csyphrett

Yay I got one vote and a participation award Shoot me CES

Watched season 15 of NCIS. There are some additional staff changes. Fez is the big guy now. And the last episode ended on a cliffhanger. CES

What's his magic power, DT CES

Based out of Las Vegas, the local CSI has an appetite for justice, a nose for trouble, and enough muscle to make a mob hitman sit up and take notice. Roaming the dark underbelly of the Queen of the Desert, Grizzley Gill solves crimes as only a werebear can. CES

Let's go with six. We've already done a similar team that was like 13 CES

Things are getting better but it's like anything. Sometimes you have to lance a boil to let it heal. We're just seeing that on a global scale. CES

Someone has created a group of villains based off elements coming to life and carrying out their schemes. Seven elements are in play as the Periodic Perils CES

The Crowley Special Investigators are private detectives that are also magicians solving weird crimes and stopping monsters. Who are these master of the mystic arts that are inspired by television detectives? CES

Losada hails from Venezuela. He can alter people's minds with a touch of his hand. He uses to get him whatever he wants while he sits back and let his puppets ruin their lives. CES

Vijaya is the last member of the Colombo Champions. He built their headquarters, is the bulwark against disaster, and has an army of demons at his beck and call. CES

Go ahead Hermit. It's probably a good thing we couldn't do this as the Summers Family Tree CES

The Shield 1940- 10 Flanagan tied up Courtland with his own belt and ties raided from the closet. He dropped the man on the bed as he looked the place over. He found a set of papers with spaces for signing over his company. He frowned beneath his welder’s mask. Apparently the meeting being called after he was dead involved a deal for his business. He noted that the buying business had Rydell as the chairman of the new board and majority stock holder. He didn’t see any of the names of the other stock holders on the paperwork. How did Rydell plan to sell them on the idea? He thought that if they thought he was dead, then that would be enough to sway everyone but Miss Rich. He hoped she would have said no to such a deal when her controlling interest kicked in. How did he turn this around? He wanted to get Miss Rich back. Was she dead? If she was, Courtland would be taking a swan dive out the window. He needed to give Rydell a reason to hold on to her if he had her. He looked at the paperwork. That might be enough to buy him some time. He smiled under the mask. He hoped he could pull this off. He picked up the phone and called Westwood’s office first. He needed to make sure Rydell hadn’t moved. If the detectives still had an eye on him, that would be okay. “Westwood,” said the detective. It was a good thing he hadn’t gone home. That would have meant doing things the hard way. “Do you still have an eye on Rydell?,” asked Flanagan. “He hasn’t moved according to my guys,” said Westwood. “I outfitted the tail cars with radios so they could call in without having to look for pay phones.” “Call them and tell them to be on alert to follow him if he leaves,” said Flanagan. “I want to know what he does.” “Got it,” said Westwood. “I’ll call back in a bit,” said Flanagan. He hung up. Then he dialed Rydell’s private number to his house on the Island. He needed to give his suspected attempted murderer some bait. “Hello?,” said Rydell’s growl. “Who’s this?” “I know you have Josephine Rich,” said Flanagan. “I have Arnold Courtland and your precious paperwork. I’m willing to trade if Miss Rich is alive. If she isn’t, your agreement is going into my fireplace.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Rydell. “I suppose that’s okay,” said Flanagan. “Courtland gets to take a swan dive out the window, and all this comes out in the press. I’ll see you on the front page tomorrow.” “You’re going to throw Arnie Courtland out the window?,” asked Rydell. “Don’t you think there’s better ways to do things.” “I traced Courtland from his attacks on Flanagan and Miss Rich,” said Flanagan. “I have your paperwork in my hands. I know people who would love to see this. You could lose it all. At least your wife will be able to administer your part of your wealth while you’re away. It wouldn’t be a great solution, but you have the next move. Give me back Miss Rich, and I give you the paperwork and Courtland to deal with as you please.” “How do I know this is on the up and up?,” asked Rydell. Flanagan read the top of the front page of the deal over the line. “How do you want to do this?,” asked Rydell. Flanagan imagined him sitting in his easy chair, thinking of ways to set up an ambush. “I’m going to call back in an hour,” said Flanagan. “I’ll tell you where the meet is going to be. You bring Miss Rich. I bring Courtland and the deal. We trade. We walk away. You don’t try anything, and you get to keep everything a secret.” “No one knows?,” said Rydell. “Not yet,” said Flanagan. “And they won’t as long as you don’t try to doublecross me. If I don’t see Miss Rich, you won’t see the papers. That’s all I am ready to give you.” “All right,” said Rydell. “I have to make some phone calls and get her. I’ll be waiting on your call.” Flanagan hung up. He called Westwood back. “Westwood,” said the detective. “Keep an eye on the Rydell house,” said Flanagan. “I need to know if he leaves, or if someone drives up.” “I’ll let my guys know,” said Westwood. “Are we raiding the house?” “I don’t know yet,” said Flanagan. “I proposed a trade. I am going to call him back in an hour to set up a meet. I need your guys ready to follow him and get Miss Rich out of danger.” “I’ll let them know,” said Westwood. “Is there anything else I can do?” “I might need your help later,” said Flanagan. “Right now, I just need you to watch until I can call you back to tell you where we’re going to meet. Be ready.” Flanagan hung up the phone. He had things to do. Part of that was getting Courtland out of the Aviary without causing a fuss. He planned to call Westwood before he went into action, but he needed to move to the staging area first. He made sure that Courtland was gagged before he slung the man over his shoulder. He took the paperwork and tucked it in his belt. He walked to the door. He cracked it open to peer out in the hall without attracting attention. When he was sure the coast was clear, he carried his burden to the stairs. He worked his way down to the second floor and out the window he had used to get in the building. He put Courtland in the trunk and shut the lid on him. Now he had to drive out to the Island before Rydell expected him to call. Then he could think of something to get Miss Rich back. He put the deal in the glove box before starting the car and setting out. If anyone searched the car, they would find Courtland. They might not find the paperwork, and it wouldn’t matter if they did. Either he came through and got Miss Rich back, or he went to the meeting and shut Rydell down there. Either way, he wasn’t giving up his friend, or his company, without a fight. Flanagan drove across town, using the Brooklyn Bridge to get to Long Island. He aimed for Rydell’s mansion on the Gold Coast. He needed to call Westwood to make sure his quarry hadn’t moved. He doubted the man would come along quietly. He had already committed to violence when he had the dynamite thrown to the factory floor. It had been blind luck that no one had been seriously hurt in the explosion. The two personal attacks showed that Rydell wanted him dead so he could get his way. Flanagan stopped at a payphone a few miles from Rydell’s house. It was almost time to call him for the meet. First, he had to call Westwood. He put the change in and dialed the detective’s office. “Westwood,” said the private investigator. “Has Rydell moved?,” asked Flanagan. “No,” said Westwood. “A car pulled up and a gang piled out. My guys couldn’t tell if Miss Rich was there.” “All right,” said Flanagan. “I have fifteen minutes to get there. Call your guys and tell them to keep an eye out in case they get a chance to rescue her.” “I’ll let them know,” said Westwood. “Are you sure about this? We could call the cops and let them handle things.” “Maybe,” said Flanagan. “I would rather make sure Miss Rich is okay with my own two eyes. I got her into this mess. I have to get her out.” “Right,” said Westwood. “Good luck.” Flanagan hung up the public phone. He got back into the idling car and sped down the road. He knew where Rydell’s estate sat because he had visited there for a party and backroom meeting. He imagined the low block wall around the grounds, and the steel gate barring people from driving to the house unless someone triggered the hydraulics holding the gate closed. He would wreck his car trying to drive through that. He needed to get in without anyone knowing he was there, then he needed to take Miss Rich and leave. He couldn’t afford to let his car be wrecked while he was trying to make a getaway. He pulled into bushes concealing the wall around the estate. He winced at the sound of branches scratching the car up, but then reminded himself that the car was stolen. He grabbed his shield and got out. He pulled the shield onto his arm as he climbed on top of the car. He used the roof to jump over the spikes on top of the wall. He landed lightly on the other side and started toward the house. He didn’t see any guards wandering the grounds. Maybe they were all waiting for the call he wasn’t going to make. He skulked to the front window overlooking the lawn. He peered inside. A group of men stood in Rydell’s private office. Miss Rich sat in a chair in front of Rydell’s desk. Rydell sat behind the desk. He stared at the phone as if willing it to ring. He needed to attract their attention from using Miss Rich as a bargaining chip and get her out of the way. He backed up to get himself some room. He ran at the window and threw himself at it. He wasn’t really that light, but he still might have bounced off if he hadn’t been wearing the chainmail covered in his mixture. He crashed through the glass and fell on the nearest men with that extra mass working in his favor. It was enough to knock them into the men behind them, staggering them out of the way. Flanagan swung his shield around him with all of his strength. He saw the angles of attack in his head and followed them. The triangle caught bodies edge on as he threw himself into the fight. “Run!,” shouted Flanagan. He threw himself into a diving kick to carry his body over Rydell’s desk and send the fatter man in his wheeled chair rolling away from the desk. Miss Rich stood up. Her hands had been tied behind her with rope. Her legs had been left unbound since they had thought they would be moving her again. She ran for the door. Flanagan threw himself back over the desk and ran after her. He turned and held his shield up. He didn’t want a stray shot hitting her if he could block it. The only piece he was not sure wouldn’t stop a bullet was his headgear. He followed Miss Rich to the front door. He pulled it open and looked outside. No one had jumped through the window to cut them off. That wouldn’t last long if they got their wits about them and started shooting from the cover of the mansion. He had to get Miss Rich to cover so she could get away while he drew the gunmen’s attention. He had been lucky so far but he couldn’t expect that luck to last. “Run down to the gate,” said Flanagan. “I have a car waiting on the road.” He pulled the knot holding her hands behind her away. He kept an eye on the window and the office beyond. His armor would blend into the night, but Miss Rich still wore the tan dress she had picked out for the party at his townhouse. She was a moving target across the dark lawn. He had to buy time for her to get down to the wall. He pulled the stolen pistol from his belt. He calculated angles as he moved across the lawn. He wanted them to shoot at him and not Miss Rich. He waited until he saw a part of a gunman taking aim. He fired his automatic. He held up his shield as a fusillade dumped lead on him. He barely felt any impact. He fired back to keep their attention. A glance told him that Miss Rich was at the gate, looking for a way over the wall. He jogged down to stand with her. This was the most dangerous part of everything. He needed help now. He handed her the shield for protection. He grabbed her in a hug around her thighs. He hefted her to the top of the wall. She dropped down on the other side. “Here,” she said. She handed back his shield through the bars of the gate. He took it and strapped it on his arm. “Get in the car,” said Flanagan. “I’m coming over the wall.” He ignored the sounds of bullets cutting the air to look at the wall next to the gate. He saw that it had an electronic pad to let cars out. He used that as a stepping stone and pulled himself over the wall and dropped down to the other side. Miss Rich pulled the getaway car up so he could get inside the passenger side. She waited for him to do that before driving away from the chaos behind them. “Are you all right?,” asked Flanagan. “I’m really mad right now,” said Miss Rich. “What do we do about this mess?,” said Flanagan. “I didn’t think about calling the cops in on this, and Courtland is in the trunk.” “Courtland is in the trunk?,” said Miss Rich. “Yes, so watch your driving,” said Flanagan. “We can’t afford to be stopped. We’ll be the ones on charges.” “All right,” she said. “We need to find a place where we can talk without worry.” “Both of our homes have been invaded,” said Flanagan. “Someone might be at the factory, or the office. Let’s see if we can find a hotel that will accept your appearance. We’ll leave Courtland waiting for the cops.” “I’m for that,” said Miss Rich. “Thanks for saving my life.” “It was the least I could do,” said Flanagan. //222735

i don't think he can spell his real name CES

How long ago is six generations? First, the Cherokee Nation revealed that Warren had contacted tribal leaders and apologized for touting the results of her DNA test as evidence of her Native American ancestry. Then on 5 February, the Washington Postreported that Warren had issued a significantly expanded statement, apologizing for describing herself as Native American for many years:

Has anybody had to deal with the new tax work yet? I'm having a hard time figuring if I owe anything CES

The Shield 1940- 9 Flanagan arrived at Miss Rich’s apartment building. People milled about. He didn’t see a policeman yet, but he had no doubt one was on the way. What was his next move? He couldn’t stay where he was. Someone would see his getup and call the law on him. He didn’t want to explain anything. And there was a chance Westwood’s man had been hurt during all this. Should he check to make sure? And he didn’t know if Miss Rich had been taken alive, or left for dead in her apartment. He needed to find out in the narrow window he had before the police arrived. Flanagan got out of his stolen car. He decided that it was best to go in the front door. He didn’t have a lot of time for sneaking around. He pushed through the small crowd. He ignored the comments on his costume as he spotted stairs and elevator side by side. He went up the stairs as fast as he could to the third floor. He read the numbers on the doors as he searched for the right place. He paused when he found a bullet riddled mess at the door he wanted. “Miss Rich?,” he called out. He held his shield in front of him in case her guard was still capable of shooting. “Miss Rich!” He pushed the door out of the way and stepped inside the apartment. He shook his head at the bullet holes in the walls, and furniture. He spotted blood on the tile covering the floor and followed it into the kitchen. He paused when he found the bodyguard lying on the floor. Flanagan frowned as he knelt beside the man. He spotted blood on the man’s shirt. He opened it and shook his head at the hole he saw. He might live if he was taken to the hospital right away. The police weren’t going to do that. It would take too long for them to mobilize in his opinion. He had to do something now if he wanted to save the man’s life. Then he could look for Miss Rich. He found a hand towel and some tape. He packed the towel in the wound. He checked the man’s back. He didn’t find an exit wound. He taped the towel in place, wrapping the tape around the man’s torso as tight as he dared. That caused a cry, but he couldn’t let that deter him. He had to move forward. Flanagan picked the man up and carried him out of the apartment. He took the elevator down. He couldn’t jostle the bodyguard with a three story walk down steps. The hole in his side might soak through towel and tape if he encouraged it. Flanagan had to push the crowd out of his way so he could carry his burden to his stolen car. He placed the man in the back seat, and got behind the wheel. He aimed his car for the nearest hospital. Hopefully the doctors would be able to stop the bleeding and save the guy. He would have to call Westwood after he had dropped the bodyguard off. He needed to know where Rydell and Courtland were so he could plan his next move. He had to get Miss Rich back, and they weren’t going to stop him. He pulled up into the driveway to the Emergency ward at the hospital. He glanced at the sign so he knew where he was, but that was for calling Westwood after he had the victim squared away. He got out and waved one of the nurses over. He opened the backdoor and reached in and pulled the bodyguard out of the car. He carried the victim into the building, watching as one of the women on duty called for a doctor, and a gurney. An orderly arrived a second later with a rolling bed. A few seconds later, the bodyguard was on the way to an operating room. Flanagan almost smiled under his mask. He put the feeling aside. Now he had to get back to work. He got back in the car as a nurse demanded his name. He looked at her for a moment. Then he drove off. He roamed the streets for minutes until he found a payphone. He had to call Westwood’s office so he could tell them their man was at the hospital. He couldn’t go home, and he couldn’t look for clues at Miss Rich’s. He needed information if he wanted to find her. He searched the car and found some change. He got out and walked to the phone booth. He opened the door and dialed the private investigator’s number while he watched the street. He had a distinctive appearance. The police at Miss Rich’s apartment would make the connection if the hospital informed them about the shot man that had been dropped off. He imagined a description of his purple suit and shield was being sent to every radio car in Manhattan with the order to stop him. He couldn’t afford that. “Westwood Detective Agency,” said a voice after five rings. “Would you like to leave a message?” “Miss Rich has been kidnaped,” said Flanagan. “His man is at St. Luke’s. If he checks in, tell him that I need to know if he tracked Rydell, or Courtland, home. Got it?” “Who should I say is calling?,” asked the message taker. “Tell him it’s Flanagan,” said the financier. “I’ll call back in a few hours to see if he has checked in.” “I got it,” said the voice. “As soon as Mr. Westwood calls, I will let him know.” “Thanks,” said Flanagan. He hung up. Where did he go from here? He couldn’t drive around in a stolen car all night. He couldn’t go home either. The office or the factory would be places people would look for him to show his face. He couldn’t do that while he was trying to figure out how to rescue Miss Rich. He couldn’t go home until he was sure the cops had hauled away his earlier catch. He needed to think about his next moves. He needed to get off the street. He needed to know things. He decided to drive by his place. Maybe the police had already taken his catch away. He needed to rest for a minute and think about some way to get Miss Rich back. If he could do that, he might be able to figure out where they had taken her. He planned to hurt Rydell if something had happened to his secretary. He didn’t know how much pain he was going to inflict. He decided to wait until he knew which way the wind blew. Then he would see how much the man liked having a broken leg for starters. He pulled into the alley behind his townhouse. The front of the place had looked quiet. He hoped that meant the police had come and gone. He used a key stored in his armor on the back door. He stepped inside. He searched the place. His attackers had been taken away. One of the policemen who had answered the call had left a card. He put that in his armor’s pocket before he went to his phone. He had to call the factory and let them know to keep an eye out for trouble. If he and Miss Rich had been attacked, the factory might be the next target. He went to his parlor and sat down in his favorite chair. How did he fix things? He closed his eyes and thought. Links formed with the assumption that Rydell was behind Courtland. The places they could safely hold Miss Rich narrowed to places that Rydell owned in some way. He discounted businesses and offices. He concentrated on places that he knew Rydell used for pleasure. He didn’t have time to check them all. Miss Rich might be in trouble while he thought. He needed a way to narrow it down more. He decided to call Westwood’s office again. Maybe the detective had checked in and was still there. He needed to know if the agency had trailed Rydell and Courtland around. Maybe the hounds had seen something that would help him. “Westwood Detective Agency,” said Westwood. He sounded angry on the phone. “It’s Flanagan,” said Flanagan. “I need to know where Rydell and Courtland went.” “Courtland is in a hotel in lower midtown,” said Westwood. “Rydell is at his house on Long Island.” “Did Rydell stop anywhere on the way out to the Island?,” asked Flanagan. He had been to Rydell’s mansion. It stood up close to a nice beach with a shape like a white Monopoly hotel. “Not that my man saw,” said Westwood. “He’s still out there according to the last report I got.” “Which hotel is Courtland in?,” asked Flanagan. “I have to ask him some questions.” “St. Luke’s said some man in a costume brought my investigator in,” said Westwood. “I’m sure it looked good,” said Flanagan. “Where is Courtland at?” “It’s a place called the Aviary,” said Westwood. “I need you to stay on Rydell,” said Flanagan. “I’m going to talk to Courtland. If Rydell leaves his house, I need to know where he goes. If he has Miss Rich, I doubt she will be at a business, or his house. He’ll probably have her somewhere close to the house in case something goes wrong and he needs her.” “He has two other properties close to his place on the Island,” said Westwood. “They’re both rental houses.” “Where are they?,” asked Flanagan. He memorized the addresses before he hung up. He had a choice on what to do next. Maybe he should talk to Courtland before trying to search houses that might have civilians in it. He went out his back door and vaulted the fence to get to the alley beyond that. He got behind the wheel of the stolen car and started it. He drove down the alley and out on the street. He headed for the Aviary. Flanagan turned over pieces in his mind as he drove south. He didn’t have a lot, but he liked the challenge of thinking about the inside of the box. If he was wrong about Courtland, he was going to have a problem with the rest of his plans. If he was right, there might be something to link the face man to Rydell and the both of them to Miss Rich. And he wanted to be right in this above all others. He parked beside the hotel, grimacing at the flashing sign on the roof of the place. He got out and went to the fire escape on the side of the building. He used a dumpster to get to the bottom rung of the ladder. Then he started up. He climbed up to the second floor window. He let himself in. He crept down the stairs to the lobby. He watched the desk man. When the employee stepped away from the desk, he jogged over and looked at the register. He jogged back to the stairs and hoped Courtland hadn’t switched his room. He climbed up to the indicated room in the register. He knocked on the door. He put a finger over the peephole. He didn’t want Courtland to take it in his head to run. “Who is it?,” Courtland asked. “Room service,” said Flanagan. “I have some extra towels for you.” Courtland opened the door. He froze when he saw the purple menace on his doorstep. He tried to swing the door shut. A fist to the face stopped him from doing that. He staggered away from the door. “Let’s talk,” said Flanagan. He stepped inside and shut the door.

I would like to pick Captain Victory for my bonus pick. The title is no man escapes the manhunters CES

The Shield 1940- 8 Flanagan placed Miss Rich in a cab and sent her home. He made sure to pay the hack enough to cover the ride with a generous tip on top of that. He told Berra to let him know when they were done cleaning up. He walked upstairs to his workspace. It wasn’t a lab, but it had a ton of books and some equipment he could use for small things. He couldn’t build more armor unless he decided to knock out a few internal walls and have vats and other things dragged upstairs and put in place. He liked to use it to catch up on reading industry reports and new patents. Some of those he could reverse engineer and use for his own company. A few he bought outright because he couldn’t figure out how they were supposed to work, and he didn’t mind paying for things he felt could help his company. He decided he needed a visual aid to keep him up to date on what he was doing, and what he needed to do. He pulled down a chalkboard from the ceiling and picked up the chalk on the tray at the bottom. He spent an hour assembling what he knew in short sentences. Each sentence had a confirmation written down next to it. A lot of question marks took their places where he didn’t know enough to proceed. How did he tie Rydell to Courtland? He had no idea at the moment. He was sure they were working together, even if he had no proof. Maybe Westwood’s detectives could dig something up. And then Shanks sat on the side. Whom did he work for? If he could be tied to the Rydell-Courtland partnership, that would make things that much easier. If he couldn’t be tied in, that meant another party wanted him dead, and he had no clue who that could be. He decided that everyone knew he was going to be home for the next few days. Someone would make a play. Shanks was in hiding. This might draw him out, or someone else who wanted Flanagan out of the way. How long did he have to wait was the one question he really wanted answered. A knock on the door drew him back to the present. He pushed the chalkboard back in its hiding place before pulling the door open. Berra stood on the other side. His tie and jacket had vanished since they had talked. “We’re done,” said the caterer. “Everything is as it was.” “Thanks,” said Flanagan. “You really came through for me.” “You paid the money and provided the extra hands,” said Berra. “That was enough to make everything presentable.” “No problem,” said Flanagan. “Let me show you the door and lock up. I have a meeting tomorrow I can’t miss.” “The bill is on the kitchen counter,” said Berra. He turned and headed downstairs. “I’ll have Miss Rich write you a check in the morning,” said Flanagan. “It’ll be in your office tomorrow. I’ll send it by messenger.” “Let me know if you need another party catered,” said Berra. “It will be my pleasure.” “All right,” said Flanagan. He walked behind Berra. He casually looked around. Everything looked like it was still there. He closed the door behind the caterer, noting a van with the restaurant name on its side waiting in the street. He locked the door. Flanagan searched his townhouse to make sure it was empty. He cut off the lights as he went up to his bedroom. How long did he have before they tried to kill him? He pulled on his armor as he waited. He had taken the week to put the thing together. He wore coveralls, a piece of chain mail, and a tunic over that. He had adopted a welder’s mask and hood to protect his face except for the glass eyeslit. Everything had been dipped in his concoction and was a dark purple. He had dipped a triangle of wood to make a purple shield. He strapped it on his arm. He felt it would stop a blast of dynamite, and as many bullets as it could block. Flanagan sat down in his chair, beside the door of the bedroom. He reached up and cut off the lights. All he had to do now was wait. Flanagan wondered where they would keep watch on his townhouse. He doubted there was any place other than directly across the street. He supposed they might come at him early in the morning. That was the usual time for raids. If they didn’t show up by five, he would get some sleep so he could be fresh for the office in the morning. He would try this the next two nights. If it didn’t work out, he would have to try something else. He doubted it would come to that. As soon as they knew where he was, they should have decided if they were coming right away, and what they were bringing. Any delay hurt them. A noise attracted his attention from downstairs. He went to the door. The solid coat of mix kept the chain mail from rattling as he moved. He looked at the stairs. A light shone somewhere on the ground floor. He crept to the stairs. He realized that he had never tested if the chemical would absorb falling damage as well as it did being shot and blown up. He doubted he could fall three stories in his new suit and just walk away. He didn’t want to test it now that he had intruders in his house. The lights came up the stairs. He counted two flashlights. He couldn’t see how many men were behind the lights. He stepped back from the railing. He wanted them away from his lab, and caught flatfooted when they reached the top floor. He leaned against a wall, raising his shield to maximize his coverage. He waited as the group paused at the top of the stairs. One of the men pointed at his closed bedroom door. They assembled at the door. One of them tried the knob. It twisted under his grip and he nodded. He pushed open the door and the group crowded in the door and started shooting. Flanagan frowned at the new holes he imagined being punched through his bed. He walked forward. It was time to have a talk with his home invaders. He walked up to the last man in the group. He kicked the man into the rest of the group before they realized he was behind them. Then he started swinging as hard as he could as the group tried to get away from him. He realized that he could hit harder because his chemical soaked gloves spread the impact as he punched. He wouldn’t want to hit a brick wall, but it worked great against the bones of faces. Flanagan took several blows to his shield, but he barely felt them. He used it to ram a man into flight across the bedroom. The gunman hit the window and almost crashed through to the street below. The financier took a blow to the face he didn’t feel and backhanded his attacker into a chest of drawers. He followed through with a punch that sent the man to the floor. One of the men scrambled for the door. He had recovered his pistol, or never lost it in the scuffle. He turned and started shooting into the room as he ran to the steps. The obvious plan was to run down the stairs and out the front door. He never expected a crazy man to jump the railing and fall down on him while he was shooting. Then they both rolled down to the third floor. A purple gloved fist ended the fight with two punches. Flanagan got to his feet. He ran up the stairs to the fourth floor. How many of the assassins were still ready to fight? He ran to his bedroom door. He turned on the light. The room was wrecked. He shook his head as he grabbed one man still trying to fight his way to an escape and slammed his face into the wall. The armor had worked better than he had thought it would. He checked it quickly. Several slugs had hit his outer tunic and flattened against the covering. He had barely felt the impacts in the struggle. He started tying the men up with strips torn from his sheets and searching them. The police could pick them up as soon as he was done. He went to the man in the stairwell and dragged him back to the bedroom. He tied him up with the rest. Flanagan looked at the wallets and slips of paper he had tossed on his end table. He went through them, taking any money he found. He paused in his examination of the slips of paper on the end table. It had two addresses on it. One was his townhouse. The other was one he had heard but never seen. Where had he heard it? He realized it was Miss Rich’s place. Had these goons hurt her? If they had, he wouldn’t be calling the police for a long time. He slapped one of the men awake. The gunman struggled against his bonds. He punched the man in the face to get him to pay attention. “This address,” said Flanagan. “Where did you get it?” “What does it matter to you?,” spat the captive. “I’m going to count to five, then I am going to throw you out the window,” said Flanagan. “Then I am going to talk to one of your friends next. Where did you get the address?” “Screw you,” said the man. Flanagan hefted him up and carried him to the cracked window. He started counting. “What are you doing?,” asked the man. His face pushed against the cracked insets of the window. “Where did you get the address?,” asked Flanagan, pausing his count. He pushed the man into the window. “Otherwise, you get to fly.” “The guy who hired us gave us the address,” said the man. “A crew is already over there.” “Were they supposed to kill her?,” asked Flanagan. If the answer was yes, he was going to get revenge the moment after. “No,” said the gunman. “They’re just supposed to hold her until after the meeting that’s going to be called. After that, it won’t matter.” “You just saved your life,” said Flanagan. “I’m going to call her. Then the police. If something has happened to her, I know who all of you are. I’ll find you and make your life hell.” He looked at where the phone should be by his bed. He didn’t see it. He looked around. It rested on the floor. He picked it up and asked the operator to connect him to the phone number for Miss Rich’s place. He waited, but there was no ringing tone. He called the police and asked that someone be sent over to pick up the five men he had captured. He told the man on duty he didn’t know where the owner was, but doubted he had wanted his bedroom shot up. He put the phone down. “I’m going over there,” said Flanagan. He picked up one of the pistols and stuck it in his belt. “If something has happened to Miss Rich, I will make you sorry.” Flanagan left the room. He knew he was too late if the two groups had struck at the same time. Maybe there was a clue waiting there for him. He headed downstairs and found the car his attackers had arrived in. He got in, tossing his shield in the back seat. He pulled away from the curb and headed for Miss Rich’s apartment. What meeting would have been called with both of them out of the way? He thought about it as he drove. //218403

This is what I got so far. Location: Washington DCHeroes: The Fighting American, The Guardian, OMACVillain: 1Options: Ariel, The GPA, Dan Turpin So I need three heroes and a villain. Rounding out the rest of my roster I'm grabbing Captain Glory, Silver Star, and Bombast I'm going to use The Manhunters as my villains. CES

The Elevator. This was the basis for a mail campaign I ran for a few years. I had an elevator that went to different Earths and related dimensions. The top five floors was occupied by a hotel where floor 2 was a hotel and diner, floor 3 was a museum. floor 4 was an armory, and floor 5 was a vehicle/mech store. The other 95 floors were the various dimensions. CES

The Shield 1940- 7 Flanagan walked his townhouse. He nodded at the security guard at the door dressed as a waiter. He had decided on his scheme after five minutes of thought. It had taken him a week to put things in motion. Most of that time, he had spent at the lab. He put together a lightweight suit of armor. He had boxed the armor up and brought it home to his townhouse. It sat in the closet upstairs. He planned to put it on after he had dismissed his guests. He had issued invitations to a bunch of people across the business scene in the tristate area. Rydell and Rutherford were on the list. Courtland wasn’t, but the man had shown up. Westwood had been alerted so he could find out who Courtland had ridden with so they could add that to the list of things they knew. He walked into the miniature ballroom. It stood full of suits and dresses filled by people he barely knew. He noted the presence of guards dressed as waiters moving through the room. Miss Rich stood to one side with Mr. Coutri. Neither looked happy to be in attendance. “What do you think?,” asked Flanagan, as he joined them. “I know most of the lawyers in this room, and only like two, or three, of them,” said Coutri. He sipped from a snifter in his hand. “Miss Rich?,” said Flanagan. “We should have held this somewhere else,” Miss Rich said. “It’s like looking at a can of sardines in nice clothes.” “It’s fine,” said Flanagan. “It narrows our suspect list to the people in this room and their staffs.” “Not really,” said Coutri. “But it does narrow it down from the entire tristate area. We need something physical to narrow it down to someone in this room.” “I’m hoping to narrow it down to one person before the night is over if Mr. Westwood’s detectives are as good as they think they are,” said Flanagan. “I think the dinner is almost ready. We have to get these people outside.” “I think that’s your job, sir,” said Miss Rich. “All right,” said Flanagan. “Don’t call me sir.” “Everybody!,” said Flanagan. He clapped his hands to get the crowd’s attention. “Dinner will be served outside in the back yard. Please follow me, and we’ll get you set up.” He led the way down the central hall of his townhouse to the back door. He opened it, and stepped outside. The party goers followed, drinks in hand. Flanagan glanced at the caterers. They seemed ready to take care of things. The detectives stood out against the regular wait staff. He hoped they didn’t spook whomever wanted him dead. After all, the whole point of the party was to set the bait for the trap. As long as he was at his office, or his lab, it was going to be hard to get at him. But his townhouse was in the city, surrounded by other townhouses, and anybody could scale the low stone wall that surrounded his back yard. And three of the people he didn’t trust knew he was going to be there all night after the party. He wondered how long he had before someone showed up to kill him. He checked his watch. He figured the party would start breaking up about ten, maybe eleven. The caterers had to clean up. Westwood’s men would have to take up position to watch the outside of the house and then stop anyone trying to leave. He figured the killer would try after midnight. His armor waited on him upstairs. He had timed himself and practiced. He could pull it on in two minutes. As soon as he had seen everyone off the property, he would go upstairs, put on his armor, and wait. If they came for him in the limited window he had opened, he would be able to shrug off most normal impacts and defend himself until the detectives took action. He had to hide the armor before they saw it. He didn’t want people knowing he had it before he was ready to start selling it to the highest bidder. He was still working on ways to mass produce the suit. If it got him through the night, it had more than earned a successful rating from him. Flanagan moved through the crowd as they found seats at the tables brought in for them. He planned to eat his dinner in the kitchen, but he wanted them to think he was thinking of them. It was his first party, and he couldn’t wait to clear these virtual strangers off his property so he could move to the next phase of his plan. After making sure everyone was happy, and the food was moving, he retired to the kitchen. He leaned against the counter holding the sink and watched the backyard through his window. He hoped his plan went off without a hitch. He could see these people expecting him to show up for their garden parties after everything was settled. He didn’t plan to do that. At least the caterers hadn’t been infiltrated. The last thing he needed was his party turning into a blood bath. He noticed Courtland had taken a seat by Rydell. Rutherford sat two tables over. Westwood sat in a spot where he could watch all three. Small talk seemed to rule the evening. That was fine. Flanagan grabbed a plate and went through the prepared food, grabbing what looked good with tongs, or a fork. He poured a glass of milk to drink with his food. He seemed to be the only teetotaler at this shindig. He should have expected that. He hoped he didn’t have to pour the bunch of them into cabs by the end of this. “It looks like everything is going smoothly,” said Billy Berra, the owner of the catering service. He was gray haired, thin, and had a jaw that would make a nutcracker proud. He wore the same white jacket, white shirt, black pants, bow tie, as his employees. “I think so,” said Flanagan. “Your guys have done a good job.” “The extra help you rounded up made everything easier,” said Berra. “They’re a little brusque but they seemed to have been able to keep things rolling smoother than I would have thought.” “Smoother than I thought too,” said Flanagan. “This is pretty good.” “Just some chicken, some steak, some seasoning, and some sauce mixed together,” said Berra. “The vegetables are mostly greens with potatoes and corn mixed in with it.” “No cordon bleu?,” asked Flanagan. “That’s just chicken with blue cheese,” said Berra. “I like to make food with some flavor in it.” “It does have that,” said Flanagan. He took another bite and chewed. “If I ever need a personal chef, I will call you first.” “I own a restaurant you can eat at any time you want,” said Berra. He shook his head. “Come by and I’ll fix you my recipe for an omelette.” “That would be swell,” said Flanagan. “I’ll come by one day for that.” Berra saw one of his employees doing something, and left the kitchen to talk to the waiter. Flanagan finished his plate, loaded it again, and ate that while watching his back yard. He spotted Miss Rich sitting in a group next to the house. She looked uncomfortable. He put the dirty plate down next to the sink. He stepped outside and walked over to Miss Rich’s table. “Ladies,” Flanagan said. “Do you mind if Miss Rich and I talk for a bit.” “Go ahead,” said Mrs. Kiel. Rumor stated that she had conducted the trade with the Indians for the island, and remained after everyone else was dead. She waved her hand for them to go. “You’ve done a good job with this,” said Flanagan. He led her away from the crowd. “Thanks.” “The caterers handled everything for me,” said Miss Rich. “All I had to do was give them the order, and the money from the discretionary fund. I have already filed copies of the receipts and sent the originals to accounting.” “You’ve done a good job,” said Flanagan. “What do you think of the guests?” “Some of them are very sharp,” said Miss Rich. “Some of them are very stupid. Some of them mix it up in ways I am not sure how they were able to make money in the first place.” “They inherited it,” said Flanagan. “If something happens to me, Coutri has some paperwork for you to sign. I just wanted you to know so you wouldn’t be surprised.” “Paperwork?,” said Miss Rich. “Yes,” said Flanagan. “He’ll go over it with you if it becomes necessary. I’m hoping it isn’t necessary.” “All right,” said Miss Rich. “Nothing will happen. You have all these men around you.” “I also have one man standing outside your door,” said Flanagan. “When this over, it will be back to business as usual. Until then, I want you to be as safe as possible.” “Why would they come after me,” said Miss Rich. “I’m just a secretary.” “You also know everything about the company from how many paper clips we buy, to how much material we ship from one port to another,” said Flanagan. “If you were to disappear, the company would flounder until we moved someone into your spot who is as good as you are, if such a person exists.” “There’s some,” said Miss Rich. “I know one girl who covers the accounting department.” “Put her on your list of replacements if you keep one,” said Flanagan. “But I am going to try to make sure that isn’t required.” “Thank you,” said Miss Rich. “I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. We still have that meeting with the people from the government.” “I’ll be there,” said Flanagan. “The contracts look good, and it’s things we can easily handle.” “This has been a weird experience,” said Miss Rich. “Thank you for inviting me.” “I didn’t invite you,” said Flanagan. “I ordered you to put things together, and you did with great efficiency. I couldn’t have got all these stuffed shirts here myself.” “I noticed you were avoiding talking to them,” said Miss Rich. “That’s another reason I ordered you to put things together,” said Flanagan. “None of them would have believed it if I had sent the invites myself.” “I can see that,” said Miss Rich. “Now, we’re going to say goodbye to our guests as they leave,” said Flanagan, checking his watch. “Then I will put you in a cab to take you home. Lock up when you get there. You’re the linchpin to the company, and even with a guard, I want you to be careful.” “If something happened to me, what would you do?,” said Miss Rich. “I don’t know,” said Flanagan. “If it was because of a person, I would hunt him or her down and eat their liver. Anything else, I would probably have to join a monastery and reflect on the conditions of life.” “Really?,” said Miss Rich. “No exceptions for the liver either,” said Flanagan. “Thank you,” said Miss Rich. “I will hold on to that statement until my dying day.” “So we have to shake hands, and say goodbye,” said Flanagan. “How hard can that be?” “That nice old lady I was talking to thought we’re in a relationship,” said Miss Rich. “Really?,” said Flanagan. “What kind?” “Getting ready to be married,” said Miss Rich. “I don’t think I would make a great husband, Miss Rich,” said Flanagan. “You could do better.” “I seriously doubt that, sir,” said Miss Rich. “Every uncommitted woman, and some of the committed ones, outside would throw themselves at your feet. I guarantee it.” “They would be throwing themselves at someone who doesn’t have time for them,” said Flanagan. “Exactly,” said Miss Rich. “But they don’t know that. They just see the millionaire financier entrepreneur who owns parts of five states and will give them anything they want.” “Really?,” said Flanagan. “What do you think? Would I make a great catch?” “If the woman didn’t mind sitting at home waiting for you,” said Miss Rich. “Otherwise, no.” “That is sharp,” said Flanagan. He smiled to say he didn’t take offense. He liked his work more than he liked people. He could live with that. “It is better the truth come out now before you let some gold digger get her claws into you and ruin your name and fortune,” said Miss Rich. “That will never happen as long as I have you,” said Flanagan. Miss Rich blushed. The guests filed down the hall as they finished their talk and food. Flanagan and Miss Rich shook their hands and let them out the front door to the street. Cabs and chauffeur driven private cars were summoned to carry them away. “I still want to buy your company,” said Courtland when his turn came up. “I can’t sell it to you,” said Flanagan. “I’m in the middle of an internal investigation. Have a good night.” “Internal investigation?,” said Courtland. Internal investigation?, mouthed Miss Rich silently. “Someone tried to have me killed,” said Flanagan. “The thought is that it was someone in the company. We’re going to root him out and turn him over to the police.” “Good luck,” said Courtland. “I was wondering who gave you my private number to the lab,” said Flanagan. “I think I got it from your secretary,” he said. “I’ll have to talk to her about that,” said Flanagan. “Have a good night.” “Good night, Flanagan,” said Courtland. He stepped out on the stoop, walked the eight steps to the sidewalk, turned right, and started walking down the block. “I did not give him the lab number,” said Miss Rich in a low whisper. She looked furious at the claim. “Rydell gave him the number,” said Flanagan. “How do you know that?,” asked Miss Rich. “It’s obvious they’re old friends,” said Flanagan. He smiled at the next guest leaving and ushered them out. //216401/

I would like to option the GPA and pick OMAC as my third hero CES

I have been reading a lot of books and havent been keeping track. I think Kill for Me by Tom Wood is the last non sci fi/ fantasy book I read. Victor is hired to settle a cartel war. Neither side is happy with how the assassin takes care of his business CES

i would like to option Brooklyn Dan Turpin CES

I would like to option Ariel from Thundarr the Barbarian CES