to stop shooting then made a mad dash across that deadly open space toward the gunman on her left. She was four feet away from the crate he was using as cover when the gunman up top clipped her in the arm.
She slid the rest of the way to the crate, slamming into the front of it. She jumped up immediately and swung around to the left, out of the line of fire from the other two guns and let go two more blasts from her shotgun. She heard the shells punch into something and by the screams that followed she was sure it was the thug. She crouched down and squinted at the pain in her arm. It was beginning to go numb and she knew she didn't have much time before the wound would seriously hamper her aim.
She could hear the gunman above running across the planks of the conveyor belt and as the footsteps got to a point just above her she fired upwards. A curse, followed by more gunfire let her know she had missed. She only had one shell left in her shotgun. She risked a quick glance around the corner of the crate and saw the dead thug's gun laying two feet away. Bullets whizzed close but went wide. She popped back into cover, counted five then popped out again diving for the thug's automatic pistol.
It was in a pool of blood and slippery when she grabbed it but her fingers slid easily into the trigger guard as she came up on one knee. She knew the thug on the ground was a terrible shot so she took two seconds to aim and blew a hole in his shoulder when he fired at her again. She heard the gun above her moving around and squeezed the trigger on the pistol in her hand until it clicked empty. She heard a thump and then saw the thug fall from the gang plank to land on his head four feet away from her. She stood up and walked over to the gunman she had winged in the shoulder. blood poured out all over his expensive clothes and she kicked him in the balls before taking his gun from him.
"Where are they?" she asked between gritted teeth. The thug coughed and spat out blood. "In the back."
She stood and shot him in the head. Then she turned and walked through the lake of blood at her feet toward the office door that led to her final objective.

All For Love! The Crazy Naked Ape still perseveres.

Ye' Editors,

As you may well have noticed, the font of creativity at Crazy Naked Ape Publications has trickled off to a 'snail crawlin' over a molasses patch'. Well we have only our condolences to offer as the majority of our creative forces have relocated to the offices of Go Get 'Em! Comics. We extend to you the invitation to continue following our publications and encourage you all to pursue your own avenues of self expression!

AMERICAN JUSTICE 444

The Interview

Part 1

PG 1

[1]
LONG ON A STREAM OF LIGHT FROM ABOVE OFF-PANEL ILLUMINATING A MAN WHO APPEARS TO BE IN HIS LATE SIXTIES. THIN BUT NOT FRAIL, AVERAGE BUILD. LONG GRAY HAIR AND BEARD OBSCURE FACE. POSTURE IS SLUMPED. HIS ARMS HANG LIMPLY AT HIS SIDE. HIS WRISTS ARE SURROUNDED BY A BLACK LINE THAT IS LOOSE AND CONNECTS TO A BLACK BLOCK ON WHICH HE ALSO SITS. HE IS NAKED AND HIS BODY HAS NUMEROUS SCARS, PREDOMINATELY THREE OLD BULLET WOUNDS SURROUNDING HIS HEART.

CAP A: INTERVIEW SUBJECT: RYAN, RANDOLPH OLIVER
ALSO KNOWN AS: DOC TERROR

CAP B: LOCATION: FORT ALPHA
MAXIMUM SECURITY S.P.A.

[2]
CLOSE; FRONT ON TERROR. STREAM OF LIGHT FROM ABOVE. JUST ENOUGH TO SEE DETAILS OF SKIN; SCARS & BULLET WOUNDS

[3]
SAME AS 2.

[4]
SAME DISTANCE AND ANGLE AS 2; TERROR SCRATCHING AN EAR WITH HIS SHOULDER.

[5]
SAME DISTANCE AND ANGLE AS 2; TERROR LOOKING UP INTO LIGHT. ONE EYE VISIBLE, REST OF FACE OBSCURE BY HAIR/BEARD/SHADOW.

INTERVIEWER (OFF-PANEL/FROM ABOVE): ANY ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE AND YOU WILL BE INCINERATED INSTANTLY.

[6]
SAME DISTANCE AS 2; TERROR, HEAD FORWARD, HAIR DANGLING.

PG 2

[1]
SAME AS PG 1/6.

INTERVIEWER: UNDERSTOOD?

[2]
SAME ANGLE/DISTANCE AS 1. TERROR, HEAD UP, LOOKING TOWARD VIEWER, FEATURES IN HAIR/SHADOW.

DOC TERROR: I UNDERSTAND.

[3]
SAME AS 1.

INTERVIEWER: GOOD. THEN WE CAN BEGIN.

[4]

LONG; FROM ABOVE; 15'. TERROR SPOT LIT IN CENTER, REST IN DARKNESS.

INTERVIEWER: YOU'VE BEEN BROUGHT OUT OF DEEP LOCK-DOWN FOR A PHYSICAL EXAMINATION AS
WELL AS A PSYCHOLOGICAL RE-PROFILING. YOU WILL BE ASKED QUESTIONS. YOU
WILL ANSWERS THOSE QUESTIONS. YOU WILL ANSWERS THOSE QUESTIONS OR THERE
WILL BE CONSEQUENCES. DO YOU UNDERSTAND.

PG 3

[1]
CLOSE ON TERROR, HEAD UP, LOOKING TOWARD VIEWER. FACE REMAINS HIDDEN.

[2]

CLOSE ON TERROR, WRITHING IN AGONY AS ELECTRICITY COURSE OVER HIS BODY.

TERROR: YAAARRGH!!

[3]
CLOSE ON TERROR; ON FLOOR IN NEAR FETAL POSITION, DROOL AND PISS PUDDLE BENEATH HIM. SMOKE DRIFTS UP FROM HIM.

[4]

SAME AS 3.

INTERVIEWER: INSUBORDINATION WILL BE SEVERELY PUNISHED.

PG 4

[1]
MEDIUM ON TERROR, STRUGGLING TO STAND, USING THE BLACK BLOCK FOR SUPPORT.

[2]
CLOSE ON TERROR'S WRIST; BLACK LINE RETRACTING INTO BLOCK.

[3]
MEDIUM ON TERROR'S WRIST CLAMPED TO SIDE OF BLOCK, HEAD AND CHEST COMING DOWN FAST.

[4]
CLOSE ON TERROR FACE SLAMMING INTO BLOCK.

[5]
CLOSE ON TERROR, HEAD RESTING ON BLOCK.

INTERVIEWER: UNDERSTOOD?

[6]
MEDIUM ON TERROR; REAR, ON KNEES HEAD, TURNED TO SPIT OUT TEETH AND BLOOD.

[7]
MEDIUM ON TERROR; FRONT, LOOKING UP INTO LIGHT, BEARD AND CHEST COVERED WITH BLOOD.

DOC TERROR: I UNDERSTAND.

PG 5

[1]
LONG ON TERROR SITTING BACK ON BLOCK, WRIST LINE SLACKENING.

INTERVIEWER: A DRONE WILL NOW EXAMINE YOU. YOU WILL COOPERATE.

[2]
LONG ON TERROR (SAME ANGLE/DISTANCE AS 1) SEATED, ELBOWS ON KNEES, HEAD SLUMPED FORWARD. ON FAR RIGHT OF PANEL AN OPENING APPEARS, A FLOATING ROBOT DRONE IS SILHOUETTED.

[3]
LONG ON TERROR; FROM 15' ABOVE. TERROR SITS IN SAME POSITION AS 2. F.R.D. APPROACHES, 5' AWAY.

[4]
LONG ON TERROR; FROM 25' UP. ROBOT CIRCLES TERROR, A "PROBE" EXTENDED.

[5]
LONG ON TERROR: 35' UP. TERROR AND ROBOT BARELY VISIBLE.

INTERVIEWER (OFF PANEL/FROM BOTTOM) DO YOU THINK HE'LL GIVE US ANY TROUBLE?

PG 6

[1]
CLOSE ON COMPUTER SCREEN, ON SCREEN PG 5/5.

INTERVIEWER 1 (FROM LEFT): THAT MAN IS THE MOST DANGEROUS LIVING BEING ON THIS PLANET. HE SPENT FIFTY YEARS TERRORIZING THIS COUNTRY. NOW HE'S LOCKED UP IN THE MOST ADVANCED DETENTION CENTER EVER DEVISED. HE WONT BE GIVING US ANYTHING BUT WHAT WE WANT HIM TO.

[2]
MEDIUM ON THE TWO INTERVIEWERS FROM BEHIND; BOTH IN BLUE SUITS WITH KIRBYESQUE HEADGEAR COVERING HEADS. FROM THE HEADGEAR EXTENDS TUBES, WIRING ETC. WHICH CONNECT TO VARIOUS PORTS SURROUNDING THE TWO MEN. NUMEROUS COMPUTER SCREENS DOT THE WALLS AND PANELS WHICH TAKE UP THE REMAINDER OF THE PANEL.

INTERVIEWER 2: SO WHAT ARE WE TRYING TO FIND OUT WITH ALL OF THIS THEN?

INTERVIEWER 1: I DON'T KNOW. AND YOU SHOULDN'T WANT TO KNOW. THIS IS OUR ASSIGNMENT. WE ASK HIM THESE QUESTIONS. HIS ANSWERS GET RECORDED. IF HE TRIES ANYTHING WE FRY HIM. SIMPLE.

[3]
SAME ANGLE/DISTANCE AS 2. INTERVIEWER 1 FIDDLES WITH DIODES NEXT TO HIM. INTERVIEWER 2 FIDDLES WITH DIODES ABOVE HIM.

INTERVIEWER 2: WHAT IF SOMETHING GOES WRONG?

INTERVIEWER 1: I TOLD YOU. WE FRY HIM.

INTERVIEWER 2: I MEAN , WHAT IF WE CAN'T FRY HIM?

INTERVIEWER 1: ...

[4]
CLOSE ON MULTIPLE COMPUTER SCREENS, SHOWING VARIOUS CLOSE UPS OF DOC TERROR, HIS SCARS, THE FLOATING ROBOT DRONE AND ITS PARTS.

[5] (SMALL, OVERLAPPING BOTTOM PORTION OF 4)
EXTREME CLOSE ON TERROR SMILING, THROUGH BEARD AND BLOOD.

INTERVIEWER 1 (FROM LEFT): THAT WOULD BE BAD.

CAP A: TO BE CONTINUED...

JUNE 2010

AMERICAN JUSTICE COMICS 444

"cancer 11010" PART 1.

PAGE 1.

[1].
LONG ON R.E.D. CELL AGENT 55 STANDING, HANDS ON HIPS, OVER SEATED NAVAL TECHNICIAN. BACKS TO VEIWER. THE TECHNICIAN'S LEFT HAND TOUCHES THE HEADSET HE WEARS. BACK GROUND IS LOW LIT NAVAL COMMUNICATIONS ROOM. NAVAL TECHNICIANS MAN THE NUMEROUS MONITORING STATIONS.

CAP: THE AORTA, NORTH ATLANTIC OCEAN. 2010. 08:35.

AGENT 55: AND YOU'VE BEEN GETTING THIS SAME MESSAGE FOR HOW LONG?

NAVAL TECH: WELL SIR, IT STARTED UP ABOUT A HALF OUR AGO. AT FIRST IT WASN'T MUCH BUT IT SEEMS TO HAVE WORKED IT SELF INTO THE MAINFRAME NETWORK.

[2].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55 AND NAVAL TECHNICIAN. AGENT 55 IS 'TEXTING' ON HIS CHARGE CARD, ONE HAND STILL ON HIS HIP. THE NAVAL TECHNICIAN LOOKS AT THE ELECTRONIC READOUT BELOW HIM WITH A DUBIOUS EXPRESSION.

AGENT 55: OKAY GIVE ME THE FREQUENCY.

NAVAL TECHNICIAN: OKAY SIR. IT'S FDMA 3.14159.

[3].
CLOSE ON AGENT 55'S HAND AND CHARGE CARD. THE "CHARGE CARD" IS THE SIZE AND WIDTH OF AN iPOD. IT IS SHINY BLACK. AGENT 55 IS DEPRESSING THE LARGE ILLUMINATED CENTRAL BUTTON. MICRO CIRCUITRY SNAKES OUTWARD ALONG THE SURFACE IN COMPLEX REPEATING PATTERNS FROM THE CENTRAL BUTTON 'ALA JACK KIRBY STYLE.

AGENT 55 (OFF): A RADIO FREQUENCY? THERE'S NO WAY THAT COULD PENETRATE OUR MAINFRAME DEFENSES.

[4].
CLOSE ON NAVAL TECHNICIAN'S FACE. CONCENTRATING. LIGHT FROM ELECTRONIC PANEL ILLUMINATES FROM BELOW.

NAVAL TECH: THAT'S JUST THE PIGGY-BACK. I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO ISOLATE THE ACTUAL SIGNAL. WHOEVER DESIGNED THIS IS BETTER THAN ANYONE OR ANYTHING I'VE EVER HEARD OF.

[5].
CLOSE ON AGENT 55'S RED ORB HEAD. CENTER OF THE ORB IS A READOUT SCREEN TAKING UP THE AREA DIRECTLY IN FORNT OF THE FACE. REPEATED OVER COUNTLESS TIMES IS THE MESSAGE
"01100011 01100001 01101110 01100011 01100101 01110010 00100000 00110001 00111001"

AGENT 55: KEEP WORKING ON THIS. I'LL BE BACK FROM WASHINGTON IN THREE HOURS.

PAGE 2.

[1].
FULL FIGURE OF AGENT 55 FLYING UPWARDS TOWARDS VEIWER. 200 YDS BELOW IS THE EXTERIOR OF THE AORTA, AN IMMENSE OCEANIC PLATFORM 'ALA KIRBY STYLE, BLOCKS WITH FLYING BUTTRESSES AND THE LIKE. THE ATLANTIC OCEAN TAKES UP THE REMAINING BACKGROUND, WAVES HEAVING WITH CHOP.

CAP A(55): WEDNESDAY'S ARE ALWAYS LIKE THIS.

CAP B(55): NEVER TIME TO HAVE A DECENT CONVERSATION WITH ANYBODY. NO WONDER MY WIFE LEFT ME. I REMEMBER WHEN SAVING THE WORLD AND FIELD WORK MEANT MUCH DIFFERENT THINGS.

CAP C(55): COURSE EVERYTHING'S DIFFERENT NOW. WHAT WITH THE ENTIRE PLANET AT WAR.

PAGE 3.

[1].
LONG ON SENATE BUILDING, WASHINGTON D.C.. CUMULOUS CLOUDS LOOM ON THE HORIZON IN BACKGROUND.

CAP: THE UNITED STATES SENATE, WASHINGTON D.C. 09:12.

[2].
LONG ON AGENT 55 STANDING, BACK TO VEIWER, IN FRONT OF LARGE OAKEN DESK STACKED WITH FILES, PAPERS AND OPEN BOOKS. AT THE DESK IS SEN. WILLIAM POOLE, EARLY FORTIES, ANGULAR FEATURE. WEARS A BUSINESS SUIT. IS HOLDING AN OPEN FILE FOLDER IN HIS HANDS. LOOKS UP OVER HIS GLASSES AT AGENT 55. A BULLET RIDDLED AND SLIGHTLY BURNED AMERICAN FLAG HANGS IN A GLASS FRAME ON THE WALL BEHIND.

POOLE: YOU'RE LATE SPECIAL AGENT. WHEN I SET A MEETING TIME I EXPECT IT TO BE ADHERED TO. MY TIME IS NOT SO VALUELESS THAT I SIT AROUND AND TELL FUNNY STORIES TO MY STAFF. UNLIKE SOME PEOPLE IN WASHINGTON I ACTUALLY WORK FOR WHAT THE CITIZENS PAY ME.

AGENT 55: APOLOGIES SIR, THERE WAS A LAST MINUTE EMERGENCY THAT I WAS JUST MADE AWARE OF.

[3].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55 AND SEN. POOLE. SEN. POOLE LEANS FORWARD, PUTTING DOWN THE FOLDER HE WAS HOLDING.

POOLE: AN EMERGENCY? WHAT KIND OF EMERGENCY?

[4].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55, TAKING HIS CHARGE CARD FROM HIS INSIDE JACKET POCKET.

AGENT 55: WELL SIR ONE OF THE TECH'S AT THE AORTA THIS MORNING HAS BEEN MONITORING A SIGNAL THAT HAS SOMEHOW WORKED ITS WAY INTO M.A.R.R.O.W.

[5].
MEDIUM ON SEN. POOLE STANDING UP ANGRILY BEHIND HIS DESK. PAPERS, FILES AND BOOKS TUMBLE ABOUT TO THE FLOOR. AGENT 55 STANDS STOIC.

POOLE: WHAT!!! HOW THE HELL DID THAT HAPPEN!? WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN!??

PAGE 4.

[1].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55 HANDING HIS CHARGE CARD TO SEN. POOLE.

AGENT 55: I'VE GOT A TECHNICIAN LOOKING INTO THAT SIR. ALL WE KNOW RIGHT NOW IS THAT THEY WERE ABLE TO PIGGY-BACK A SIGNAL BY RADIO CARRIER WAVE AND SOMEHOW THAT BYPASSED OUR SECURITY COUNTERMEASURES.

[2].
CLOSE ON SEN. POOLE EXAMINING CHARGE CARD DISPLY SCREEN.

AGENT 55(OFF): IT HAPPENED ABOUT AN HOUR AGO AND AS YOU CAN SEE IT HASN'T ACTUALLY DONE ANYTHING BUT REPEAT THIS CODE. I THINK IT'S SOME KIND OF MESSAGE RATHER THAN AN ATTACK PROGRAM. COULD BE A DISTRESS SIGNAL OR...

POOLE: IT'S BINARY.

[3].
MEDIUM ON SEN. POOLE HANDING BACK THE CHARGE CARD TO AGENT 55.

POOLE: I'M SURE THE TECH'S AT THE AORTA KNOW THIS BY NOW, AND IF THEY HAVEN'T FIGURED IT OUT YET FIRE THEM ALL. I AM NOT HAPPY SPECIAL AGENT 55. NOT HAPPY AT ALL.

AGENT 55: YES SIR.

[4].
MEDIUM ON SEN. POOLE, BACK TO THE VEIWER. AGENT 55 RETURNING CHARGE CARD TO HIS INSIDE JACKET POCKET.

POOLE: I WANT YOU PERSONALLY OVERSEEING THIS INVESTIGATION. MAKE IT YOUR PRIMARY CONCERN. REASSIGN YOUR OTHER CASES IF YOU HAVE TO. I WANT WHOEVER'S DONE THIS FOUND AND BROUGHT IN. I'M SURE I DON'T HAVE TO IMPRESS ON YOU THE DANGER THIS SITUATION POSES?

AGENT 55: NO SIR.

[5].
LONG ON AGENT 55 STANDING. SEN. POOLE SITTING IN CHAIR BEHIND HIS DESK, FINGERS STEEPLED AND PRESSED AGAINST HIS LIPS. PAPERS, FILES AND BOOKS ON THE FLOOR.

POOLE: M.A.R.R.O.W. IS THE SECOND MOST ADVANCED COMPUTING SYSTEM THE GOVERNMENT HAS IN OPERATION. ITS CIRCUITRY ALONE IS BEYOND PRICE. TO SAY NOTHING OF THE INFORMATION CONTAINED IN ITS MAINFRAME. WHETHER THIS IS AN ATTACK OR SOME HACKER'S PRANK, IT POSES A DIRECT THREAT TO NATIONAL AND INTERGALACTIC SECURITY. I WANT WHOEVER'S RESPONSIBLE FOR IT PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT.

AGENT 55: ABSOLUTELY SIR.

PAGE 5.

[1].
LONG ON THE HALLWAYS OF THE UNITED STATES SENATE BUILDING. AGENT 55 IS CLOSING THE DOOR OF SEN. POOLE'S OFFICE DOOR BEHIND HIM. PAGES SCUTTLE ABOUT. THREE SENATORS STAND IN THE FAR BACKGROUND DISCUSSING SOME ISSUE OF CONSTERNATION WHICH MASKS THEIR FACES.

CAP A: 10:31

CAP B(55): WEDNESDAYS.

[2].
MEDIUM ON THE GROUP OF YOUNG SENATORS,NOW FACIALY IDENTIFIABLE AS SEN. THOMAS JEFFERSON (CL), SEN. DONALD BAILEY (D), SEN. GARFIELD WINSLOW (CL). SEN. JEFFERSON LOOKS OFF OUT OF PANEL AWAY FROM THE OTHER TWO TALKING SENATORS.

SEN. BAILEY: I'M STILL NOT CONVINCED THAT THIS MEASURE IS ANY MORE BENIFICIAL TO MY CONSTITUENTS AS THE OTHER DRAFT YOU SHOWED ME TWO WEEKS AGO...

SEN. WINSLOW: LOOK DON, WE NEED YOU TO COME IN ON THIS ONE. IF WE GET ENOUGH SWING VOTES GOING WE CAN STOP POOLE FROM GETTING THE GROUND WORK ON THIS "LOYALIST" ACT NONSENSE.

[3].
MEDIUM ON SEN. JEFFERSON STRIDING AWAY FROM THE OTHER SENATORS, HIS EXPRESSION DOUR. SEN. WINSLOW, MAKING THE "WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" GESTURE. SEN. BAILEY, EYES ROLLED TO THE CEILING.

SEN. WINSLOW: TOM HELP ME OUT HERE.

SEN. JEFFERSON: HOLD ON GAR. DON, DON'T GO ANYWHERE.

[4].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55 WALKING TOWARD VEIWER. 10' BEHIND SEN. JEFFERSON STRIDES QUICKLY TO INTERCEPT HIM. FAR BACKGROUND, SEN. WINSLOW, HANDS ON HIPS, EYES FOLLOWING SEN. JEFFERSON. SEN. BAILEY LOOKS AT HIS WRISTWATCH.

SEN. JEFFERSON: EXCUSE ME, SPECIAL AGENT?

[5].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55, TURNED TO FACE SEN. JEFFERSON, POSTURE STIFF AND INTIMIDATING. SEN. JEFFERSON, 1' SHORTER THAN AGENT 55, SMILES, HANDS IN HIS WAIST POCKETS.

AGENT 55: WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU SENATOR?

SEN. JEFFERSON: WELL, IWAS JUST WONDERING SPECIAL AGENT...UM I APOLOGIZE FOR NOT KNOWING YOUR PREFIX, BUT IT'S NOT LIKE YOU MAKE IT EASY FOR ANYONE TO TELL YOU FOLKS APART?

[6].
CLOSE ON AGENT 55'S GLOBULE HELMET. WALL EYE REFLECTION OF SEN. JEFFERSON ON GLOBULE.

AGENT 55: THAT'S KIND OF THE POINT SENATOR. 55 IS MY PREFIX NUMBER. NOW HOW MAY I BE OF SERVICE TO YOU?

PAGE 6.

[1].
CLOSE (WAIST LEVEL) ON SEN. JEFFERSON AND AGENT 55. SEN. JEFFERSON APPEARS RELAXED AND ALMOST JOVIAL. AGENT 55 IS RESERVED AND STANDS WITH HIS HANDS BEHIND HIS BACK.

SEN. JEFFERSON: WELL I WAS SIMPLY WONDERING WHAT AUTHORITY GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO BRING THAT "THING" INTO THIS FEDERAL GOVERNMENT BUILDING?

AGENT 55: SIR?

[2].
MEDIUM ON SEN. JEFFERSON RAISING ARM UP TO REACH THE GLOBULE ON AGENT 55'S HEAD. SEN. JEFFERSON'S HAND IS CLENCHED IN "KNOCKING" GESTURE. AGENT 55 LOOKS LIKE HE'S ABOUT TO FLIP THE SENATOR ONTO HIS BACK IF HE TOUCHES THE GLOBULE.

AGENT 55: SENATOR I RECOMMEND YOU NOT DO THAT.


[3].
CLOSE ON SEN. JEFFERSON. POINTING A FINGER AT VEIWER AND NO LONGER FRIENDLY.

SEN. JEFFERSON: YOU DO REALIZE THAT EVEN YOUR "EXTENDED" SECURITY POWERS DON'T CALL FOR YOU TO CARRY THAT ALIEN WEAPON PLATFORM INTO THIS BUILDING. I MEAN I'M PRETTY SURE ON THIS ONE, SINCE I BLOCKED THAT INITIATIVE YOUR BOSS TRIED TO SLIDE THROUGH LAST YEAR. SO TELL ME, WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO BRING THAT "THING" IN HERE!?

[4].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55, STANDING STOIC, HANDS BEHIND BACK.

[5].
SAME AS PANEL 4.

AGENT 55: NO ONE GAVE ME PERMISSION...SENATOR.

[6].
MEDIUM ON SEN. JEFFERSON LEANIG MENACINGLY INTO AGENT 55. AGENT 55 REMAINS STOIC.

SEN. JEFFERSON: NO ONE GAVE YOU PERMISSION? NO ONE? YOU JUST WHAT...THOUGHT YOU'D IGNORE PROTOCOL AND WALK AROUND BIG AS YOU PLEASE. THIS IS NOT ANCIENT ROME, SPECIAL AGENT 55, AND YOUR BOSS IS NOT GODDAMN CEASAR! NEXT TIME YOU VISIT THESE HALLS BE KIND ENOUGH TO LEAVE THE 3 TRILLION DOLLAR RADIOACTIVE WEAPON AT HOME. AND DON'T THINK THIS IS THE END OF IT. I WILL BE PUTTING FORTH A COMPLAINT AND YOU WILL BE CITED SPECIAL AGENT, ARE WE CLEAR?

PAGE 7.

[1].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55, STIFFER THAN USUAL.

AGENT 55: YES, SIR. WE'RE CLEAR.

[2}.
LONG ON AGENT 55 STANDING FIRM, FACING VEIWER. SEN. JEFFERSON WALKS AWAY HANDS IN POCKETS TOWARDS SEN. WINSLOW AND SEN. BAILEY. BOTH SENATORS APPEAR SURPRISED.

SEN. JEFFERSON: GOOD DAY SPECIAL AGENT.

[3].
FULL FIGURE OF AGENT 55 STRIDING QUICKLY DOWN THE HALL. A YOUNG FEMALE PAGE ATTEMPTS TO GET OUT OF HIS WAY CLINGING A STACK OF FILES TO HER CHEST.

CAP(55): WEDNESDAYS!

[4].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55 TAKING FLIGHT OFF THE STEPS OUTSIDE THE UNITES STATES SENATE BUILDING. SEVERAL SENATORS AND PAGES WATCH HIM AS HE GOES.

CAP A(55): WHY ME?

CAP B(55): I MEAN REALLY, LIKE HE DOESN'T HAVE BETTER THINGS TO DO?

[5].
CLOSE ON AGENT 55 FLYING OVERHEAD AS IF TAKEN FROM A PHOTO.

SFX: CLICK

[6].
MEDIUM ON SILHOUETTE, MALE, HAT AND JACKET, 35MM CAMERA IN HANDS, STANDS BESIDE TREE. BACKGROUND IS THE GREEN OUT FRONT OF THE SENATE BUILDING.

SILHOUETTE: HEH HEH.

PAGE 8.

[1].
LONG ON AGENT 55 AS HE TOUCHES DOWN ON THE AORTA LANDING PAD. THE WINDS ARE HIGH. A CREW OF FOUR F.B.I. AGENTS LED BY AGENT 26 WAIT ON THE PAD'S STAIRWAY.

CAP: THE AORTA, NORTH ATLANTIC OCEAN. 11:22.

[2]. MEDIUM ON AGENT 55 AND AGENT 26, SHAKING HANDS. F.B.I. AGENTS IN THE BACKGROUND TRY TO KEEP COMPOSED IN THE MOUNTING WIND.

AGENT 26: YOU'RE LATE.

AGENT 55: YOU WISH.

[3].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55 AND 26 STRIDING DOWN AN AORTA HALLWAY. F.B.I. AGENTS IN TOE.

AGENT 26: THAT TECH THAT BROUGHT US THE INFO CRACKED THE BINARY RIGHT AFTER YOU LEFT. HE SAYS ITS A MESSAGE OF SOME KIND BUT HASN'T DECIPHERED IT YET.

AGENT 55: HE FIND A SOURCE?

[4].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55 AND 26 ENTERING MONITORING CHAMBER. NAVAL AND MARINE TECHNICIANS HUNCH OVER MONITORING SCREEN AND BUBBLES. THE NAVAL TECH FROM OPENING SCENE STANDS HOLDING UP HIS PAIR OF HEADPHONES IN GREETING TOWARDS THE AGENTS.

TECH: SEATTLE WASHINGTON! JUST CAME THROUGH ON THE BOUNCE BACK TRACE. THE RADIO WAVE IS SOME OFF CARRIER ON THE COAST, BUT THE BINARY? IT'S DEFINATLEY BROADCASTING FROM SEATTLE.

[5].
CLOSE ON AGENT 55 AND AGENT 26 REVIEWING A MANILLA FILE FOLDER AND ITS CONTENTS. THE NAVAL TECH STANDS AT ATTENTION.

AGENT 55: GOOD WORK...ENSIGN?

TECH: WOLVERTON, SIR.

PAGE 9.

[1].
LONG ON AORTA MONITORING CHAMBER. NAVAL AND MARINE TECHNICIANS HOVER OVER THERE MACHINERY OR WRITE ON THEIR LOG PAMPHLETS. AGENTS 55 AND 26 STAND TALKING. ENSIGN WOLVERTON SITS AT HIS STATION WITH HIS HEADSET ON, LISTENING INTENTLY.

AGENT 26: SO I GUESS THE GREELY CASE IS ON THE SHELF FOR NOW?

AGENT 55: YES, I JUST SPOKE TO THE SENATOR. THIS IS PRIORITY. I'LL GO TO SEATTLE WITH 19 AND START A FEILD TRACE. YOU AND YOUR TEAM WORK ON THAT CODE.

[2].
MEDIUM ON AGENTS 26 AND 55, TALKING IN AORTA MONITORING CHAMBER.

AGENT 26: M.A.R.R.O.W'S CORE MEMORY HASN'T BEEN BREACHED YET. THIS CODE DOESN'T SEEM AGGRESSIVE IN ANY WAY, IN FACT IT'S JUST A SIGNAL AT THIS POINT. IF IT TURNS OUT TO BE DIFFERENT AND M.A.R.R.O.W IS BREACHED...?

AGENT 55: THEN SHUT HER DOWN AGENT.

[3].
MEDUIM ON AGENT 26 RUBBING THE BACK OF HIS NECK.

AGENT 26: DID THE SENATOR OKAY THAT? REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED LAST TIME WE TOOK M.A.R.R.O.W. OFF LINE? THIS IS A SOPHISTICATED PEICE OF ALIEN TECHNOLOGY AND DOESN'T SUFFER IT WELL WHEN IT'S JUST TURNED OFF.

[4].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55 AND 26. 55 STANDS STOIC. 26 HAS HIS HANDS ON HIS HIPS.

AGENT 55: I'M AWARE OF THE CONSEQUENCES AGENT 26. BUT THE SENATOR WANTS THE CORE MEMORY PROTECTED. IF WE LOSE ACCESS TO THE GLOBULE'S THEN WE DEAL WITH IT. WHAT'S THE MATTER 26, YOU FORGET WHAT IT WAS LIKE BEFORE YOU WERE BULLET PROOF AND COULD FLY PAST MACH 10?

AGENT 26: THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT AND YOU KNOW IT.

[5].
CLOSE ON AGENT 55. AGENT 26 AND THE MONITORING CHAMBER ARE REFLECTED IN THE GLOBULE.

AGENT 55: LET'S JUST MAKE SURE WE DON'T HAVE TO SHUT HER DOWN.

[6].
LONG ON AGENT 55, LEAVING THE MONITORING CHAMBER. AGENT 26 AND THE F.B.I. AGENTS STAND WATCHING HIM GO. THE NAVAL AND MARINE TECHNICIANS CONTINUE TO MONITOR THEIR STATIONS.

AGENT 26: ...YES, SIR.

PAGE 10.

[1].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55 STRIDING DOWN AN AORTA HALLWAY.

CAP (55): WEDNESDAYS.

[2].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55 ENTERING THE AORTA COMPUTER LIBRARY. AGENT 19 SITS AT A BANK OF COMPUTERS. HE HOLDS HIS CHARGE CARD IN HIS HANDS. THE CHARGE CARD IS PLUGGED IN, VIA A "FIREWIRE", TO THE NEAREST COMPUTER.

AGENT 19: DOWNLOAD AND DELETE FILE ECHO 2 THRU ECHO 3300.

CHARGE CARD: CONFIRMED.

AGENT 19: DOWNLOAD AND DELETE FILE GOLF 45 THRU IGLOO 721.

CHARGE CARD: CONFIRMED.

AGENT 19: DOWNLOAD AND DELETE FILE ZED 309 THRU ZED 1416.

CHARGE CARD: CONFIRMED.

[3].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55 AND AGENT 19 SHAKING HANDS.

AGENT 55: STILL GOT YOU ON PROBATION I SEE?

AGENT 19: NAW. NOT AT ALL. I LOVE SPENDING MY TIME AND TAX PAYER DOLLARS ON FILE DELETION. I MEAN ITS NOT LIKE I HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO...LIKE CATCH BAD GUYS.

[4].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55 STANDING TALKING WITH AGENT 19. AGENT 19 IS CLAPPING HIS HANDS TOGETHER IN EXCITED JOY.

AGENT 55: WELL GOOD THING FOR YOU WE HAVEN'T CAUGHT THEM ALL YET. YOU'RE BACK ON THE ROSTER 19. UNDER MY COMMAND, FOR NOW.

AGENT 19: HOT DAMN! I KNEW THE OLD MAN WOULD COME TO HIS SENSES ONCE HE FOUND OUT WHAT A SLACKER YOU ARE.

[5].
AGENT 55 IN HIS PATENTED STOIC POSE. AGENT 19 IN A 'WHAT THE FXXK?' POSE.

AGENT 55: IT WASN'T THE SENATOR THAT LET YOU OFF. I DID.

AGENT 19: WHAT THE HELL WOULD YOU DO THAT FOR?

[6].
MEDIUM ON AGENT 55 STANDING OVER A COMPUTER. HIS KNUCKLES ON THE TOP OF THE MONITOR.

AGENT 55: BECAUSE YOU'RE A GOOD FEILD AGENT AND WE HAVE A CODE YELLOW IN PROGRESS. OR WOULD YOU RATHER STAY HERE AND PUNCH NUMBERS ALL DAY?

[7].
CLOSE OF AGENT 19, PUNCHING HIS FIST INTO HIS PALM.

AGENT 19: FXXK THAT, LET'S GO!

END OF PART 1.

BIZARRE THRILLERS! MAGAZINE

MAR 1939

"Circle of Spies"


2.

Major Danger arrived at the Los Angeles train station at approximately 20:00 hours. He was greeted by an Army officer. The officer flinched upon first seeing the Major. The Major grinned, accentuating the lines of the scars on his face. The Major sometimes enjoyed the reactions his scars had on people. Both men wore civilian attire. The Army Lieutenant was assigned to escort the Major to the local military adjutant's office. After a short stop for breakfast at the station diner, the two were off through the downtown area of Los Angeles in a black coupe. The Lieutenant, a one Hammerstein, John George, after five minutes of silence began talking.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
The Major nodded.
"First time to Los Angeles sir?"
The Major turned to survey the young Lieutenant. He was young, about 22, 24. College educated. Thin, but not overly so. Hands used to paperwork and not firing a weapon. All this the Major determined just by looking at the Lieutenant. The Major looked into the man's eyes and saw into his mind. The Lieutenant had graduated 65th in his class. He had not been an overly studious student. Not applying himself as best he could. Taking only a passing interest in advancement. J. Hammerstein was not in the military for "the fight". He was in it for the steady paycheck and it beat clerking for his father's insurance business in Gallantry, Texas.
The Major shook his head. 1939 is not 1917, he reminded himself, and with a wry smile on his battle ravaged face he grunted his reply.
"I passed through back in '22. Then moved up the coast. Lots changed since then."
"I wouldn't know sir. I've only been stationed here two weeks, can't say I've seen much of it yet though. Sir."
"You're not missing much, Lieutenant."
The Major had been surveying the sights and while looking past the Lieutenant, perceived a stray thought from him.
Damn this old man is a tough son of a b---h! Look at that scar!
The Major faced the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant looked away, nervous. The Major turned to face the road.
"Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to stare..."
"No need to apologize, Lieutenant. I'm used to it."
After an uncomfortably long silence, "Do you mind if I ask how you got them...sir?"
The lights from passing cars created eery shadows on the Major's face. The Lieutenant was immediately sorry he had asked.
"Belleau Wood." came the stern, stony reply. The remainder of the car ride passed in silence. The Lieutenant drove the coupe into a wooded sub-urb north of downtown Los Angeles. He parked in front of a one story home with a sparsely decorated lawn.
"This is the General's home sir. He's waiting inside for you."
The Lieutenant opened the door to the house. The major followed. They were both greeted by a woman in her early forties. The Lieutenant introduced the Major to her and identified her as the Gerneral's wife. She looked the Major over with a summary glance and smiled. She held out her hand. The Major shook it.
"Gladys Wells. Pleasure to meet you Major."
"Ma'am."
Mrs. Wells smiled and turned to the Lieutenant.
"John, come with me to the parlor. I need some help with that sofa. You'll excuse us Major? We're in the midst of preparing for a party so I apologize for the disorder. Sam is in the study straight back at the end of the hall."
"No apology necessary, ma'am."
The Major made his way to the General's study. The home was decorated in typical west coast decor. Aside from a few military photographs, the house appeared purely civilian. The door to the General's was ajar. The Major knocked three times sharply.
"Come in." came a gravelly reply.
"Sir, Major Daniel Johnson." Followed by a crisp salute gained the Major entry to the room. General Samuel Wells, in his late fifties, wearing a dark suit and bow tie, paced behind his desk, reviewing the contents of a manilla folder. His face was a chiseled mask of perplexion.
"First off, let me say I've read up on your "abilities" Major, and don't try any of that hooky-pooky on me. I don't go in for any of this shadowy operative bull. I'm doing this strictly as a favor to the Commandant. I've had my staff compiling reports for 22 hours and this is what they've come up with."
The General folded shut the manilla envelope in his hands and passed it to the Major.
"You can get Lt. Hammerstein to take you to the barracks where you can bunk for the night. If that's all Major?"
The Major saluted silently.
"Dismissed."
An hour later, the Major was sitting alone in a small barrack room reading the files from the manilla folder. Albert Billingsly; 46, Native Californian, college educated. Hobbyist aviator, purchased the Hillman Bros. Flight School in 1931. Through unidentified investments produced enough capitol to expand School into International Air Cargo Company. Suspected smuggler, though no valid evidence to support charges. Information on smuggling reported to the F.B.I., source; disgruntled employee, Horace Cannlin; 144 Brookshire Drive. No other information available. The Major decided to get some sleep and pursue the lead he had on Horace Cannlin in the morning.

***
09:20 hours found the Major standing outside a dingy looking flop-house, 144 Brookshire Dr. Inside the landlord wiped his sweaty underarms. He was standing in his door frame on the bottom floor of the 3 story apartment hotel. The few questions the Major put to the man were all answered with lies. The Major simply smiled and said he would return later. It didn't take long for the sweaty man to don a coat and hat and rush off to relay information. The Major followed in a requestioned coupe from the Army Motor Pool. He plucked the location of the meeting from the sweaty man's thoughts and arrived before his quarry. The sweaty man took a seat at the bar, ordered a double scotch n' pine and nervously tapped his feet. This man was an amateur. The Major dismissed him as any one to be concerned about. The big man who came into the bar a half an hour later however, was.
The man was big. He outsized the Major 2:1. And his thoughts were cold. A killer's thoughts. A practiced killer's thoughts. This man had done bad things. The Major respected the big man right away. Not out of fear or sentiment. The Major respected the big man out of recognition. The Major also was a practiced killer. And was wondering how he would fare against the big man in combat when the sweaty man let out a yelp and made a run for the back door. The big man did not rush after the sweaty man. He simply sat next to the vacant seat left by the sweaty man. Thirty seconds later the sweaty man returned being escorted by a well dressed man wearing gloves. The well dressed man urged the sweaty man forward, prodding him from his coat pocket. The sweaty man sat reluctantly, obviously nervous. The well dressed man stood close to the sweaty man, scanning the faces of the bar patrons. The big man drank from the glass of water he ordered. The noisy din of the bar recommenced drowning out conversation. The Major easily slipped into the mind of the sweaty man and 'listened in'.
What are you so nervous about, Dooley. We've got you covered. No reason to get jumpy.
I...I...I'm sorry. I was just expecting Malone. N...no..not you.
Am I so frightening Dooley? Be honest.
Y...ye..yes. I'm afraid of you.
That's right. And you should be. You know what happens if we meet again?
Y...ye..yes.
Then answer my questions honestly and we wont ever have to. Understood?
I understand.
Was he a cop?
I don't think so. He didn't flash no badge or anything.
What did he say?
He...he said he was an Interested party. He said he just wanted to talk to Mr. Cannlin.
Sounds like a fed.
He didn't say he was one.
They don't always have to. Dooley it's you're lucky day. Were going to see the boss.
The..the boss? But why? I told ya the truth...honest.
I know you did Dooley. That is why we are going to see the boss. So follow, Greeley.

The Major watched the three men leave. He waited till they were a block away and followed them into the hills in his coupe.

JUNE 2010

AMERICAN JUSTICE COMICS #444

"THE OUTLAW RETURNS!"

Page 1.

Panel 1:
CLOSE: Foreground; The Masked head of the OUTLAW, wearing a "wharf-rat" hat. Background; shadow.

Caption: I am an outlaw.

Panel 2:
CLOSE: Foreground; Colt Single Action Army Six Shooter, in the OUTLAW's gloved hand, pointed at viewer.

Caption: My actions are illegal.

Panel 3:
WIDE: Foreground; In profile, the OUTLAW stands pointing the Colt Single Action Army down at a cringing MAN in his sixties,wearing a business suit. Mid-ground; Overturned desk and office chairs, paper, files and potted plants strewn about, a general mess, the kind that happens after a particularly violent donnybrook. Background; A large BLACK MAN wearing parachute pants and a white "wife-beater" t-shirt lays face down amidst the rubble of a shattered door. Behind him half a door hangs on it's hinges.

Caption: I do not do this for words like "right" or "wrong".

Page 2.

Panel 1:
Foreground; LEFT; In CLOSE, rear of OUTLAW's head and hat. Mid-ground; broken glass, strewn papers on the floor. Background; RIGHT; Overturned desk, A WOMAN with a torn business skirt and shirt huddles next to the desk. She is attempting to hold her torn shirt together across her breast.

Caption: I do not do this to protect the weak.

Panel 2:
CLOSE: The OUTLAW's gloved finger on the trigger of the Colt Single Action Army.

Caption: I do this because it is what I was born to do.

Panel 3:
EXTREME CLOSE: The masked "eyes" of the OUTLAW.

Caption: I do this for myself.

Page 3.

Panel 1:
FULL: The MAN in business suit, cowering amidst the debris of the office, his back is against a wall. The wall has water stains dripping down to floor. A puddle of water and a shattered potted plant at the MAN's feet.

Caption: This man is a rapist.

Panel 2:
(PHOTO REPLICA) FULL: The MAN driving fancy sports car. Large BLACK MAN sits next to him all bodyguard. MAN is on a cell phone, appears pleased.

Panel 3:
(PHOTO REPLICA) WIDE (Angle down from 30' up): MAN; on cell phone, carrying briefcase into high rise office building. BLACK MAN follows, still all bodyguard. Pedestrians mill about on sidewalk.

Panel 4:
(PHOTO REPLICA) WIDE: Foreground; Barred gates, Two Pedestrians walking LEFT. Mid-ground; Front of posh restaurant, brick-face, Italian, large window. BLACK MAN body-guarding it outside near window, open jacket reveals shoulder holster. Background; through window, MAN sits smiling across table at attractive WOMAN eating spaghetti.

Caption (stretches across Panel 2,3,4): I've watched him for three months.

Panel 5:
FULL: Standing behind a JANITORIAL CLEANING WAGON, dressed in a JANITOR JUMPSUIT, the OUTLAW, facing viewer, taking picture with a 35mm camera.

Caption: Tonight he showed his true self.

Panel 6:
(PHOTO REPLICA/BLURRY) FULL: Foreground; The MAN tearing at WOMAN's clothes. WOMAN resisting. BLACK MAN holds WOMAN by the arms. Background; Door to posh office, potted plants on either side.

Page 4.

Panel 1:
CLOSE: MAN in business suit, crying, hands held up, toward viewer, in defense.

MAN: Please don't.

Caption: He starts talking, thinking it will help him.

Panel 2:
MID: OUTLAW pointing Colt Single Action Army at viewer.

Caption: Thinking it will stay my hand.

Panel 3:
MID: MAN still crying, hands in pleading prayer.

MAN: I didn't mean any harm.

Panel 4:
CLOSE: WOMAN, dress torn, trying to hold her blouse together, tearful and angry.

Caption: He doesn't understand.

Panel 5;
CLOSE: MAN, hands down, looks up at viewer remorseful.

MAN: I can't stop myself.

Panel 6:
(PHOTO REPLICA/BLURRY (same as pg.3,pnl. 6)) CLOSE: MAN ripping WOMAN's blouse. WOMAN's breast exposed.

Caption: He is weak.

Page 5. (Entire page rendered in 1970's style, reminiscent of George Tuska)

Panel 1:
FULL: MAN in business suit, younger thirties, side-burned, 70's wide tie, ripping clothes off a young BLACK WOMAN (looking all PAM GRIER).

Caption: I tell him what he did to my mother.

Panel 2:
WIDE: Foreground; BLACK WOMAN, torn clothes, head shoved into dirty mattress, angry, teeth grit. Mid-ground; MAN thrusting at her from behind. Looks pleased. Back ground; Walls of a wooden shack, Two "hillbilly" white men stand looking on laughing.

Caption: She never told me about him while she lived.

Panel 3:
CLOSE: BLACK WOMAN's face, ANGRY!

Caption: I found her journals later.

Panel 4:
CLOSE: Same as previous panel, though a solitary tear falls down her cheek.

Caption: At first I hated her for keeping this...

Panel 5:
CLOSE: MAN's face, vicious and happy.

Caption: I came to understand her reasons.

Page 6.

Panel 1:
CLOSE: MAN (sixty), pleading, in tears.

Caption: I'm going to shoot this man down.

Panel 2:
CLOSE: Colt Single Action Army Six-Shooter in OUTLAW's gloved hand.

Caption: With these.

Panel 3:
Foreground;LEFT; WESTERN OUTLAW, rear shot, firing toward background. Mid-ground; CENTER; smoke billows from WESTERN OUTLAW's Colt Action Army Six-shooters. Three severed fingers fly through the air. Background; Two duded up western cowpokes, one gut shot and cringing, the other holding up a hand in defense, three of his fingers are blown off, the hand is bloody.

Caption: These guns have killed many rapists.

Panel 4:
CLOSE: Waist of WESTERN OUTLAW, hands crossed at belt buckle, gun holsters hang at hips, duster open and back.

Caption: They are the weapons of the Outlaw.

Panel 5:
The MODERN OUTLAW pointing barrel of his Colt Single Action Army at viewer. (EXTREME CLOSE on barrel in Foreground, foreshorten rest.)

Caption: I am the Outlaw.

Panel 6-8:
CLOSE: Head to MID shots of 1950's, ,'60's, '70's and '90's OUTLAWS firing guns.

Caption (stretches across all panels): Many hands have held these weapons over the years. Many stories have been told about them.

Page 7.

Panel 1:
WIDE: Foreground; HISPANIC MAN in "showbiz" style 1950's cowboy getup, embroidered and fringy, opening the lid of a dusty ancient looking treasure chest. Rays of light pour from the chest and illuminate the surprised face of the HISPANIC MAN. Back ground; Cave walls covered in undecipherable runic script.

Caption: Some say the guns are magical.

Panel 2:
Foreground; GRIM 90's OUTLAW, bandaged hands and face, bullet riddled t-shirt, camo BDU pants, guns blazing fire and smoke,leaping forward. Background; Pair of DEMONIC EYES float in the shadowy black.

Caption: Other's tell that a demon has claim over them.

Panel 3:
(B&W PEN & INK ILLUSTRATION, circa style: 1938): FULL: 1930's OUTLAW; tall, gangly, dark overcoat, "wharf-rat" hat pulled low, black scarf over nose and mouth. Holsters buckled out side of coat. Brandishing pair of Colt Single Action Army Six Shooters.

Caption: This is the truth.

Panel 4:
FULL: Two COLT SINGLE ACTION ARMY SIX-SHOOTERS, slightly weathered.

Caption: They've merely been taken up by determined people.

Page 8.

Panel 1:
CLOSE: Foreground; Hand; middle, ring and pinky finger missing, bloody stumps remain, held up toward viewer in "defensive" gesture. Background; Smoke.

Caption: They do not always hit their mark.

Panel 2:
CLOSE: OUTLAW's masked face inches form MAN's. Colt Single Action Army pressed into MAN's face. MAN, eyes shut, face turned toward viewer, pathetically crying.

Caption: But at this range I wont have to worry about that.

Panel 3-6 (one large image split into 4 panels, caption in each panel):
OUTLAW stands LEFT, pointing his gun at MAN, cowering bottom RIGHT. Strewn papers, broken pottery ground around and between. Background; Shadow.

Caption 1: This is more than revenge.

Caption 2: This is more than justice.

Caption 3: This is fate.

Caption 4: this is the fate of a rapist.

Page 9.

Panel 1:
CLOSE: OUTLAW's masked face.

Caption: I am the Outlaw.

Panel 2:
FULL: SILHOUETTE; OUTLAW jumping between buildings.

Caption: My actions are illegal.

Panel 3:
WIDE: Foreground; WOMAN and two POLICE OFFICERS standing, WOMAN draped in blanket, sipping from steaming cup. POLICE OFFICERS writing in pad, scratching head. Background; Fire-truck and police cars, flashing lights, uniformed men rush about.

Caption: The Law does not have all the answers.

Panel 4:
FULL: Smashed office door and potted plants, criss-crossed with CAUTION-CRIME SCENE-POLICE tape. The shattered glass of the door reads:

EVLIN,
PRATE LAW

Caption: Somethings a person must answer for themselves.

Panel 5:
WIDE: Smashed office; overturned desk, papers strewn about, large BLACK MAN face down amid debris. MAN, sitting in shadow, legs visible.

Caption: This man raped my mother.

Panel 6:
CLOSE: MAN, torso and shoulders, blood spattered shirt and tie.

Caption: This rapist is my father.

Panel 7:
CLOSE: Foreground; MAN, head lolled to LEFT, right eye missing, bloody shot wound, top of head also missing, blood covers face. Background; Shadowy wall immediately behind, blood and small chunks of brain and skull slide down wall.

Caption: My father is dead.

END.

BIZARRE THRILLERS! MAGAZINE FEB 1939

"Circle of Spies"
1.

When it all began Major "Danger" was half asleep. The train ride from Waakogan had been uneventful until 03:00 hours. The Major had gone to the observation car, to relieve himself of the heat from his cramp passenger car. Upon arriving he found a secluded spot near the rear of the car and promptly drifted off. He "heard" them before he saw them.
I'm sure he isn't on to us.
It won't be long now.
This blow will be decisive...
I wonder if Amelia is okay?
His instincts brought him to full consciousness. From years of military and combat service he could intimate by the tone of the conversation that something dire was in the planning. Three men appeared at the far end of the observation car. The Major pretended to sleep heavily. The men noticed him and took a seat out of hearing distance. This did not prevent the Major from listening in however. Major Daniel "Danger" Johnson possessed a valuable ability that made him indispensable as a military intelligence officer. From a young age, he displayed what his maternal Grandmother referred to as "the calling", an ability to perceive the thoughts of others at a distance.
This plan had better work.
Toes gone numb again, shoes too tight.
Incredibly large.
Upstate is much pricier.
Once the bomb is set we'll have five minutes to evacuate.
Major Danger yawned and stretched in a loud and obvious manner. He stood and pretended to be waking from a restful slumber. He shook his limbs as he walked towards the three conspirators.
Careful.
G-----n bums.
Push, shove, then draw the knife.
Stiff elbow, Amelia can't be dead.
Push, shove, then draw the knife.
The men wore dark suits and hats. None of them looked up at the Major as he approached. He was able to knock the one nearest him unconscious as he passed. With a hard knuckle punch to the rear of the skull and a follow up blow to the kidney area, the thug complaining of his elbow and toes dropped easily. The element of surprise still in the Major's favor, with no hesitation from knocking the first conspirator out, he leapt over the unconscious body and pushed both his legs into the belly of the man with the knife. The man had not had time to properly draw his concealed weapon, as Major Danger also knew the location on the man's body where he hid the knife. Thus needing to reach behind him to retrieve it, the man had left his belly unguarded and so took the full force of the kick. He passed out while Major Danger confronted the final conspirator.
This one had a gun. Major Danger had his fists, feet and years of combat experience. As well as the added advantage of knowing precisely what his enemy was thinking.
Pull the trigger!
The gun went off loudly. The bullet shattered the window of the observation car. Major Danger was unscathed. He had rushed the criminal at the precise time the trigger was being pulled and by knocking aside the thugs arm, deflected the shot aimed at him. The Major, through clenched teeth, interrogated his enemy.
"Where's the bomb?"
"W..What bomb? I don't know anything about no..."
The Major grabbed the man by his lapels. Inches from his face, the conspirator looked into eyes that would brook no lies. The Major's face added to the allure of fear. Major Danger had been a soldier since the Great War. He was a mere sixteen when the War began but within his first year he had distinguished himself as an excellent forward observer and riflemen. His face bore the scars of battle. The most prominent being three jagged slashes extending upwards and to the right, across his lips and into the middle of his cheek. The conspirator was properly intimidated by this visage.
"The only thing that's going to save you from being thrown out that window is the truth...now!"
Major Danger saw the valise and it's hiding place before his prisoner spoke.
"I..It's in..one twenty one. I swear. It's not armed."
The Major wasted no time. He restrained the unconscious conspirators with confiscated seat-belts and took the remaining one with him. It didn't take long until the Major had the conspirators under guard of the train bulls and the explosives rendered harmless. Four hours later the train came to a deserted station in the middle of a barren plateau. The Major and his "cargo" departed. The train continued on it's route toward civilization through the early morning darkness. Within three minutes the Major was greeted by the familiar sounds of a jeep echoing in the distance.
The jeep pulled up to the loading ramp of the station. The Marine behind the wheel saluted. Major Danger returned the salute. The prisoners were loaded and secured into the jeep. The jeep coughed off through the Midwest desert toward the rocky crags in the distance. After five minutes the jeep pulled to a stop at a lone guard post. The post was manned by a single Marine with a rifle. The placard on the post read;
Welcome to Fort Alpha.
Security Clearance required.
The Major handed over his credentials to the guard. The guard looked them over, looked over the prisoners, saluted and handed the Major back his dossier. The jeep passed through the gate and into Fort Alpha. Major Danger stepped out of the jeep and onto the steps of Alpha H.Q. He instructed that his prisoners be taken to the holding brig and that they were to be kept separated. The Major was greeted by a staff secretary and told that Commandant Stevenson wanted to speak to him. Commandant Stevenson was reviewing paperwork when the Major entered his office.
"So how was Waakogan, Major?"
"Fine sir."
"Have a seat."
The Major sat in one of the two chairs in front of the Commandant's desk. The Commandant struck a conversational tone.
"Nice work on the train by the way. Do we know where they came from?"
"Yes, sir. They work for a man named Billingsly. He operates out of his Airplane hangers near Los Angeles. They have a big meeting there in just a few days to plan some "decisive" action against the United States. I probed further but this is all they really knew besides some politico babbling about their cause."
"Why bomb the train?"
"Just showing off. They wanted to make an impression at the meeting."
"Well handle the three you brought in. I want you write me up your Action Report and then talk to the Quartermaster about what you'll need. Report back to me at 14:00 hours and I'll give your dossier."
Two smart salutes and the Major returned to his own office. His staff secretary, Melissa McEntry, was busy filing folders when he arrived. She turned crisply.
"Welcome back, Major. Shall I bring you some coffee?"
"No thank you Melissa. I'm not staying long. I'll be writing my AR. And I'll need to speak to the Quartermaster in about one hour."
"Certainly, sir." A brief pause. "Where are you off to next, if you may say?"
"Los Angeles."

A glimpse into the Futurepast!



Yes this is a bit of a spoiler, but too fun to not share!

Top Cop Comics #13 OCT 1938

Title: "The Reign of Doc Terror! Part Two"

Page 1:

Panel 1:
Foreground; On the extreme left and right are numerous silhouettes of cloaked figures. Mid-ground; Sally Hemmings, an attractive dark haired young woman, her hands up to her temples, she grips a hand kerchief. She is in obvious despair and looks at the silhouettes in front of her with a terrified gaze. Background; More cloaked figures, we can see their faces, all wear skull head masks. The remaining is all dark shadows that flow up into a hazy image of Doc Terror's face and looming black hands above everything.

Caption:
Sally Hemmings had no idea why she was suddenly seeing this grim visage everywhere she turned. She had no idea of the diabolical machinations of her terrifying tormentor. All she had was the help of one man, Tom Jefferson, the Daring Detective!

Panel 2:
Foreground; Mid-profile; Sally Hemmings nervous, timid, looking forward in fear. She tightly grips the handle of her handbag. Background; A line of "normal" looking folks stream past.

Caption:
Another day in the city. People go about their simple lives.

Sally (thinking):
Everything will be all right. Just a little further and I'll have made it!

Panel 3:
Foreground; Rear full silhouette; Sally,in a day dress, standing still, looks upwards. Back ground; Small awning reads Open Arms Apts., doorman next to glass front entrance . The apartment building fills remaining.

Caption:
What help can the peculiar woman need? And what exactly is her problem anyway?

Sally (thinking):
This is my last hope. If they can't help me...I don't know what might happen to me.

Page 2:

Panel 1:
Wide shot; Foreground; Tom Jefferson sits, relaxing on plush sofa. His expression is condescending. Mary Blake (Tom's sister) an attractive blonde,wearing a day dress, stands holding a drink down towards Tom. Background; Large window behind, city scape view. Middle class swank, bookshelves and posh chairs.

Tom:
Look sis, I don't know what all this secretive stuff is with you, but how about tellin' me what this is all about? I'm giving up a perfectly good Sunday for this.

Mary:
I didn't want to say anything earlier because it wasn't my place to. Sally should be on her way here and she'll tell you when she gets here. You should see her Tom, she's dreadful.

Panel 2:
Foreground; Mary catching Sally, who is fainting into her arms, through the open doorway of the apartment.

Mary:
Sally, oh my! Tom bring me some water quick!

Panel 3:
Wide shot; Foreground; Mary sits next to Sally on the sofa. Sally looks at her handbag in fear, griping it tightly . Mary appears worried and has a comforting hand on Sally's back. Background; Tom Jefferson, standing behind the couch, in profile, lighting a pipe.

Sally:
I started having terrifying nightmares about a month ago. I was being stalked by a menacing figure in a black robe and terrible face. I went to a psychotherapist but it hasn't helped any and now I'm seeing him when I'm not sleeping! I don't know what to do. I don't know where to turn!

Panel 4:
Mid shot; Mary standing opposite Tom. Mary taps her chin and bites her lip, looks perplexed. Tom puffs on his pipe.

Caption:
After calming Ms. Hemmings down and seeing her to bed, the Jefferson siblings conference about their childhood friend and her plight.

Mary:
We've known Sally along time Tom, and I've never seen her so terrified. Something has really got her spooked.

Tom:
Well I'm not one for believing in ghosts. I'm sure there's a perfectly rational explanation. What stuns me is I still can't believe that's the same girl I used to pull the pigtails of. She's grown into an attractive lady.

Panel 5;
Mid shot; Mary Blake poking her index finger at Tom's chest. She looks angry. Tom, flustered, holds his pipe up in front of him, sheildingly.

Mary:
You listen here Thomas Jefferson! That girl needs our help and I'll have none of your shenanigans. You here me!?

Tom:
Cut it out sis, I didn't mean anything by it.

Panel 6:
Wide shot; Mary's bedroom. Sally sitting up, staring into a steaming cup. She wears a bathrobe. Mary sitting on edge of bed looking at Sally. Tom leans against the bedroom door frame. His hands in his pockets.

Caption:
Later once, Sally awakes...

Sally:
That's the first time I've slept without seeing that loathsome face. But I still feel him lurking just beyond the shadows.

Mary:
You can stay here as long as you need to dear. I'll look out for you until we can find out what might be causing these bad dreams. Maybe you should see your Doctor again?

Panel 7:
Waist level; Tom, pounding his fist into his palm, squinting fiercely.

Tom:
Sally I'll do all I can to help! Why don't you come by the station after your appointment and I'll take you for a walk. Just to show you there's nothing to fear out there in the world.

Page 3:

Panel 1:
Foreground; Silhouette, rear view, man sitting in chair, legs crossed. Background; Sally Hemmings laying on a psychiatric couch. Her right arm raised over her eyes.

Caption:
The next day.

Sally:
I was hoping there might be some advice you might be able to offer me Doctor. Do you have any theories on where these nightmare visions might be coming from?

Doctor:
Hmmmm...

Panel 2:
Foreground; Sally, in corner profile, one hand flung forward in defense. Background: the looming cloaked figure of Doc Terror!

Doc Terror:
...I think I might my dear. I think I might indeed, hehehehehehe!

Sally:
AHHHHH!!
Panel 3:
Foreground; Tom, wearing his hat and jacket, looking down at his wrist watch. Background; The front desk of the station house. The desk sergeant fills out paper work. A uniformed policeman escorts a handcuffed prisoner by.

Tom:
I wonder where she could be? Her appointment was over nearly an hour ago. Maybe I should go check on her?

Panel 4:
Mid shot; Tom in phone booth, receiver up to his ear.

Tom:
You haven't heard from her since she went to see her doctor either? Why don't you give me that address and I'll see if they know anything.

Panel 5:
Mid shot: Foreground; Tom behind the wheel of his Packard. Squinting in concentration. Background; buildings and trees blur past.

Tom (thinking):
I hope nothing terrible has happened to her!

Panel 6:
Wide shot; Foreground; Tom standing in center looking up at the background. His Packard is parked to the left of him. Background; A two story brownstone, surrounded on the left and right by high hedges.

Tom (thinking):
This is the place. Pretty cozy for a head shrinker.

Panel 7:
Mid shot; Foreground; Tom, his back to us, opening the front door of the brownstone. Back ground; The brownstone entryway. Placard next to door reads: 13 Black Pool Drive Randolph Oliver Ryan, Ph.D.. Psychoanalytical Studies and Behavioral Specialist Office Hours: by appointment.

Tom:
Yeah real, cozy.

Page 4:

Panel 1:
Mid shot; Foreground; Tom, his back to us, standing, hands in coat pocket, left of panel. Mid ground; Large oak desk top, neat stacks of paper and folders. At the desk sits a young woman wearing glasses and a business dress. She looks up at Tom Jefferson disapprovingly.

Secretary:
I'm sorry but the Doctor has no room for new patients. I can give you a referral if you would like?

Panel 2:
Mid shot; Tom, cocking his hat back, right hand on hip, jacket open, looking down slightly to the right. His expression is slightly amused.

Tom:
My heads on just fine, ma'am. I'm not here for any analysis. I'm looking for my friend. She had an appointment here earlier and I was wondering if she might have said where she was going? Her name is Sally Hemmings.

Panel 3:
Mid shot; Secretary, straightening a stack of papers by tapping it on the desk top, eyes closed, her expression is one of boredom.

Secretary:
I'm sorry sir, but I simply can't just hand out information about our clients to perfect strangers. If you are concerned about your friend perhaps you should call her at home. Good day to you.

Panel 4:
Mid shot, side view; Tom pushing open office door. Behind him the Secretary is standing raising her hands in fright.

Tom:
I'm a police detective, lady and I think I'd rather talk to the good doctor instead of you!

Secretary:
No, you can't go in there!

Panel 5:
Wide shot; 3/4 down; Tom stands in the center of an empty office room. The walls and floor are bare aside from possibly a few scraps of paper.

Tom:
What the !?

Panel 6:
Mid shot; Tom, hunched over, hat off, hair falling in front of his face, one hand covering his mouth. A gas cloud billows all around him.

Tom:
COUGH-COUGH! Should've guessed it...COUGH...13 is my unlucky number...COUGH-COUGH!

Page 5:

Panel 1:
Wide shot; Black stretches from left to right, at right side of panel gray blurry shapes, one resembling a twisted and warped human figure.

Caption;
Time passes and Tom Jefferson slowly emerges from the inky recesses of sleep.

Panel 2:
Full shot; Tom, wearing an undershirt and his trousers, sits strapped to a chair. The straps hold his arms behind his back and buckle his feet to the chair legs. His head is slumped forward, a lock of his hair dangles down.

Caption:
Still groggy from the gassing, the Daring Detective finds himself in a most uncomfortably familiar situation.

Tom:
Ugh...uh....

Panel 3:
Wide shot; On the left; Large machine generator covered with diodes, dials, levers and buttons. Wiring and piping extend from the top of the machine to the top of the panel. On the right; Black

Doc Terror (from the black):
Mr. Jefferson...

Panel 4:
On the left; The edge of the machine and wiring from panel 3. On the right; slightly obscured skull hovering 6' above the floor, in a field of black shadows.

Doc Terror:
We've simply got to stop meeting like this...

Panel 5:
On the left; the machine. On the right; Full figure of Doc Terror emerging from the shadows, cape billows forward, hands folded at mid waist.

Doc Terror:
People might become suspicious.

Panel 6:
Mid shot, side view; Foreground; Doc Terror, hands clasped in front, circles Tom. Doc Terror's robes blend into the shadowy background. Tom struggles feebly at his restraints.

Doc Terror:
Struggle all you like, Detective. You'll find my bindings quite secure.

Tom:
Ugh...huh...

Panel 7:
Close up, profile; Tom, head up, defiant, squinty- eyed, through gritted teeth, pulling forward against the restraints. Muscles bulge with energy.

Tom:
You wont get away from me this time you diabolical dissident! The whole of this city's police will be out in force looking for me!

Panel 8:
Mid shot, profile; Doc Terror hunches over a tray set atop a table. His skull face, turned to us, grinning devilishly. His right hand is holding a very sinister looking scalpel. Other wicked looking implements can be seen on the tray.

Doc Terror:
My dear Tom Jefferson, that is what I'm counting on. Though by the time they get here I doubt they'll be able to do much for you.

Page 6:

Panel 1:
Mid-shot; Foreground, center; Doc Terror, his back to us, holds up his hands as if conducting a major symphony, in his right hand is the wicked looking scalpel. Background; The weird machinery dominates the frame, wiring and piping like a wind organ extend upwards from the machine into darkness.

Doc Terror:
However, we are getting ahead of ourselves. We have much to attend to before the moment of climax arrives. You of course recognize my machine, though I have made some modifications to it since last you encountered it. By applying what I have discovered amongst the sciences of pharmacology and psychology to mechanics I have brought my Grand Experiment to its next phase!

Panel 2:
Wide shot; Foreground: Left; full figure of Doc Terror, left hand extended in a displaying motion. Right; An eight foot tall cylinder, wires and piping extend from numerous connectors on the cylinders surface towards the background, a small billowing cloud of gas seeps from its bottom. Background; The 10' high, 15' wide machine is fully visible. It resembles a giant Pipe Organ with numerous dials, buttons and levers covering it. A large Tesla coil is connected to it on the right.

Doc Terror:
Behold! The Organ of Terror! Through the use of carefully composed musical strains working in conjunction with my Gas Chamber, I can evoke in any living being their most terrifying experience, over and over again! Hehehehehe!

Panel 3:
Mid-shot, Tom, facing us, lunges forward struggling against his restraints.

Tom:
You fiend! I'll put a stop to you before you can hurt another soul! You wont get the chance to use that machine on me or anybody else, ever again!

Panel 4:
Close up; Doc Terror rubbing his hands in diabolical delight (classic cinema villain style).

Doc Terror:
Such bravado! How do you expect to stop me Tom Jefferson? With brave words and fists? Do you think I have not thought through all the contingencies before enacting my Grand Experiment? Do you even have a clue as to the truth of the things you have seen? You are shining proof of the ignorance that human-kind has become!

Panel 5:
Mid-shot; Doc Terror, facing us, stands next to the closed cylinder, gently caressing it. Gas clouds billow upwards from below.

Doc Terror:
Through your bumbling and dumb-luck you have made it this far. It was mere chance that you came upon my operations. Not from any solid deduction. The Daring Detective, Bah?! Your boasts to stop me from using my machine are pointless.

Panel 6:
Full shot; The cylinder, open to the sides, gas billows out and upward. To the left of the cylinder, shrouded in fog and shadows, Doc Terror stands menacingly. Inside the cylinder, Sally Hemmings is strapped to a vertically standing table. She is in her undergarments. Her head tilts slightly to one shoulder. Her face is void of emotion and her eyes are blank.

Doc Terror:
I have been using my Organ of Terror for some time now!

Page 7:

Panel 1:
Mid shot; Tom Jefferson lunging forward against his restraints!

Tom:
You psychopath! If you've harmed her in any way, I'll...!

Panel 2:
Mid shot; Foreground: Left; Doc Terror examining a vicious looking scalpel, head slightly tilted to the right. Background: Right; Sally Hemmings, restrained and terrified.

Doc Terror:
Come ahead then Mr. Jefferson! Show me how you are going to stop me from doing exactly has I have planned.

Panel 3:
Full shot; Tom standing up. His restraints are limp though still encumbering. The chair on which the restraints were is exploding in splinters! His fist clenched! Tom's visage is one of squinty eyed justice!

Caption:
And so Tom Jefferson, the Daring Detective does only what any person can do when faced with menacing terror! He stands up to face it!

Panel 4:
Wide shot; Foreground: Left; Doc Terror stumbles backwards, enshrouded in fog, towards his machine. His right hand is thrown up in defense. Center; Tom Jefferson, fists cocked for a punch, bursts through billowing gas clouds towards Doc Terror! Background: Right; Fog billows out of the open cylinder. Sally Hemmings, restrained, looks on in horror!

Caption;
And rushes forward to combat it!

Panel 5:
Mid shot; Foreground: Center; Doc Terror falling backwards into his machine. Background: The Organ of Terror; sparking and dangling wires.

Doc Terror:
My own hubris is to blame! I should have just killed you and now I will suffer...

Panel 6:
Full shot; Foreground: Center; Doc Terror electrocuted! His arms thrown wide. Electricity surrounds and shreds his cloak and face. Smoke pours from his burning body. Background: Left & Right; dangling, sparking wires descending form top of panel.

Doc Terror:
YEAAARRRGGHHH!!!!!!!

Page 8:

Panel 1:
Mid shot; Foreground: Center & Left; Tom Jefferson holds a frightened Sally Hemmings in his arms. Both appear visibly shaken from the events that have transpired. Background: Right; The charred remains of Doc Terror and shadow.

Tom:
You're safe now Sally. That's the last we've seen of that maniac.

Sally:
Oh Tom! Thank goodness!

Panel 2:
Mid shot: Left; Mary Blake, dressed in an evening robe. Her expression relieved. Right; Tom, in a double breasted suit, holds a glass in his right hand. His expression dour.

Caption:
Upon informing the station house of the whereabouts of Doc Terror, Tom Jefferson returns to his sister, Mary Blake's apartment with Sally Hemmings.

Mary:
Thank the stars he didn't have a gun Tom! Heaven knows what you would've done then? I'm glad that's the end of it though. You do scare me so with your antics.

Tom:
It's not over quite yet sis. Though the man is dead, his "plan", whatever that may have been, might still come off. I've got to put the pieces together, and fast!

Panel 3:
Mid shot; Tom sits at his desk, hat cocked back, coat off, rummaging through files of papers. His desk is stacked with and surrounded by files.

Caption:
Back at the station house, Tom carefully reviews some of his old cases.

Tom:
There's gotta be a connection here I'm just not seeing.

Panel 4:
Full shot; Foreground: Center; Tom, in coat and hat, pounds his right hand into his left palm. His eyes squinty revelation. Background: The shadowy city docks. Shimmering water beyond.

Caption:
Even visiting a former 'scene of the crime' to try and gain a fresh perspective. Until...

Tom:
That's it! I've figured it out! I've got to get back to headquarters and tell the Lieutenant!

Panel 5:
Mid shot; Left; Tom, standing, leant forward, coat off, hat cocked, shirt sleeves up, knuckles on desk. Center; Lt. Rick Reynolds desk, stacks of paper and office paraphernalia. Right; Lt. Rick Reynolds, sitting, leant forward, puffing a cigar. Both look attentive to the other.

Tom:
His plan had been to contaminate the water with that powder he developed from his gas and then through hypnotic music, terrorize the entire populace of this city, perhaps the nation!

Rick: What kind of sick mind would even contemplate such a horrifying concept?

Panel 6:
Close up; The shining, squinty eyed grin of Tom Jefferson.

Tom:
What really matters is that we've put an end to his mad scheme. I can't imagine the kind of world this would be if everyone lived in fear of such terrorists?

THE END.

In the works



Just a quick tease of what's in our artist's sketchbook.

DOC TERROR!!!

Top Cop Comics #12 SEP 1938

Title: "The Reign of Doc Terror!"

Author: Ryan Buck

Page 1:

Panel 1:
Dominating the foreground, on the left, is the cloaked figure of Doc Terror. His cape billows out like streaming tentacles towards the background, where Tom Jefferson is strapped to an upright table. Tom is writhing in agony. Covering Tom's arms and bare chest are electrodes. Wires extend from the electrodes to a giant machine in the background, covered with dials and tubes. Electricity passes along the wires. At the bottom of the page, under the caption, is the title written in "electric" type.

Caption:
This scene may be too shocking for some of our readers with low constitutions. But if you can stomach to watch, follow along as Tom Jefferson, the Daring Detective faces his most deadly challenge to date. And see how he brings the deadly mastermind to justice in...{Title}

Page 2:

Panel 1:
Wide shot; Foreground; five huddled thugs , wearing trench-coats hide behind garbage cans. They are firing towards the background from cover. Mid- ground; billowing clouds of smoke. Background; three uniformed cops and Tom Jefferson rush toward the foreground, guns blazing.

Caption:
In our last story, Detective Tom Jefferson had cracked the "Case of the Silver Pen" and was in the process of mopping up the O'Malley Mob.

Tom:
C'mon men, these mugs ain't so tough!

Panel 2:
Side shot; Foreground; One thug looking at back ground, frightened. Background; Two thugs doubling over from bullet wounds in the belly.

Thug 1:
Nuts! Freddy and Joe Got it! All right coppers I surrender!"

Panel 3:
Foreground; Tom Jefferson prodding the dead body of a thug with his foot. He is in the process of cocking back his hat. His expression is dour. Next to him stands a uniformed policeman, looking on. Background; the remaining two policemen stand in front of the last thug, holding guns on him. The thug has his hands in the air, he looks scared.

Tom:
I guess that does it for the O'Malley Mob. But I still never found out who these crooks were in cahoots with.

Panel 4:
Side shot; Tom sitting at his desk looking up at Lt. Rick Reynolds. Tom appears nonchalant and relaxed. Rick is bent forward leaning his knuckles on Tom's desk. His face is red and consternated.

Rick:
So you think that does it do you? You just bring crooks in while the rest of us do all the paperwork? Well if I've told you once I've told you a hundred times there's more to police work than just shooting at criminals...

Tom:
Relax boss, I've already got my reports started. I just have to interview the last of the O'Malley Mob and then I'll be all done.

Panel 5:
Foreground; Tom, his back to us, sits at his desk looking toward background. Background; Rick, walking away from Tom's desk, holding his right hand up and swirling his index finger in the air, paper trailing after him.

Rick:
You better hope so, Jefferson! Or else it'll cost ya two weeks pay and lunch for the station house!

Page 3:

Panel 1:
Wide shot; Tom sits across a table from the captured thug. Tom looks at some paperwork. the thug looks nervous and fidgety. A single light bulb with no cover hangs above the center of the table. Shadows crawl on the wall in the background.

Tom:
Things don't look so good for you Jimmy. With your rap sheet the judge isn't likely to take it easy on you. Maybe if you had something I could use to soften him up with?

Panel 2:
Jimmy, a typical looking dock-rat; sweating bullets. He wrings his hat nervously.

Jimmy:
I told youse coppers that I was just in da wrong place at da wrong time. I don't know nothing 'bout no dope ring. Honest.

Panel 3:
Tom leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. He looks bored.

Tom:
You want me to ask Officer Chino to step in? I know you and he are ol' pals. Maybe you'd tell him what you can't tell me.

Panel 4:
Side shot; Jimmy, looking down at his hat, defeatedly. Tom leaning in, very interested.

Jimmy:
N-no, no. That ain't necessary. I'll tell ya what I know. I'm just a hired gun ya see. That's the truth. I was just there cause a Joey. He got me the job. I didn't know nothing about no dope til youse guys told me, honest. The only other thing I know is there was this funny looking guy handing out business cards to all a us before the caper. I didn't think nothin of it. I thought he was just a hustler, but Big Man O'Malley seemed scared a him.

Panel 5:
Close up of Tom's hand, holding a business card. On it in the upper left hand corner is a skull chomping a bullet between it's teeth. There is fancy feminine writing below and center.

Card Script:
Dr. T. R. 999 Forsigthe Ave. Rm. 13. Call for Appointments. Bellwater 462.


Jimmy (of panel):
Here's what he give me.

Panel 6:
Wide shot; Foreground; Tom shrugging on his coat and donning his hat. He is walking quickly. Back ground; A desk sergeant looks up surprised. Papers from his desk scatter behind Tom to the floor.

Tom:
If the Lieutenant asks where I am. Tell him I've got a lead on that dope ring. It's the Ritz!

Page 4:

Panel 1:
Wide shot; Foreground; A black sedan cab parked on the left. Mid-ground; Tom leaning against the passenger side window-sill. He is tipping his hat back nonchalantly. Background; The bottom 12 stories of a high rise, ritzy Park Place apartment building. It is night and street lamps are lit.

Tom:
Thanks again buddy. I owe ya one. Stop down at the station anytime and I'll see if I can't help you out.

Panel 2:
Mid side shot; Tom looking down at the card he holds chest high. His face a chiseled mask of determination.

Tom (thinking):
If my hunch is right I should probably just go in guns blazing. But everybody's got the right to a fair trial, so...

Panel 3:
Mid front on shot; Tom standing in an elevator. His hands in his pockets, His hat tilted forward to hide his face. A squirrelly looking bellhop pulls the ascension lever. He looks thoroughly bored with his station in life.

Tom (thinking):
Its got to be him! Its just got to!

Panel 4:
Wide shot; Foreground; Mid shot of Tom stepping off the elevator. Mid-ground; Opposite him is a particularly nasty looking thug wearing spats. "Spats" is looking toward Tom, his expression unfriendly.

Tom (thinking):
He's got muscle. I'll just go say hello.

Panel 5:
Mid side shot; Tom standing opposite "Spats". Tom's hat is pulled low to hide his face. He holds out his hand with the small white card. "Spats" puts out a stopping hand level with Tom's chest. He wave's his hand back and forth.

Spats:
Eh, you look lost mista. You musta got the wrong door. Try lookin' elsewheres.

Tom:
I have this card.

Panel 6:
Wide shot; Tom and Spats entering a large, poshly decorated apartment. The rooms dominate feature are the numerous bookshelves.

Spats:
You must be the guy Doc's waitin' for? C'mon in and well take care a ya.

Panel 7:
Mid side shot; Spats saps Tom Jefferson from behind. Tom surprised by the blow is doubled forward. Spats' is smiling.

Spats:
I know the Doc'll be happy you stopped by.

Page 5:

Panel 1:

Foreground; Tom, his back to us, is strapped to a chair. He is in shadow. His head lolls over to his right shoulder. His hair is messed and fallen forward, overall his clothes look disheveled. Background; All is in shadow except for one bright spotlight the illuminates Spats, standing, wearing his jacket and hat, arms crossed. A cigar sticks sidewise out of his mouth. The cigar is unlit.

Spats:
You ain't said much worth listen' to so far copper.

Panel 2:
Mid shot; Spats rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. His coat hangs on a rack behind him. He wears a vest, tie and pocket watch. His face is unemotional, but unfriendly.

Spats:
Guess you're gonna make me take my coat off for this one, eh?

Panel 3:
Foreground; Tom, leaning forward, towards us, in pain. Behind him Spats is following through on a punch to the back of Tom's head, a large sap in his hand. Background; Explodes in 'slam-bang' lines.

Spats:
You remember my ol' pal Beanie here?

Panel 4:
Small, thin, all black.

Panel 5:
Slightly larger than previous panel, all black.

Panel 6:
Larger than previous panel, right side spottily fading to gray.

Panel 7:
Buts the edge of previous panel, Left side is spottily gray fading smoothly to; Close up of Spats' face. This shot is from Tom's P.O.V., Spats is looking up and away to the left (behind us), His mouth is opened as if speaking.

Spats:
He's come back around Doc. Want I should toss some water on 'im?

Panel 8:
Wide shot: Foreground; Silhouette of Doc Terror viewed from the back, on the left side, his left hand fiddles with silhouetted turn dials on silhouetted machinery. Back ground; Spats leans over a table, waist high, center. He looks down at Tom Jefferson, who is bare chested and strapped to the table by buckled leather straps. Tom faces the silhouette of Doc Terror, his face stony and determined.

Doc Terror:
I think the stoic Republican is coming around quite nicely on his own.

Panel 9:
Close up of Doc Terror's hooded face. A floating skeletal head in a field of flowing black robes. The skull looks particularly menacing.

Doc Terror:
Tell me Tom, why is it do you think I've brought you here? What does that brawny brain of yours tell you is happening? Let me assure you though, that nothing you can be thinking now is remotely near what the actuality of this moment is.

Page 6:

Panel 1:
Wide shot; Foreground; Left side; The table, tilted at a 45 degree angle, viewed from behind it is in shadow. Tom's buckled hands are visible at the top of each corner of the table, also in shadow. Doc Terror, in rear silhouette, stands next to him, a black gloved hand pointing toward the screen. Right side; A giant cinema screen dominates the upper portion of the panel, On the screen is a newsreel image of piles of decrepit looking skulls. The lower portion under the screen is a strange machine with numerous diodes, levers and dials. Spats, his back to us, is manipulating some of the knobs and buttons.

Doc Terror:
Not when you face "Les Cinema de Terreur! Put the mask on him.

Panel 2:
Side shot; Foreground; Waist up shot of bare chested Tom strapped to the 45 degree angled table. Covering his head is a Great War gas mask. Fumes billow out of it. On Tom's chest are electrodes connected to wires that run off the table. Background; The dark form of Doc Terror blends in with the shadows around him, a few folds of his robes and his skull face can be seen.

Doc Terror:
That gas is a little experiment I've been working on. It should make all that you are about to see quite interesting.

Panel 3:
Mid-shot; Mid-ground; Tom, face on, bathed in light from the foreground, He is bare to the waist. His hands are shackled above him to the table, struggling. A Great war gas mask covers his face. Background; Very small in the black background is the grinning skeletal face of Doc Terror.

Caption:
As the images, much to heinous to show you, flicker by on the terrible screen, Tom tries to shut his eyes, behind the mask. But the gas makes him want to watch, the terrible gas that makes all the horrible images before him seem more real than anything he's ever seen before!

Panel 4:
Close up of he gas mask. A reflection of flames can be seen in the eye-pieces. Vapors escaping from the venting.

Tom:
Must fight it...mustn't give in to...

Page 7:

Panel 1:
Wide shot; Mid-ground; Tom in coat and hat stumbling forward, his hand held out as if reaching for something. Back ground; A hypnotic background of swirling images and floating objects.

Caption:
Tom finds himself in a world gone topsy turvy. He doesn't know if he's dreaming or if any of this is the real world. He wanders in this foreign landscape for what seem like hours until...

Panel 2:
Foreground; Tom being supported by two uniformed police men. The men look confused. The police men are walking, Tom is being dragged between them. Background; The left side is 'topsy-turvy" world that at center blends in with the "real" world of a street with a car driving past and a lamp post, that fills in the right side.

Cop 1:
Yeah but I haven't ever seen him like this before.

Cop 2:
Maybe we oughta bring him to the station house?

Panel 3:
Tom, disheveled, hunched and gripping a glass of water, sits at his desk. Lt. Rick Reynolds stands next to his desk, knuckles pressed against the top.

Rick:
You took a nasty blow there Tom. The Doc says you'll pull through okay though.

Tom:
T...the D..doc?

Panel 4:
Tom gripping Rick by the lapels of his shirt, thrusting his face toward Rick's.

Tom:
We've got to get back there! Before he gets away, we've got to get back!

Panel 5:
Foreground; Tom and a Rick inside a police sedan. The sedan's siren and lights are flashing! Background; the streets zoom by in blurs.

Caption:
Explaining about the gas, Tom convinces Lt. Rick Reynolds to take him back to 999 Farsigthe, the home of Doc Terror!

Panel 6:
Tom and Rick standing on either side of the bellhop from earlier. The bellhop looks confused and slightly frightened.

Billy Bellhop:
Sorry Mista, I just don't remember. Ridin' up an down all day kinda rattles ya after a while.

Tom:
I know it's here, just take us up.

Page 8:

Panel 1:
Foreground; Empty apartment walls, shadows everywhere. Mid-ground; in the center of the bare floor is a scrap of paper, to far away to read. Background; Tom kicking open the door, Rick behind him gun drawn.

Caption:
No guards out front! No one answering the doorbell! Tom leaps into action!

Panel 2:
Wide shot; Tom stands center looking at the scrap of paper he's picked up, Rick, paces scratching his head, gun on his hip. shattered door lies to the right. Billy Bellhop peeks in through doorway, looks perplexed.

Tom:
I knew this was the place, this card proves it!

Rick:
What I can't figure is how they got all their stuff outta here so fast?

Billy:
Mr. Donnielli is gonna be mad at you guys for this.

Panel 3:
Tom sitting at his desk; feet propped up, his hat knocked back, he holds the card on his chest studying it. Rick stands; next to Tom's desk, arms crossed, his expression dour.

Rick:
Well we've got our work cut out for us on this one. Not a clue except that scrap you found. This guy is pretty slippery.

Panel 4:
Foreground; Tom, his back to us, in silhouette leans against a large window frame (possibly panel frame?). Background; Out beyond the window is the night and the city.

Tom:
Slippery or not, I'll get him. Whatever mad scheme he may have planned, I'll track him down and put a stop to it! I swear!

Panel 5:
Wide shot; An expansive rooftop view of the city at night. Between a gap in the peaks of skyscrapers, the moon and a ghastly cloud crossing in front of it, resembling a skull.

Caption:
This is not the end of our tale. Join us next time for the thrilling conclusion to Tom Jefferson's hardest fight! "The Reign of Doc Terror, Part Two!"

THE END.