It was too new to say with certainty that these are the way things are done.

There had always been flickers, silent films - warehouses and small studios in New York, Jersey, and London. But no one really thought of it as real acting. If you wanted to see something transformative, 'real' - in the most superficial understanding of the word - there was the theater. But the rich and privileged had long captured that flag and guarded it with their very lives. Much like paintings, ballet, and the opera, stage productions were for those with money. The egalitarian Shakespeare whose quilled pen scrolled for the masses co-opted for the table scrap prestige of their elitist patrons – actors and actresses risen up from being associated with prostitutes to being considered 'artists' with an accent mark. There, theaters and playhouses turned into gentlemen and country club affairs, their performers pretentious and self-aggrandizing. There was nothing worse than a theater actor. And for one of any talent, many believed they walked as gods on earth because there was no way they'd meet the real one … fore it would blow their overly large head to realize that they weren't him.

For everyone else that poured the milk in the china first, there was the flickers.

Most people were sorry to see the nickelodeons go with the times. There was always fond memory of the horse tricks and clowns, the Wild-West Show in the final days of those wild and restless times. But most people were delighted, entranced, when they first saw that moving picture, the capture through rapid photography of their favorite acts and routines kept alive, pristine, and forever young whenever they heard the loud ticker of the film stock projected on a flat surface in a dark room.

Like the nickelodeons, it started with comedies. Pay five cents to get a chuckle, a laugh, to escape from the troubles of the world that these hard-working people of the lower classes grinded through day after day. Cinema, movie making, it started with them, the steel workers, the farmers, the cowboys, and the maids. It became a tradition, an escape. They would gather the family to go see the flickers. No different or worse than the toffs, the rich, that put-on jewels and tails to go see something out at the "Old Vic" in London, down Broadway in New York.

But like all thing that are kept in exclusivity, out of reach of the masses, it dies in obscurity. And no matter how many rich assholes and pretentious theater snobs tell you that the stage is purer and true, Desdemona and Othello couldn't hold a candle to Buster Keaton and the "Keystone Cops". The mass market appeal of the flicker business began to boom. Even the silent films, with taxing need of an actual band or orchestra to play at the foot of the screen – a narrator to read to those in the audience that never learned. But then, when they added audio, when for the first time someone actually talked on screen … it started raining money.

That was when everyone wanted in.

Manufacturers, steel companies, and tin factories, all opened their own film divisions. Soon the entire business was saturated with movies and serials, propaganda and advertisements. And they all came to shoot on the lots, make deals with the studios that owned the equipment and the sets. With the flicker business in boom, there wasn't a major company in both the American Republic and the British Imperium that wasn't shooting something, wasn't putting their name on screen. A thirty chapter "Little Orphan Annie" serial that premieres every Saturday morning before College Football, every episode ending with her drinking some milk product and looking into the camera to say how yummy it was. Walt Disney was turning out cartoons by the dozen, making a fortune with that mouse of his in suspenders and a perpetually pissed off duck in a goddamn sailor's uniform.

However, what started out as an avenue for comedy, for escapism, as told by Charlie Chaplin and funny animal cartoons, had been hijacked by the same people that turned drama into being synonymous with veal and cabernet. The market overrun with high financed and artistically shot experiments with crying actresses, smooth talking men, and old theater actors that chew up every scene they're in. Their voices having nearly blown out the audio when no one tells them that they don't need to shout for the people in the back … that is what the speakers are for. It took time for the dramas to get popular, but since "The Gambler" in 1928, there had become a balanced appetite from the public for both smiles and tears.

Yet, despite all that recent history, the movie business was still in the early stages, the beginning years. It stood on the precipice of an unknown future of which no one was quite sure what would become of it. Would this boom last in the middle of the world-wide depression? It seemed now that every premiere was quickly becoming either feast or famine. A movie would make back its budget in a week or a studio would lose the profits for an entire quarter. Everyone was looking for a way out of these hard times.

The despair in the streets, in the dust storms swallowing the Plains whole, and the violence between workers and detectives in the deep dark hills of Kentucky. And it seemed that everyone, companies, investors, and the poor, saw the Los Angeles city limits sign as literal – a city of angels. Just eight years prior all of this was a dusty little farm town between an ocean and the mountains, a place of large agriculture and land titles with Spanish names and a King's signature. Then, W.C. Fields came here in the late 20's to start making his comedies on the cheap. No one knew that it was the small stones that would create an avalanche of imitators and competition.

There was some, like "Brady-American Pictures", that put out two or three major films a year, renting their studio lot out to other production companies for a fee and a cut. Or there was the independent movie maker like Howard Hughes, who put millions into a revolutionary picture like "Hell's Angels" or "Scarface" that were put out whenever the genius boy-billionaire felt like it. Then, there was "MGM" that was in perpetual motion, making four, five, six, movies at a time, cutting corners, underpaying, and maximizing assets with methadone injections that kept an actress going on an hour sleep and diet of cigarettes and coffee. It was that way with most of the studios. The Depression had created an appetite from the public for escapism and there wasn't a money man nor bean counter in any East Coast Bank the survived the crash not willing to honor a loan that could be paid back within four months with interest. And by the seventh year of the 'slump' many of the studios, "Warner Brothers", "RKO", and "Universal" had boomeranged movie making from an 'art form' of the late-20's back into a factory process …

And factories needed hiring men as much as they needed the foremen.

Young and exotic was what Victor Brooks was told that Mayer was looking for. He had Bess Burrows on the mind for the role in his next movie – and his bed . Yet, Pat Brady of "Brady-American" wasn't about to lend out his best girl - not with Minna Davis dead and the studio's finances stuck in the quagmire of "The Bells of Boston" reshoots. It was the opening that Brooks had in mind to get into the screen agent game. After years of working in publicity, he was tired of the monotonous of the studio system. Everyday being "The People" that called someone else's "People". Looking over interview questions by the "Hollywood Reporter" or rejecting requests for a Carol Lombard interview with some obscure alternative entertainment magazine in San Francisco.

It was a good salaried job, and he had friends in high places. Years of accompanying actors – A-listers and playboys – on movie tours had ensured some excellent times and owed favors by helping avert and cover up disasters. Narcotics, alcohol, passed out young girls and naked younger boys in beds and balconies, averted overdoses, and all the other trappings of god-like movie stars that forgot what it was to be normal. But all the same, it was still a desk job. It was still calling reporters, telling them to change this question, reminding them that the studio already has a statement about such and that. To think, nine years ago, it was a risk coming up here from New York. Now, Hollywood was booming, everyone was looking for an in, and he was handcuffed to a desk. It seemed to the man, now in his mid-forties, that everything was finally popping off, yet, he wasn't going anywhere.

Then, he gets a call.

"The Kid" – David Marsters – had gotten the job at "MGM". He had been a radio actor, child star - doing those god-awful Ovaltine shorts back in the early 20s. David had been his first charge, 'Just look after the kid, right?' they had ordered. And he did just that … for a good decade. However, one night - and an abusive husband later - his mother took all David's savings and decided to open up her own theater in Albuquerque and took the kid with her. He wasn't going anywhere in radio, she had said. Perhaps stage acting was where he would get his real start. In hindsight, maybe Vic should've gone with her. Because, some fifteen years later, "The Kid" was working as head of publicity at "MGM" and he was the one giving Brooks the curtesy call, asking for a favor.

They got a bit of a, uh … 'Hollywood Problem' down at the lot. You know how these things go. Chemistry readings, screen tests, rehearsals, and maybe if the two leads go into the trailer and 'hump it out' they'll connect the way the director wants them too. Well, unfortunately, the two leads did connect, a lot … in fact, they didn't stop. And now, let's just say, one of them is part of a studio contrived power couple and the other is in 'delicate condition' with a movie scheduled for three months and an audience bound to notice a few things – particularly a fairly swollen belly. These things happen all the time, they told her. That they'll make an appoint in Beverley Hills, they assured her. Down the line she'll have 'real' children of her own, they laughed.

However, no one was laughing now, not when the lead actress hadn't been seen for a few weeks. The private nurse reporting to the Studio Security bricks that she fled from the 'clinic' at Beverley Hills without having the 'procedure' done. Now, officially, MGM couldn't do anything about that. By law, she wasn't even supposed to step foot in one of 'those' clinics. But the machine stops for no man … and certainly no woman. Especially when this girl, in particular, ain't exactly a nun - a 'present' – with all the fixings - at Mayer's last Christmas party to his more successful producers. So, they needed a man of discretion and a deft hand for handling these sorts of things quietly and delicately, and Marsters couldn't think of anyone more qualified than his old pal Vic Brooks.

And listen! The boys down at Central Casting were stumped. Louis B. Mayer wanted Bess Burrows for his newest movie, but Pat Brady wasn't going to give her up. So now that they were down an actress and not getting the one that Mayer wanted. It was all hands-on deck out there. They needed a fresh face, someone to wipe away the nastiness of the, uh, current situation. Maybe Brooks knows someone, got a lead on a new girl that he could bring in, get his foot in the door in that agent business he's always talking about. Most of all, Vic Brooks relished - nearly got a hard on - at the final hook in "The Kid's" lowered private tone - looking about his corner office on the studio lot.

'Look, Vic, you come through on this … and I'll owe you, we'll owe you. Yeah?'

And when the King of Hollywood – Louis B. Mayer – owes you … the sky is the limit.

Phoebe Holt was his ticket to stardom, to success. One couldn't say what 'exotic' meant these days, but he had hoped that Australian was good enough. She had worked part time as the tour guide at the studio, the other part of her day was spent at auditions. She was an animation model for Walt Disney, who was hoping to break into features – though only "RKO" was listening. She was also "Third Girl at the Party" in the latest Hitchcock picture, "Schoolmate Friend" in a Universal romantic comedy flop, and her crowning achievement as "Duke's Daughter" in the last Minna Davis picture that Brady-American was putting out next month. And to think, out in Sydney, she was the lead in three separate features – all bought and produced by her father. It was a cautionary tale for all the dreamers out there, that even an Australian star with all her daddy's money wasn't going to break through in Hollywood. It wasn't what you do, but who you know, in this town. And lucky for Phoebe Holt, she knew Victor Brooks.

They hadn't slept together … yet - despite having given him the occasional oral sex during their lunch break for leads on casting notices that he heard down the grapevine from the office talk. She seemed a nice enough girl - empty-headed, really didn't think about the things she believed in, but spoke passionately in support of … whatever was popular to believe at the time. Which is exactly what both publicists and future asshole husbands look for in a dame. Of course, it went without saying that she was beautiful, with her nutbrown curls, pale skin, and grey eyes. But, then, everyone was beautiful, at least pretty, in this business. Though, Vic Brooks could say that there was a much bigger call for 'homely' gals these days. Some folds, a toucan nose, hammerhead eyes, could get you a good deal further than a beautiful face, especially with the push into Science Fiction with the success of Republic's new pulp-based serials.

As to why he chose the Australian bombshell seemed to speak more to experience of knowing what makes a movie-star in this town. Vapid, self-centered, a ditto to fashionable politics, major daddy-issues, and fun at a party – drinking like a sailor. She had the look of an ingénue but had enough issues with a absent father that it made her incredibly loose both with her legs and morals. Let's just say that Vic wasn't the only one that she was 'pumping for information' at lunch. He even saw Gretchen – the office spinster – lead the girl around the back. And when he saw Ms. Sydney lifting her skirt up and leaning back against the wall behind the garbage cans while Gretchen crouched in front, he knew Phoebe was ripe for stardom. She would do anything to get a few more lines on screen, and fuck whoever she had too, whoever Victor Brooks told her too, in order to get her name on a marquee. And when the princess of the marsupials eventually got what she wanted; he'd be collecting a percentage – enough to buy a beach house in Laguna.

Three flights of tiled stairs to the second floor of an apartment complex of California Spanish architecture near a park with a fountain was not entirely a well-trod path for beautiful young things. The occasional co-worker in the secretarial pool, a dark-skinned girl who asks for money when the deed is done, that was the usual foot traffic. It took several months of being out of pocket before the publicist worked out that some of the girls weren't asking for money because they needed cab fare and thought he was a swell guy. But Vic thought that tonight was gonna be a swell enough going away party. Louis Mayer owed him a favor, he got the perfect combination of ingenue and moral abyss, and a spot waiting for them on the MGM lot. Why not give the old place a good going over on the way out the door?

However, he should've known that something wasn't right from the moment that he opened it.

There was a look of annoyance on the pristine face of the Australian actress as her older cohort flipped the light switches on and off. She knew as much as him that she had the job, that she was going to be Mayer's new girl. Brooks hadn't promised her anything, but if she thoroughly convinced him tonight then it would be all hers. It was just a dance; one she had done many times. But that didn't mean that she was amused when Victor Brooks cursed under his breath, flicking the switch, not understanding why the apartment was still dark. The older man only gave the softest of nervous laughs as he turned over his shoulder to look at the contemptuous eyes of the beauty cast in blue desaturation, her ruby lipstick black in the dark.

He told her that there must be a power outage in the neighborhood. It was the best he could come up with, sensing daddy's little princess perhaps thinking that he hadn't paid his electric bill, or otherwise that this was some sort of set-up. The idea of Louis B. Mayer owing anyone a favor seemed far-fetched as it was. But she'd lose her mind if she was taken in again by some schlub who was offering parts, ways in, only to fuck her – both literally and figuratively. If they didn't want to fuck her brains out, then they wanted her daddy's money – sometimes both. All she knew was that if Vic tries to propose to her over a few blowjobs and laughing at his corny jokes … she was gonna kill him.

"Uh, give me a moment …" He said hesitantly. "I'll see if I can't dig out some candles, huh?" He tried to make it sound like it was all part of the plan, the setting of the atmosphere. But she rolled her eyes, closing the door, as she heard his unsettled string of fucks under his breath as he awkwardly rushed into the dark apartment with a hurried bowl legged prance akin to a dancing leprechaun.

With a sigh, the woman removed her dark overcoat, the silver hue of the evening shined off the silken material of her top. There was an annoyed and angry grunt of frustration as she looked about. There was a reflective glare on the glass of framed movie posters signed by the casts from the productions that Victor Brooks had worked publicity on. She saw a collection of box cereals sitting in the center of a cheap dining table that had an unwashed bowl atop of it. She paced over to a leather sofa and dropped her coat and bag. Looking at the dusty coffee table filled with magazines … a few with illustrated covers of damsels in their lingerie.

There was a soft defeated moan and growled grunt of disbelief. Whether she was about to be the luckiest girl in the world or get played for a sucker once more, she just wanted to get the whole thing over with. So, after checking her watch and giving an impatient tap of her toe, the woman reached down and simply removed her silk blouse to reveal a salmon pink satin bra. She was resigned to give a jump start to the evening and get ahead on the brass tacks in pillow talk – the best place to do business she had found. However, as she was in the middle of removing her skirt, the cold light shimmering off her matching knickers, she became incredibly still in fear.

Fore a soft hand with an iron grip suddenly snatched her by her pale throat.

Victor Brooks couldn't remember if he had any candles. It seemed absurd; he was nearly a man grown when his family had first gotten electricity. To think, it used to give him and his mother headaches. Now, thirty years later, he didn't even buy candles anymore. What a strange century they were living in. For thousands of years people lived by candlelight when the evening rolled around. Yet, in a short forty years, there were some people that didn't even buy them anymore. Perhaps it was a parable for working in the entertainment business. He might even use that in conversation - if he could find a way to make the analogy fit. But for now, he was too anxious to workshop new material.

"You know!" He called out to the living room from the kitchenette in the back by his bedroom. "Maybe this is better, huh?" He called confidently. "A couple of shots in the dark that hit their mark, yeah?" He liked that one.

She didn't respond.

There was a long private sigh from the publicist – he thought that was good.

Oh well, he wasn't exactly romancing her. This was an amical business deal. He fucks her, she signs the dotted line, he sells her, and they both get filthy rich – not that she needs the money. Can she act? Can she emote? Would she ever get that accent fixed or would she always sound like an English woman who got hit in the head with a brick when she was a kid? Those were questions for a later time. That was a problem for future them, for the boys down at MGM Central Casting and Publicity. He did his part, did the dirty work for the Kid and Mayer - near goddamn pro-bono for what they were asking. The least they could do was give the 'Outback Queen' a feature to see what she could do with it. Whether she sinks or swims, that kind of exposure was sure to drum up willing clients. There were always more buses and trains coming from all over the world to break in. And Victor Brooks just might have the keys for them when they get here … for a price.

Suddenly, with a buzz and whirr, the lights came on.

"Oh, thank Christ!" He sighed in relief. "So, what do you say, care to celebrate?!" He called over.

She still didn't respond.

It made him frown as he opened the cabinet above the coffee maker next to the mugs and plates. There, within, was a few bottles of wine … and something else. With a glare of puzzlement, he saw that there was returned a bottle that shouldn't be there anymore. As he stared, he was thoroughly confused by what he saw. Attached to the familiar bottle of wine was a white note that said "Open Me" tied by a satin red ribbon. For just a beat, his blood went cold. He recognized the handwriting, the note, the method of delivery. It was … it was … his own writing, his own gift to Hannah Banks – the favor for Mayer that was supposed to get him into a higher tax bracket. With a shaky hand the man yanked free the note. He could smell Brian Jordan's thousand-dollar cologne wafting off the paper as shaky hands opened the note that he had written to the starlet this morning.

The Usual Place … Come Alone!

His head twitched just a moment to the side to look over his shoulder when he felt a looming presence behind him.

KRISH!

Someone flew at him; their hand grabbing his sweeping side part of dark hair and slammed his head into the cabinet. The sound of shattering and breaking plates echoed shrilly into the apartment as his face was given a single hammer stroke through the duel shelves of the overhead compartment. His forehead and nose broke the wooden boards, causing wine bottles to shatter against the ceramic plates and mugs. When his face was lifted up, it was soaked red and purple from blood of a broken nose and cut face that was mixed with wine. With a heave of incredible strength, the publicist was thrown off his feet and onto the linoleum floor of the kitchenette. There, he gasped, blood and wine flowing down his throat. His nostrils clogged by saw dust and insulation. With a panicked flail, he turned himself over and looked up at the tall and dark looming figure above him.

Of his face he could not see, he stood in the shadows, in the blind spot between makeshift dining room and kitchenette where there was no lighting. What he could make out was a head of grown out locks of waving raven curls that were perfectly tussled. He was white, though tanned from long exposure to the sun in hot and arid places. He wore a peacoat of beaten mahogany leather with the collar done up in the back. Underneath was a well-worn white button-down shirt that was half undone to reveal a lived-in and soft cobalt Henley shirt of dowdy cotton. He wore black trousers made of tough material that were tucked into muddy brown leather motorcycle boots taken from a Mexican Federales officer.

"Who the fuck are you?!" Brooks shouted with a nasally snort of blood and dust clogged nose. "What the fuck do you want?!" He asked in fearful panic.

He was answered immediately when the tall imposing figure strode forward and picked him up by the large lapel of his shouldered padded oversized sports jacket collar. He hoisted him back to his feet, then off them. He was brought so close to the dark avenger's face that he could feel the sting of his hot breath on his bloodied and wet face. In a rectangular strip of light, a single cerulean eye haunted by tragedy and hardened by atrocity was shown.

"Where is she?!" The dark and hateful monotone voice of demonic gravel stole the soul from the publicist.

"Who?" He asked, momentarily confused.

It wasn't the right answer.

His teeth chattered as a hand with an iron grip reached out and snatched him by the back of the neck like the angriest mama cat there ever was. He let out an uncomfortable hiss at the sensitive area that made him both ticklish and cagey when grabbed or touched. His shoulder's tensed and bunched at the vise of the cold hands. Yet, he didn't have time to worry about the childhood weak spot when he felt his entire body fold over. His face was slammed onto the kitchen counter. Something in his nose snapped and then popped – he knew immediately that the studio's medical plan wasn't going to cover whatever that was. But his thought was interrupted when he let out a pathetic gasping cry when he felt a fist strike his kidney like a hammer.

"Think real hard, shit-bird!" the shadowy figure threatened.

"Just take it …" He wheezed, shaking his head.

"What?!" the avenger snapped.

"Take what you want … it's yours." He sobbed.

That was equally a bad answer.

He let out a cry as the popping of joints accompanied Victor Brooks right arm being awkwardly pulled back behind him in a direction that arms weren't meant to go.

"You goddamn know why I'm here!" The voice snarled with the accompaniment of a crinkling of a twisting index finger joint. "Don't fuck with me, babysitter!" To put a point to his threat, the scream that Vic made was just under the sickening snap of one of his fingers.

"Okay! Okay!" The publicist heaved. "I got ya, pal! I got ya!" He spoke fast, feeling another finger being caught.

"Where is she?!"

"Wh –"

CRINQUEKLK

"AHHHAHA!"

"WHERE?!"

"I don't know! I … I don't knohohohow!"

Victor was still riding the wave of agony when his vision was consumed by a white piece of paper with his own handwriting on it. The message attached to the bottle, the bottle that had come from his own liquor cabinet. Now, all he could think was how stupid it was. A rare vintage, a gift from a wrap party, he should've known how easy it would be to track down. Even dumber to use it in hindsight when it was connected to the last production that Hannah had been a part of.

"Look, look …" He said to the dark figure. "Alright, I get it, alright, I get it!" He nodded. "But look, I'm telling you, I took care of it!" He begged.

"Took care of what?!" The figure asked.

"What, what Mayer wanted! Ya gotta trust me on this, alright!" He motioned to the note. "I'm on your side, we're on the same side!" He nodded.

"Are we?"

"Yes!" He half sobbed in pain. "He wanted the Hannah Banks pregnancy resolved! I told Marsters to give me a few days to resolve it! Alright, I took care of it! Just like I said I would, right?" The publicist pleaded to what he assumed was one of MGM's traffic goons sent by their head of security. "I'm telling you; the job is gonna be done tonight! You have my word!"

It was then, in his anxiety to be let go of the multiple painful positions that his appendages were being twisted, that he noticed something nearby on the counter. He saw a collection of steak cutting knives and a large metallic meat tenderizer. He had gotten them as a gift for a four-month tour through New York to Nantucket to promote some Western shot out in Santa Clarita. At the time, he thought a bonus would've been more fitting after that particular brand of Hell. But now, after being thoroughly convinced of his mission being accomplished, he thought he might rustle up a few steaks for Phoebe and him if the night went right. But, instead, they had gone to a fancy restaurant down on 'The Strip' and it must have slipped his mind to put the knives and tenderer away. He was in the middle of calculating just how close his free hand was to them when another finger was dislocated.

CRICQUECK!

"How?!" The shadowy figure interrogated.

"Jordon, alright! Brian Jordon, I went to that sleezy little fucking prick and asked him to help me out! I mean for fuck sake, he was the asshole who knocked up MGM's most popular starlet in the first place, and in the fucking make-up trailer! He called his dad, you know, that senator out in Massachusetts! He said that he was gonna send a guy from Washington down to help! We thought it was gonna be some crisis management prick for politicians, instead it turned out to be some nut-job! The guy was a freak, spouted all sorts of cult nonsense about 'child sacrifice' and pleasing "The Idol"! Said that Jordon had made an offering and he was there to collect! He had a weird get-up he put on, called himself …"

He moved his hand closer to the knives subtly but was distracted suddenly.

"Moloch?!"

CRIICCCKKK

"YEAH! Yeah, yeah, yeah! "Moloch"! That's what he called himself! He tracked Hannah down at Pico Towers, but the girl got herself in with that "Comet" guy and his butler! From what I heard the "Comet" and "Moloch" threw down last night and Hannah ran off with the butler. That's all I know!" He admitted, hand slowly sliding to the knives, hoping his tormentor didn't notice.

"The bottle of wine and the note?!"

CRICK -

"It was Jordan's plan! He freaked out when he saw "Moloch", didn't think that his old man would go that far! He said that he wanted to see Hannah, work things out! I just had to find her, okay! Send her a note. I figured that they had her stashed away somewhere in the "Comet" and Barrow's Detective office, so I sent over the bottle of wine, hoping she'd see it, recognize the vintage, smell Jordon's cologne and know it was from him! That's it, I swear! Tell Mayer that it's clean! That it's all taken care of!"

"WHY?!"

"Cause, "Moloch" is following Jordon! He was hiding out on the MGM backlot, saw Jordon leave. I told him that he was gonna go meet up with Hannah at -"

Suddenly, the publicist of twenty-five years, realized that he was running his mouth in an unsanctioned interview … with someone yet to name themselves or their intentions. It was also then that it occurred to him in a moment of clarity through pain and fear that there was only four people in the world that could have known about the bottle, the note, and Moloch. Two-time Academy Award nominated actress, Hannah Banks. The British dish working secretary at the Dicks' office. The just as Limey stately silver fox butler. And …

He went for the knife then, not out of anger or opportunism , but fear. It was a desperate fear felt all the way down in his guts. It was the fear of the stories told about this one – the last one on the list of candidates, the true nightmare scenario. His mind was not consumed by the kind of stories that Lady Edith Pelham publishes in her panty rag. No, he was terrified by the real ones. The kind that traffic guys trade on break, the kind you hear in the seedy haunts, and from those that ran across him by ill chance while trying to do their job – the application of 'Hollywood morals' that just didn't fly with him. Shattered bones, body casts, and … fates worse than death. There was a saying that was becoming popular in Hollywood. Not just among the gangsters, the pushers, and the low lives, but the rich and powerful, the studio heads and their security men. It goes something like this:

If you're stopped by a flatfoot, you might be crossing the street wrong. If you're confronted by a sheriff's deputy, your stickers might be out of date on your car. If the Sheriff stops you, he might just be looking for campaign donations. If some dicks from the DA Office knocks on your door, they might want to question you about what you know about your neighbor. Homicide comes a-calling, they want to know about the owner of the deli you frequent that just knocked off his wife. However, when HE appears, you know exactly what you did, what you deserve …

And what you're gonna get.

The knives rattled from the force of Vic's hand that desperately clutched the black handle. With a twist about, he gave a high slashing sweep of a stainless-steel blade found only in the most affluent Malibu kitchens. There was a cry of steely edge that slashed air and nothing more. With a smooth jerking motion, the avenger arched back, making the publicist whiff. The shadowy figure took a fighting stance, fists raised. In the light Brooks could see the scuffed and nicked up knuckles from the fight with Moloch the other night.

He moved on the tall and slender figure with an instinctual stab. Immediately, the younger figure moved out of the way, his hands flashing like lightning. He parried by redirecting the knife arm, barring it off, and then landing a perfect right cross to the man's jaw. Victor Brooks stumbled backward, suddenly able to breath as all the dust and insulation came shooting out of his nose from the strike. He shook the knife like he was trying to get water off and his head to get the three dark figures standing in front of him back into one. After giving a split-second to ponder whatever the hell that was – Wing-Chun not being anything near the Hollywood man's vocabulary much-less understanding – he once more went high. The steel kitchen blade flicked with a swish that was ducked deftly, the foe moving and flowing like a fencer made of water. He swept under the man's striking arm, slipping behind the publicist that over-committed to his haymaker slash.

Knowing that his slippery enemy was behind him, Brooks attempted a backhand slash, spinning about. But it was met with a sickening crunch that caused him to scream. Fore, there to meet his strike at the apex was a meat tenderizer picked up by the dark avenger. With a hard-backhanded slam from the left hand, it fractured the publicist's funny bone. It was an excruciation of a cold and tortuously tingling sensation that traveled up his arm and down his fingers in a painful static friction.

With a trained momentum of martial grace, the shadowy figure brought down the tenderizer overhead and onto the man's wrist. The spiked surface of the hammer mauling into Brook's skin as it broke a collection of small bones and tendons. The steak knife clattered harmlessly to the bloodied linoleum floor as Victor Brooks only usable arm went uselessly numb. But it wasn't over yet, as with the last of the momentum, the dark avenger went low with another back handed swing that struck the publicist on the side of the knee. The force dislodging the kneecap from the tendon with an audible crackling pop.

With a hic-upped gasp, the man slide against the counter and onto the floor, his chest heaving as he couldn't find the breath to cry out, his eyes wide and in tears as he stared at his throbbing and shattered knee, unable to grasp or cradle it. But all that whimpered and contained agony was let out in a booming scream as a meat tenderizer was brought down and pulverized the broken fingered hand on the kitchen counter that was balancing the man on the floor. A ripple of creaking and crackling shot up his hand while the spiked surface of the tenderizer chewed the flesh of the man's hand. Sweat poured down Vic's body, his lip chewed bloody – unseen by a face gashed and stuck by ceramic shards. With a thump of light-headedness, he fell back on the floor.

But his respite never came.

Tossing away the bloody meat tenderizer, the dark avenger grabbed up his beaten quarry and held him up by the lapels.

"You want to finish that thought, babysitter?" His dark and menacing ghoulish voice had a sting of insult at the nickname he gave him.

"If I say …" He gargled listlessly. "I'll never work in this town again!" he replied hazily, hate in his voice.

"You don't tell me where Hannah Banks is right now, you'll never walk again!" The youth snarled in challenged alternative.

Not for the first time was a Hollywood man asked to choose between his life and his reputation.

"Ain't ya heard, kid? Even presidents got wheelchairs these days." There might have been a laugh in the cough of either blood or wine – he couldn't taste the difference anymore.

That was strike three.

With a grunt of protest of the ambiguity of the moment, he saw gritted teeth of dark aggression on the young man's shadowed face. His furrowed glaring brow showing the outline of talon gashes sewn shut with a Lady's Maid stitch from the previous night's brawl with a madman in costume. Grabbing the publicist by the lapels of his baggy suit, the avenger dragged Brooks over to the kitchen sink and threw him over it, slamming his head once more on the back lip next to the knobs. From there he stuffed up the drain with a metallic blocker that had never been used since he moved in four years ago.

"You think you can go toe to toe with Moloch? The freak is built like a brick shit-house!"

Ice cold water poured over the beaten and bloody face, making him gasp and gag as the thunderous flow fell down his mouth and up his nose. He couldn't breath as blood and wine oozed and mixed. Finally, nearly floundering, he was yanked back when the red tinted water started collecting.

"I'll handle Moloch!" The dark figure growled dangerously in his face.

"Yeah …" Vic coughed. "Like you handled "The Necromancer" the last time he waltzed into town?!" He taunted with a gasp.

With a dark look, the vigilante turned over one knob and turned off another.

Victor Brooks was flipped and bent over the sink, the dark figure's hand grasping his water slick greasy pomade hair, the other holding the fractured arm and hand behind him, forcing it up till the publicist wanted to puke. With an elbow on the back of his neck, his face was forced down, staring at the porcelain as murky and gooey red water – a collection of saw dust, blood, wine, insulation, and mucus – was coagulating around a slowly filling sink of fresh water.

"You couldn't even save your hop-head Irish minge, Minna Davis … and that was when you were fighting an old man! From what I heard you needed your secretary to save you last night! The mighty "Comet" saved from a freak by some limey cunt in a pencil skirt!" He taunted with a snarling and vicious growling, his venom fueled by raw and savage rage from immense pain. "You might as well, cut your losses and let Hannah Banks go! You'd be doing her a favor!" He tried to look back over his shoulder, but he couldn't see the vigilante.

Looking down at first, he thought that he was going to be interrogated via holding his head underwater. But after a moment he realized what the dark avenger had in mind was worse … much worse. He immediately began to struggle when the hair on the side of his face felt the first steam of heat rush past. Then, as the collected volume of water began to rise inch by inch, slowly but surely, he felt the stream get hotter and hotter, till he could feel the heat rising off the elevating tide. But no matter how he struggled the dark avenger held him in place.

"Fuck you!" He cried viciously as the water went from hot to scalding, even being near it made his face go dry. "You filthy aunt fucker!" His voice guttural behind fearful clenched teeth as the near boiling water was getting closer. But what enraged the man even more was that throughout the taunting, the rising water, and his fear … the young vigilante still hadn't reiterated his question, didn't feel the need to say anything more.

"MMM! MMMGRRRHHH! AAHHHahah!"

He tried with all his might to move his head, but he couldn't. Just being near the water was painful, the heat on his gashes and pierced skin causing his open wounds to burn, like a thousand ants crawling and biting his face. He felt that his own body was betraying him as blood ran down his wounds and moving in streams that converged like a river that dribbled down from the tip of his nose. Every drop adding to the rising water level. It was then that he was once more confronted with his Hollywood values.

A man could still be a rich and successful agent in a wheelchair, might even make a good story – get a corner office Job at MGM for showing loyalty to the studio, standing up to "The Comet" like a man. But in this business, in this town, perception and reputation was only part of the gig. The prerequisite was always beauty, no matter what part of the business of show business. And while no one had or ever would call Victor Brooks a beautiful man, much less good-looking. There was no number of snappy and expensive suits that would make up for a dish or dame off the boat or bus wanting an agent that had an actual face they could keep their lunch down when looking at.

"Alright, alright … ALRIGHT! I'll talk! I SAID I'll TALK!" He screamed, the bubbles bursting on his nose were like little fire coals that seared his pours.

Still, the vigilante didn't say a word … didn't let him up.

"I TOLD YOU, I'D TELL YOU! PLEASE! FOR GOD SAKE!" He could feel the skin on the tip of his nose burning.

He still was held in place.

"MULHOLLAND!" He cried as he wiggled and writhed, his nose being consumed in scalding water. "Their fuck spot is on West Mulholland, near the old Spanish church! A spot overlooking the city! PLEASE! MULHOLLAND NEAR THE OLD CHURCH!" He screamed.

He grew lightheaded when his face was yanked hard from the immense heat of the sink and back into room temperature which felt like heaven itself. With a heave he was thrown across the kitchenette and onto his white stove. Something cracked up badly as the metal burners crushed hard against the disk of his back. He let out a gag, as he arched. The action on the too small stove only caused him to fall off, leaving him in a writhing pool on the linoleum floor where he sobbed, rocking back and forth. It was with fear and hatred that he clenched his eyes shut when the tall booted feet of the avenger stalked toward him. He clenched up as his shadow passed, stepping over the beaten and tormented publicist on the floor casually, as if he were trash on a sidewalk.

Immediately, the tall silhouette walked back into the dark of the apartment. His strides were long and purposed when he stalked over to an end table by a poster half shadowed in the desaturated silver light from cracked open blinds on the living room windows. It was there that he found Vic's phone, a note pad, and business cards scattered around it – the first things he checked when he broke in. The inner workings chimed when he took the receiver in hand anxiously. With a quick moving index finger the silhouette spun the numbers into place, each ticker and roll like a countdown clock to a timebomb that no one knew was there but him. When he had the number dialed, he glanced up only once. But his attention was enraptured.

There, in the evening's glare, he saw her pristine and beautiful face. She wore a nurse's cap, cobalt cloak of red lining and chained clasp. She was looking up wistfully at the poster art of a flying biplane in a hellish dogfight with a red German triplane that wasn't the Red Baron – only 'inspired' by him. "I'm No Saint" had been Minna Davis's break-out film, the movie that had put "Brady-American Pictures" on the map when it looked that it was about to fold. The first time he had saw it, saw her, had been in India, at a screening with no chairs, just cushions and an audience of laborers from the Undesirable Class and enlisted garrison soldiers of the British Army. And it was then that he knew that something wasn't right – she looked just like … it was impossible – he thought that Sybbie was, had been …

He had to see it, see her, for himself.

But now, two years since he had … since her death, the youth wished he had never come to this place, never met her.

"Thomas?"

A familiar polished female English accent that was dictated by a smooth softness that was better than warm milk came on the other end of the phone. He had been so transfixed on Minna that he hadn't heard the ringing, nor the other line pick up.

"It's me, Luce." He replied in a normal tone, revealing a voice much younger and youthful sounding than the gravelly and ghoulish tone he had been using.

"George!"Lucy Branson suddenly exclaimed. "Thank God! When you walked out of here this afternoon, I –"she began.

"Not now!" He cut her off. "Where's Thomas?!" He demanded.

"He went to Central, looking for Friedman, hoping to shake something loose after you took off … alone." There was a maternal scolding in the relieved voice.

"Good, I got a lead on Banks." He replied.

"Where?!" Mrs. Branson perked up audibly, there was a rustle on the other line as she grabbed a note pad.

"West Mulholland near San Gabriel." He answered.

"West-holland … Gabriel, right."She whispered as the scratching of her pencil was picked up in the background.

"Get a hold of Thomas down at Central, tell him to alert the DA's Office, and every black and white they've got." He ordered.

"I'll call down and then meet you there."Lucy replied purposefully, the scraping in the background telegraphing her reaching for her Burberry Mackintosh.

"No!" George nearly shouted in alarm.

"What?" She sounded just as alarmed.

"It's Moloch. He's on the loose out there." He answered.

"Oh God …"Her voice took a whispered prickle of fear.

"He knows where Hannah is gonna be …" He trailed off. "And so do I." He finished.

The phone clicked as the woman regripped the receiver in hand with purpose. "George, no!"She said fearfully. "Do you remember what happened last night?!" She protested. "Because I still do!" There was something haunted in her soft lovely voice.

"He caught me off guard! And he got the worse of it!" He challenged.

"If I hadn't shown up when I did with that shotgun, he would've …"

"It'll be different this time."

"George, he's in his prime! He'll kill you!"

"Not gonna happen … I don't make the same mistakes twice."

"Please don't do this!"

"I'm not about to sit around and let a nut-job cut a baby out of a pregnant woman, cause Louis fucking Mayer has a release schedule to keep!"

"George, please …"

"Get the Old Man on the line and make sure he's got the cavalry coming."

"…"

"…"

"Be careful."

"See you for breakfast, beautiful."

Lucy had already hung up the phone by the time that George Crawley had removed the receiver from his ear. His hand was slow and thoughtful as he lightly placed it back in the cradle. Once more he looked up at the poster of "I'm No Saint". His eyes lightened as he saw the face of the woman whose life had ended in shambles … all because he had to know. The words of the publicist echoed in his mind. And for just a moment, staring at her in the gleaming silver light, he could see the mansion on fire, the familiar pale skin, the pink formed nipples, and the black soot on her cheek. Her irises were rolled back, her grip upon his lapels desperate. Black veins crawled up her arms, her neck. With gasps of torment, tears of fear and terror running down her eyes, she begs him, pleads with him – do it … kill her.

It was a blight, a mistake, that he would never live down, that he would never let himself live down. If he hadn't been so curious, if he hadn't made contact, had he simply stayed away, who knows what her life could've been by now. Perhaps she would've had children with her husband, would've won an academy award. Perhaps she'd be in a gutter somewhere, chasing that last hit of heroine, that one perfect high that had alluded her for so long – unable to truly kick the habit, overcome the disease of addiction. Either way, whether in rehab or with a baby, she would've found a kinder fate than what it turned out to be. And all because of him. Because, George Crawley missed her, wanted to be near her again.

It was not Minna Davis, perhaps not even Mina Murray, he had coveted. It was the other, the girl he loved all his life, who had been his cousin, his sister, and his best friend. A girl he had unwittingly cursed long ago, bound to him. Now this pain that grew day after day, the brooding guilt, and languished longing, he didn't know which it was that drove him – which was real. Was it the love for a childhood friend? The love of a close family member? Or was it the true love for a soul mate? The ill-fated wager against an evil sorceress he made in nobility to save a friend in boyhood, how it ruined so many lives. Perhaps, deep down, he had pursued Minna, gate crashed into her life, because, it relieved the languished longing of the years being apart from one that he loved. He knew that someday that young girl he longed for, dreamt of often, would grow into both Minna and Mina's likeness – an undeniable certainty. And it was with guilt that he had known from the beginning that being near Minna Davis, even for a moment, had been and would be the closest he'd come, perhaps ever again, to the girl he loved, to Sybil Afton Branson …

To Sybbie.

A deep and terrible brooding guilt shadowed across his silhouetted features as he gave one last glance at the movie poster. The failure to save her, to protect her, unwittingly drawing her into a world of which she never belonged, it ate at him inside. A hand, shaky and remorseful, reached out to touch the poster, the illustrated figure of the once starlet with the face that Sybbie would have one day. Yet, the open hand halted just inches from the glass. Fore he was unsure who it was that he was reaching out to touch, which incarnation, Mina, Minna, or Sybbie.

Then, with a deeply tormented sigh, that outstretched hand was balled into a fist. And instead, he reached down and took items off the desk. A spooled coil of rough spun rope used to tighten and secure packages for inner studio mail. Also was there a roll of duck-tape for the same use as the first. As he turned to walk away, stuffing both items in his coat pockets, he turned back and gave one last glance at the poster. But from where he stopped, he could not see anything but the dark reflections in the shadows. To this, to the ambiguity lost in shades of darkness, he only gave a bitter and mourning nod of agreement. Pacing to the front door, he leaned down in passing and picked up the silk blouse left behind by the actress who bolted in bra, overcoat, handbag, and unbuttoned skirt.

As the shadow passed into the night, the sound of silk ripping echoed in the quiet apartment building's Spanish courtyard.


Editorial Notes

This story is a Halloween Special that takes place a year after the events of "The Creggan White Hare" But it is not required for you to read the story to understand what is happening in this one …

However, if you wish to understand the full context, the reading order and Timeline of this soft reboot of the story series is below.

Prelude: "Medhel An Gwyns"

Prologue: "The Creggan White Hare"

Halloween Special: "The Hotel California"