Curveball

Death Of A Hero: Part Four

Submitted by C B Wright on
Curveball, by Christopher Wright
Farraday City Morgue

The Farraday City Morgue is a modern building, built when the crime families moved in and started renovating the city. The police stations, hospitals, and morgue are all state-of-the-art facilities. CB is amused that a city government so thoroughly owned by organized crime will spend so much money on a crime-fighting infrastructure—it seems counter-intuitive. Still, there’s a difference between “well-run” and “honest”—the city faithfully protects the people who can afford to pay for that protection.

Death Of A Hero: Part Three

Submitted by C B Wright on
Curveball, by Christopher Wright
Farraday City Boardwalk

In the nineties Farraday City was poised to become the next successful beach resort: middle class and white collar professionals flocked to its shores, looking to spend a few weeks of their precious holiday time somewhere far enough away to feel like a break, but not so far they couldn’t rush back to the office in an emergency. Then the recession hit, and people stopped coming. Farraday City’s economy tanked, the high-rise building projects stopped, the motel resorts were condemned, and it quickly turned into a metropolitan ghost town.

That’s when organized crime moved in.

Death Of A Hero: Part Two

Submitted by C B Wright on
Curveball, by Christopher Wright
Curveball

Afternoon sunlight streams through the Gothic windows in the bank lobby, highlighting motes of dust swirling through the air. CB stifles a yawn and waits, mostly patiently, in the cavernous room’s only line. It looks more like a church than a bank, and some might consider that appropriate—a church to Mammon, perhaps.

“Here comes trouble...”

CB looks over his shoulder and grins at the smiling, elderly man in the security uniform. “Heya Frank.”

Death Of A Hero: Part One

Submitted by C B Wright on
Curveball, by Christopher Wright
Liberty

The clear, untarnished melody of In The Mood starts up again for what must be the tenth, eleventh time—Alex has lost track at this point. It’s a good thing he doesn’t have neighbors: this is exactly the sort of thing that would get on his nerves, if he wasn’t the one doing it. He feels sentimental tonight, and the music is comforting. He doesn’t hate new music, not like some of the other guys his age, but he prefers brass and string instruments over computers. It reminds him of… happier days? No, not happier, necessarily, but more hopeful.

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