As anyone who's familiar with That Horizon will tell you, I'm not one to bother too much with researching for a fanfiction. I've done my best to be accurate here, and I did spend a little extra time, but I have no doubt that I've screwed something up. Um.. I suppose I started this story after reading a slew of Chicago fanfictions on this site; though I have nothing against the apparent mass of Velma/Roxie fans, it was becoming a little tedious. I decided that our "greasy Mick lawyer" deserved a chance. I don't believe I have the energy required to create any sort of back story for the guy, but.. Something might show up; the most loathsome characters are usually the most fun. Presently, I'm thinking that this will cover a period slightly before, during, and after the film. Enjoy. =)
Concerning the date: The trials that the film was based upon took place in 1923. Chicago, though, seems to take place sometime during the late '20's. Roxie moved to Chicago in 1920 and had been married to Amos for seven years. Therefore, I suspect that the film is set in '27 or possibly even later. We'll stick with that for now. =P
Disclaimer: Chicago, Billy Flynn, Roxie Hart, Velma Kelly, and any other recognizable characters are in no way connected with me, and I assure you that I am not making a profit from them.
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Ringmaster
"It's all a circus. A three-ring circus." ~ Billy Flynn
Chapter One - "Billy Flynn"
Chicago, 1927
Nowadays, morality is a joke. Chicago housed a fathomless number of addicts, bootleggers, homicides, and charlatans. Flynn was arguably worse. He thrived on the turmoil of his society; he cheated, plundered and raped it; he would have stooped low enough for his nose to scrape the floor for a buck, for chrissakes. He was not dirty, though. Lord no; the old shyster was not a dirty cheat nor a dirty liar. Billy Flynn preferred a spotless exterior.
In a period where vice ruled, crime had become the hottest form of entertainment. The filthy murderers and petty thieves born of that hellhole were hoisted, as heroes, onto shoulders of the city. A capable attorney could fare well; very well. Should he prove exceptional, however, was another matter. In the Chicago of 1927, an exceptional practitioner of the law could run the circus. Yeah, Billy Flynn was just like that.
A "good year?" he chuckled, striking a match. The biggest goddamned understatement of the century. A smug grin pulled at the corners of his lips as two well-manicured fingers delicately plucked the cigar from between them. "Yessir," he exhaled, losing himself in a cloud of dusty gray. The rooftops shifted slowly back into view, glowing from beyond the window panes as the swirling curtain began to disperse. Replacing the Buck between his extraordinarily immaculate front teeth, Billy Flynn reclined contentedly into the cerulean satin, hands folding themselves lazily over the silver buttons queuing up his torso. Tilting his chin, the counselor issued a blank stare to the painting overhanging his decidedly untidy desk for a moment before allowing his eyelids to slip shut. Briefly, his thoughts took an oddly introspective turn.
Yes; it had been one hell of a "good year" for William C. Flynn, Attorney At Law. The work load he'd picked up in the last twelve months was staggering; he could count the idle minutes on the fingers of one hand. Sharkish, dark irises peered out from half-cracked eyelids as his chin rested thoughtfully against his breastbone. As far as Billy Flynn was concerned, stagnation was sinful; and he was no sinner; the lady felons of Chicago were seeing to that. He shifted, rolling his shoulders and arching his neck into the chair back. With a satisfying crack, Billy settled back into the stillness.
The buzz of the telephone cut through the web of lethargy that the loathsome inaction had begun to weave. Brushing his fingers up the rough hollow of his jaw, he swiveled the chair around. Billy stared at his desk momentarily, searching out the 'phone. When it pealed again, he set upon the substantial mound of clutter littering the surface of his work space, muttering incoherently. He managed to locate the telephone beneath a stack of the previous week's Trib. Sweeping the papers aside, he quickly snatched up the receiver and held it to is ear before the goddamned device could utter another sound.
"Yes?" He inquired around the cigar.
"Mr. Flynn? There's a Miss-" a pause, "Morton on the line for you."
"Put her through." Billy's free hand reached up to massage his temple. Shortly, the matron's voice crackled over the line.
"I've got another one for you." No surprise. He shook his head with a grin, reaching to put out his cigar.
"That Kelly dame?"
"Velma Kelly. That's the one. You saw the papers?"
"Mm-hm. If she has the money," he glanced at his watch, "I can be right over."
"She's got the money, Mr. Flynn. Trust me." The line went dead. For the record, I don't. He dropped the receiver into its cradle, turning to face one of the two windows. The early evening sun was just beginning its descent. Plucking his jacket from where it lay draped over the chair's back, he pivoted towards the door, exiting the office.
"I'm going out, Nancy. Call for my car, hold my messages." Having settled the overcoat across his shoulders, he reached for his hat and gloves.
"Of course, Mr. Flynn." His secretary did not look up from her desk, merely offering him a distracted wave and picking up the telephone. Pulling the felt brim over his eyes, Billy Flynn ventured into the December chill.
To tell the truth, I don't have any definate plans for this story. I'm going to get through it chapter by chapter and see where it takes me. Reviewing will make me happy. Do it. =)