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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jul 7, 2016 14:43:24 GMT -5
Victor nodded as Jon spoke. He sipped, with eyes closed, from his glass before speaking.
"I understand, Mister Cameron. I believe my work here is done anyway, so I will take my leave." He nodded politely and bowed to Jon before walking out the door, drink in hand.
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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jul 7, 2016 14:26:36 GMT -5
Victor nodded as if carefully considering what she was saying, and what his response would be. He walked over to the replicator.
"One glass, Jonnie Walker Blue, lightly chilled. The real stuff, not synthahol."
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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jul 7, 2016 13:47:41 GMT -5
Victor sighed. "Jon, telling someone to calm down only makes them not calm. Nobody has ever calmed down because someone told them to."
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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jul 7, 2016 13:45:18 GMT -5
Victor walked through the corridors, humming 'Volare' to himself with a PADD tucked under his shoulder. His serenity was disturbed by the sounds of a domestic dispute which seemed to be occurring at the other end of the hall. He sighed. He was not sober enough for this. But, he was in a charitable mood and he felt like he could inject peace into this situation -- this situation of strife, which... as Victor correctly presumed... was perpetrated due to a marriage.
Victor sighed deeply and hustled down the hall to the sound of the commotion. He entered the room after Sebetharen.
"I couldn't help but notice the dispute taking place here," Victor began in his diplomatic fashion, "so naturally I wanted to stop by." Victor sat down in a chair, uninvited. "Tell me what's going on. I'll give everyone a fair hearing."
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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jul 6, 2016 13:12:27 GMT -5
BLOW IT OUT YOUR ASS
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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jul 3, 2016 13:30:03 GMT -5
For the record, Vic was divorced three years ago.
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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jul 1, 2016 10:23:38 GMT -5
Victor flicked a peel of white paint off the window frame as he peered out onto the road, which was barely lit by the orange halo of the flickering sodium-vapor street lights. A man ran across the street with a newspaper over his head, trying to deflect the rain, as a speeding taxi gave him a few quick honks as it swerved to avoid him. Vic took a drag on his cigarette, the smoke already clouding his small office.
He reflexively turned to the door as he heard the shuffling of feet and his receptionist calling out in a Brooklyn accent: "Hey! You can't go in there!" His hand clutched the grip of his fully-loaded .38 special Colt Police Revolver, which rested in his leather shoulder holster.
A man burst through the door, which had a large frosted pane of glass that bore the words: "Victor J. Springfield, Private Investigator." Victor automatically began to silently record his facial features... white, mid-40s, thin-rimmed glasses, hands that clearly never saw physical labor. He looked at Victor desperately before collapsing onto his desk, the unknown man's hat falling off his head and onto the floor.
Victor rushed to his side and pressed his finger's to the man's neck -- no pulse. Upon further examination, Victor found several bullet holes in his shirt, which were now leaking crimson blood onto his desk. Victor's receptionist stood in the doorframe, her hand over her mouth in shock.
"Call the ambulance!" Vic told her. She hurried off to her desk, plugging '911' into her rotary phone.
Vic took this time to examine the man's coat... no gun. He was caught unarmed. But what was of more interest was a yellowed envelope in the man's right front coat pocket.
Victor withdrew the yellowed envelope, which was packed thick with bills. Vic counted $1,000. It also had a small hand-written letter:
Beneath her name was a print of a woman's lips, probably Jane's, in lipstick.
"Sealed with a kiss." He said, looking down at the man. "Looks like the kiss of death."
A small piece of paper fluttered out of the envelope, which Vic didn't notice before. It was a stub... the record of a horse race bet. It was signed by Frank Marino, the bagman at a nightclub called Moretti's. Vic knew Antonio Moretti, the owner of the bar, all too well. Vic grumbled at the thought of going toe-to-toe with Moretti again as he collected his fee and put on his hat and raincoat.
"I'm going out!" He told his receptionist as she stared at him agape.
"Going where?!" She asked, shocked.
"Working on my new case." Vic smiled as he headed off for Moretti's.
---
The only thing driving harder than the rain was Victor's black 1952 Chevrolet Bel Air, as it pulled up to Moretti's. Victor pushed through the crowd in the nightclub, the air of which was thick with tobacco smoke. The partiers smiled and sipped the booze of their choice as Dean Martin crooned on the stage.
"When marimba rhythms start to play Dance with me, make me sway Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore Hold me close, sway me more..."
Victor immediately homed in on Frank Marino, the portly fellow who sat at a small table in the back of the club. Marino ran the horse race gambling scene at Moretti's, and as rumor had it, he paid a kingly sum to the local police for them to turn a blind eye. All manner of illicit activities could be found at Moretti's if you looked hard enough. Victor had long suspected that Antonio Moretti had some kind of connection to the mob, although he could never prove it. Maybe Moretti was just a mid-level criminal. Either way, this place was trouble, and Vic knew that at least.
"Like a flower bending in the breeze Bend with me, sway with ease When we dance you have a way with me Stay with me, sway with me..."
Marino smiled as Vic approached. "Hey Vic!" he said. "Want to place a bet? We've got 13/8 on Blue Lightning!"
Vic placed both his hands on the table and leaned forward. "You know I'm not here to place a bet, Frankie."
Marino scoffed. "Of course you're not. The only time you come around is when you want information, which I don't got, and even if I had it, you ain't getting it."
Vic pulled out a slip of paper -- the betting stub that he found on the dead man earlier.
"This look familiar to you?" Vic asked.
Marino looked it over and smiled. "I ain't see this before in my life."
"You're full of it, Frankie. That's your signature."
Marino laughed. "Anyone could have signed that, buddy. Why don't you bug off, get a drink, and enjoy the show?"
"Other dancers may be on the floor Dear, but my eyes will see only you Only you have that magic technique When we sway I go weak..."
"I know that you know something about this Bob character. I'm going to find it out either way, so just give it up now."
Marino shrugged. "You're barkin' up the wrong tree, buddy."
Victor drew a crisp $100 bill from his coat. "Maybe you just forgot, Frankie. Maybe our good friend Mr. Franklin can refresh your memory about this Bob fellow."
Marino looked visibly uncomfortable as Vic noticed, for the first time, two men in black fedoras watching him from the back of the room. Marino slowly stood up and spoke in a low voice. "I'm not takin' your money Vic. Could be dangerous to both our healths."
Vic looked at him, trying to figure this man out. "I got you, Frankie." Vic stopped leaning on the table and took a deep breath. "I'm going to get some fresh air," he said loudly, "see you later Frankie." Without another word, Vic headed to the door that led out into an alley.
---
The two men in black followed just 15 seconds behind. One was old and grizzled, the other quite young -- must be in his early 20s, and new to the game. They looked at each other before opening the door, their hands on the grips of their Colt 45 semi-automatic pistols. They swung the door open, drawing their handguns and sweeping the alley with their eyes. Some trash cans... a few pieces of garbage floating around... a dumpster... but no Victor Springfield.
Just then, shots rang out in the darkness. The older man was caught directly in the left arm by a well-place shot from a 38 caliber revolver. The young man began to panic and fired his gun haphazardly, his bullets striking the red brick wall of the adjacent building. The older man immediately figured out where the shots were coming from... from the private investigator crouched behind the dumpster.
The older man returned fire, but his bullets merely pinged off the dumpster and ricocheted in the alley. Victor fired again, striking the older man in the chest and dropping him. The young man pointed his gun at Vic and pulled the trigger, but the gun only clicked -- it was dry.
Vic rushed the young mafioso, placing his 38 special to the man's head, barking orders at him. "Tell me who you're working for!"
The young man trembled and looked at Vic with wide eyes as...
"Lieutenant Springfield, your duty shift begins in thirty minutes."
Victor sighed. "Computer, pause program and save state." The young man froze, as still as a statue.
Victor took off his hat and coat and gun, and tossed them onto the floor of the alley.
"Don't worry, Moretti. I'm still coming for you." He laughed. "Computer, arch."
The other end of the alley turned into a familiar arch as Victor walked through it.
"Computer, end program."
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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jun 28, 2016 7:57:51 GMT -5
Like you want the font bigger?
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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jun 25, 2016 21:19:18 GMT -5
[need for TOS ship intensifies]
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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jun 21, 2016 9:46:13 GMT -5
He laughed politely.
"It's an old Earth term, my dear. It comes from a play called 'Othello' by William Shakespeare. There's a character named Iago who was working for his own motivations rather than that of Othello, who was his superior. Iago said, 'The native act and figure of my heart in complement extern, tis not long after, but I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at. I am not what I am.' It means that if his outer appearance matched his inner intentions, it would be like wearing his heart..." Victor pointed at his left breast and made a gesture of ripping it out. "And places it on his sleeve, literally, where all could see it." He placed the pretend heart on his shoulder, right where the Daedalus Omega patch was on his arm.
"Daws meant birds. He really wasn't who he said he was, and he knew that if it became apparent, he might as well have his heart plucked apart by the birds." Victor furrowed his brow and looked off to the side in thought before looking back at Decia.
"So, it entered the Earth lexicon to mean that you appear to be who you really are." Victor smiled sweetly as he continued to lean against the wall.
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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jun 20, 2016 6:27:09 GMT -5
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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jun 19, 2016 21:47:15 GMT -5
Yeah we usually hear them blow up but no one did this time Just a silent loss of power happen ex so nice I tried to let all know i lost power because my laptop was still Forgot had no modem then it's probably gemini
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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jun 19, 2016 16:12:57 GMT -5
Victor smiled at her. "You know, everyone I've met so far has worn their heart on their sleeve, except for you. I suppose it's just professionalism, but it's an interesting contrast compared to the rest of the people I've met here."
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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jun 19, 2016 15:09:57 GMT -5
What a weird way to go. I guess when your number is up then your number is up. RIP
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Post by Lieutenant Victor Springfield on Jun 16, 2016 15:06:36 GMT -5
Victor casually leaned against the wall and smiled, a PADD tucked under his left arm.
"I have to say, it's nice to have a ship assignment instead of popping all around the galaxy, sometimes on three different ships per month..." Vic smiled pleasantly at her.
"So you're a bit of a night owl, huh?"
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