Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Okay, maybe I should start this over. My name is Samuel Banks but most people just call me Old Sammy. Don’t let that fool you though, I’m not old, I’m only twenty-three. But I’m known to be something of a cynic or something of a dreamer depending on whom you ask. I’ve got a college degree in English literature, but I found out pretty damn quick that that doesn’t amount to much in this world. At the time this was first written I am working at the Washington Post, one of the largest newspapers in the United States. I’m not lucky enough to be a journalist though, merely a lowly intern.

Now that we’re properly introduced I think I can feel better about telling you what I know via this diary. Last night, June 18 2000, in a Townsquare Center, a mall five minutes south of Washington D.C. I saw something that frightened me beyond belief. I’m talking scared on the level of the X Files coming to life right before my eyes. I stumbled across some sort of meeting between two races other than humans in a basement. I’m not crazy, but I am too scared to continue.

Old Sammy

The whole situation was brutal, a world unknown to mankind and yet so close to them. Two races, one hidden from sight, one basking in it; both unknown to man and bitterly angry at each other. The meeting was known as the Townsquare Affair, an attempt by the Golem Council of Elders to loosen the ever-growing control that the Sirens held over mankind. It isn’t known if the Council was acting pre-emptively to stop the turning of tides against them should either race ever be brought into the open, or fear that man kind would find out through the paparazzi exactly what, and for that matter who, the Sirens were.

But it was dreadfully obvious that the precedent setting Townsquare Affair, in which such figures as Jules McCleary, Susan White, Nathan Wilde and George Pruent were all present, that the summer of 2000 and the days to come, would all bring change.

June 21, 2000

Undisclosed Location

To this day its not known exactly where the Council of Elders meets, but the events of the meeting on June 21, 2000 were duly noted. Nathan Wilde and George Pruent each arrived at the meeting a few moments apart. Both of their presences were requested by the Council of Elders, the five long-lived, notable, and nearly legendary Golems.

The hall where the meeting was held was less a hall and closer to a generic dockside warehouse. The room was filled with boxes and strewn packaging, and the likes of five elders, a select group of guards, and of course two visitors. The summer night hadn’t quite reached the room, furthering the tension in it with the likes of humid, dusty, stagnant air.

Nathan Wilde knew he didn’t want to be there, but who in his circumstance would? He’d been used by the Council of Elders for a few years now, tasked out on jobs from information gathering to diplomat and both he and his occasional associate had enjoyed the gifts of general success. Now, he exhaled wistfully as he looked at the pocked and aged faces of the elders before him, he’d some news to deliver.

“Nathan Wilde, you are recognized by the Council of Elders. Step forward.” It was the traditional line, heard a score of times by Nathan, and his response heard equally as many. That daring step, a long stride made out of angst and near dread, this news would not be received well.

“Elders, I stand before you Nathan Wilde, and openly bare the answers that you seek.” Openly but not without fear, fear was nibbling away at Nathan and he knew it. The only hope that he felt was that they didn’t see it, not yet, his fear might provoke a response that would prove difficult to deal with, now or in the future.

“George Pruent, you are recognized by the Council of Elders. Step forward.” Nathan didn’t turn his head to look, instead his thoughts remained focused on how to set his spin. He couldn’t lie to himself, he knew that the meeting three nights ago in the Townsquare had been a disaster. It was an attempt that he himself had constructed in order to prevent what could easily become an all out war between races, with mankind stuck in the middle. The others wondered why he cared so much about those people, those humans, a race that would surely destroy the Golems if they were discovered to exist, destroy before understanding. Nathan knew though, that all three races must coincide, it’s just the way things were to be, and so he convinced the Elders to give diplomatic means a chance. They did, and diplomacy failed.

“Elders, I stand before you George Pruent, and openly bare the answers that you seek.”

There was a moment of silence, it was almost as if the five elders were waiting, letting the drama and tension simmer under the two visitors. A leery-eyed elder, Montgomery Davidson, was the first to break the silence, he brushed a thick lock of matted and nasty hair from his view and then folded his hands before his face, the long, bony index fingers raised skyward and touching.

“Gentlemen, what seems to have happened since the meeting?” His question so blunt and to the point it scared Nathan a bit more than he already was, could they possibly know? How far did their network of relays and spies truly delve?

“Elders, it is still early too early to say what truly happened and what will become-,” Nathan began his pitch but was cut off by the visitor next to him.

“Failure,” George broke into the conversation, and destroyed what Nathan had been feebly trying to build. “The ambassadors of the Sirens were unreceptive to the ideas we proposed, of lessening their relations with the human race, and in truth, an armed conflicted was narrowly avoided.”

George was preaching war and everyone in the room knew it. Again, there was silence, this time not a dramatic pause, rather a settling of shock, disbelief giving way to reality at the news that had just been broken. George’s face, all sharp angles and determination, remained solid, keeping the look of sharply chiselled rock, while his eyes shifted slowly from each Elder. Carefully he read each of their responses to the news that he had so openly lay before them.

Armed conflict? The words slammed into Nathan the hardest of all. They were for the most part true, but the remainder of the truth was that it was George Pruent himself who had caused the meeting to take such a turn for the worst. If George hadn’t thrown in such biting and dangerous versions of what the Golem Council wished for the Sirens to do, then perhaps they wouldn’t have perceived the meeting as an ultimatum and Nathan wouldn’t want to shoot George at this very moment.

“I see.” The two word official response was given by one of the elders, a haggard old lady by the name of Elizabeth Dane, and who sat on the far left of the Council.

“Is this all?” It was a third member, the man seated at the centre of the Council, Mathew Summers; a Golem so old his naps had grown patchy and grey, and whose skin bore liver spots and scars of age. “Nathan, have you anything to add to this?”

“No, that is all,” Nathan’s voice was hard, disagreement at this point would appear to be going against the interests of the Golem people, and Nathan already had a large mark against him, better not try for two.

One of the elders shifted his hand and motioned for the visitors to take leave of the Council for a short while. History dictates what the decision was, the first strike. Nathan could almost read it in the white eyes of the Council members and he could surely feel it welling up from within.

Both George and Nathan took their absence near the other end of the warehouse. George lead the way, Nathan pressed after him, seeking at the least an explanation.

The tall Golem known as George Pruent slipped around a corner to the lean against the side of a wall of crates. He already had a cigarette burning when Nathan, now visibly angry, rounded the corner after him.

“What the hell was that back there?” All diplomacy was lost with that question. Any peaceful intent was lost as Nathan’s hand crashed against the crate inches away from George’s resting head. The anger of one was lost upon the other; George didn’t move, his pure white eyes just stared into Nathan’s as he lowered his cigarette and slowly exhaled. Nathan backed away, pulling his threatening hand with him, and attempted to regain his composure. George took another drag off his cigarette before giving the seething Golem an answer.

“I told them what happened.” His answer was so cold and simple that it sent the waves of rage rolling over Nathan once again.

“You told them your version of the truth!” His words were flung back at the model of a cold and heartless nature, which was standing, or rather leaning, before him.

“Then why didn’t you give them yours?” George jabbed his cigarette in Nathan’s direction adding emphasis to his already steely question.

“Because hanging myself is no way to get anything fixed,” Nathan’s anger was missing from his response, his tone had dropped, even his posture had shrunk. George smiled and smoked.

The ruling of the Council of Elders was a tall order. The Writ of the Dead was induced, those named as the Dead were given a target. The Dead will march against a fashionable nightclub located in New York City, owned and visited by a host of Sirens, not to mention some of the more elite, and subconsciously Siren-orientated human socialites.

The Dead moved quickly and the strike was the first of its kind to happen in the modern era.

June 30, 2000

New York City

The evening was hot, especially for New York, with the nighttime air still in the seventies. The club known as the Neon Haze was just picking up. The midnight clubbers were lined already around the block, fanning themselves with their hands and chatting idly between the groups of hoppers. The styles of dress shouted of every trend in the scene at the moment, no sense of flash or flair was forgotten. The night could have been cut out of a television show or movie for the almost too surreal atmosphere.

The Dead were not even noticed at first as they collected in a near by ally. There were twelve, the traditional number, but tonight that is where tradition ends. Efforts were made to disguise the obvious inhuman aspects of appearance. Sun glasses at midnight, clothes that were baggy and long, bandanas held the mess of dread and naps down flat and concealed the jutting ears, and long coats however ragged and tattered, were thrown over their attire to house the least traditional element of all, fire arms. Gone were the robes and shaved heads, gone were the ceremonial swords inscribed with the runes of ancient. No, this was the Dead of the new age.

Human life being spared was not one of the major priorities of the strike, but it was believed more Sirens were in the back rooms and the rear of the club, so it was through the fire exit that the Dead marched. They entered with a bang, the cracks of sub machine guns hid well by the thumping, pulsing beats of the club beyond. The Dead divided, the twelve messengers of the Council of Elders splitting up to, in a sick way, divide and conquer. The affair was brutal, a strong mark against the Sirens, the death of seventeen Sirens and a host of humans. The building was burned, a blazing message to Pretty Ones; that peace shall come, be it through death or flames. The Dead slipped off into the shadows as the wails of human police and fire sirens filled the early morning hours.

June 30, 2000

New York City

It was still early in the morning in New York City when one Susan White received her morning news blotter over latté. Shock spread quickly through her face, her eyes that seemed to shed a little wicked glow in the sun’s rising rays grew wide and a mouth of perfect white teeth gapped open. Her voice, usually a serene tone, was nearly shrill at first, then a shaky sort of calm as she called for her assistant, a human named Jason Brily, over the condo’s intercom.

“Jason, call the California office, get Jules McCleary on the phone.” Ordinarily she would have worried about hiding the distraught quiver that had snuck into her tone, but not now, not with the news of what had happened in the Neon Haze a mere half dozen hours ago.

“Susan, are you sure about that? It’s only two in the morning over in L.A.,” the voice of Jason Brily crackled back over the intercom.

“Call his home residence, if he’s not in, leave a message that I need to get in touch with him as soon as possible.”

“As good as done Susan.”

Jason Brily was a smart man, but not cleaver enough to see through the simple make up jobs that Susan White and countless other Sirens had perfected as a whole. She’d led quite a life as a run way model, many Siren’s do, and it allowed her the ability to blend in with the ilk of mankind as well as have a great deal of control over them. Where would they be without the beautiful people to aspire to be like? If they only knew who they were so often aspiring to be…. Ordinarily this brought a smile to her face, but not this morning, now she waited intently in her home office of the Whitehouse Fashions International Corporation.

Whitehouse, a trendsetter akin to Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hillfiger, and DKNY was the brainchild of Susan White and a few other notable Sirens. It gave them a furthering hand in the fashion business along with a financial comfort and social presence without the trouble of constant paparazzi. And the control that she exhibited in the human world, turned over to a certain amount of control in the Siren world. True enough the two often acted as mirrors of each other. When the Sirens decided upon a new trend it often carried over into mankind, and even vice versa. It had happened enough times; of course sometimes the changes came about through a radical Siren. For example the entire florescent color fad of the late 1980s. That had been a mistake that was hard to recover from and the ensuing grunge fashion was not any easier. But the upper class, the humans who most often came in contact with the Sirens during the who’s who parties on yachts and tall towers, the elitists if you will, they tended to stay true to the Siren ways; all too often unbeknownst to themselves. Susan liked them best, they believed themselves so high and mighty and proved so docile in their attempts to stay current and remain expensive that it was almost too easy. Not that Susan would ever complain about this, who was she to ask for a harder life?

Besides, Susan didn’t have the certain qualities that allow her to be a more public figure, meaning primarily patience. Some had it, most of the entertainment scene, both human and Siren, had “it”, but Susan was not one who could deal with prying eyes and probing photo lenses. True, the over all control was greater and the ability to sway the masses was certainly tempting, but the chance for disaster was very, very, real.

Two quick beeps and then the sharp hiss of static marked the return of the intercom. Susan sat up, putting her still steaming latté down next to her yet untouched croissant.

“Susan?” The voice that peeked through the box was edged with both hesitation and curiosity, but missing the panic that Susan felt.

“Jules?” Of course it was Jules, but she felt the need to ask anyway.

“Yes. And Susan, this better be important, I’ve been pulled out of a very important party to take this call.” It was two in the morning over there, who in their right mind would be sleeping? She should have known prior to making the call.

“I assure you that it is,” that stone cold certainty that Sirens seemed to inherently posses began to once again shine through. “I hope you don’t have any plans of visiting the Neon Haze any time soon, in fact, New York City should get checked off your itinerary for a good while to come.”

“Susan, what on Earth are you talking about? You’re not making any sense.” Jules on the other hand, one of the other primary names in the Whitehouse Corporation, had impatience readily building on that dry English accent he’d picked up some time ago.

“What I’m saying, Mr. McCleary, is that a few hours ago there was some sort of attack on the Neon Haze, an attack on Sirens. The club was burned to the ground.”

“Oh dear.” It sounded almost comical in his dreary English tone.

“What shall we do?” Susan was starting the ball rolling. The city of New York was almost primarily hers. My, it was pretentious to say that, there were a great deal of Sirens who lived here, a great many passed through here, even more held part-time homes in the more splendid parts. But as of now, Susan White was making her move, exerting temporary control over the domain of the greater New York City area and recruiting those in the Whitehouse International Fashion Corporation to aid her.

“Sit tight for now. I’ll start work on the phone tree and try and beat the networks into action. Do we know who it was for sure?”

Susan looked down at the blotter that had given her so much pain, there on top was a handwritten note paper-clipped to the printed report concerning the fate of the Neon Haze. A hand written note that said in a sickly scrawl, “The Dead are marching”.

“Yes, we do. The Golems have struck.”

“Oh dear.”

Author's Address

The Townsquare Affairs – Author’s Introduction

This is a story that I haven’t touched in quite sometime. There’s probably a good reason for that. I like to tell myself that I’m a serious writer now, and serious writers do not write something like this. This is pulp noir, for that is the only title I can come up with to label this piece. But, like most pulp noir, it was fun to write, and consequently fun to read.

I originally published The Townsquare Affair chapter by chapter through email, hoping it would set off a chain letter affect and end up bypassing the slush pile of an editor somewhere and score me an publishing contract. It didn’t. But, it did draw in some readers, and I did strike up a correspondence with several people I’d never have met otherwise. So, in that regard it was a success. On top of that, I was given some helpful advice, my writing was very visual, somewhat cinematic. I was urged by a reader, who’s name has been lost in the events of the last two years, to start to write movies. While my career as a screenwriter hasn’t gotten as far as I’d like, it has taught me a great deal.

As for the story itself, I’ve written the first sixteen of what I originally planned to be twenty-four chapters. So, what I have on hand is essentially the first two acts of a three act piece. All notions of pulp aside, I did do some things with this work that I am proud of, each “Part” was eight chapters, and each eight chapters had significantly more characters than the previous. This, of course, means that the unwritten “part” has the most characters of all. Luckily, I’ve still got my notes. And also, since I’ve been so busy doing my “serious writing” recently, the prospect of writing something fun seems like a wonderful escape. And after all, that’s what writing is about, isn’t it? Writing is merely the act of escaping.

So, without further adieu, the introduction and first chapter of The Townsquare Affair.

-Brad

Introduction

Introduction

The habit of living life to the extremes had officially gone too far with the creation of the Townsquare Shopping Center. The mall itself was a twenty-four-hour- a-day mega-center conveniently located five minutes from everywhere. Townsquare Shopping Center; the name had a cleverness hinting at small town life, while the behemoth complex, (stretching nearly a mile and housing three public stories), sat conveniently close to the haunches of a major mid-Atlantic city.

Those three public stories, crammed full of every outlet store imaginable, sixty-four various types of eateries, and one-hundred-seven bathrooms per sex stocked with nearly a thousand toilets, urinals, and sinks. The entire conglomeration sat on top of a modern labyrinth of basements, hallways, storage areas, cargo docks, and mile upon mile of ductwork. This labyrinth was a stark contrast to the fashionable mall, the abysmal scene was bleak concrete walls and floors, flickering florescent lights, and occasionally it was dotted with the hiss of steam and the chugging hum of various climate control devices.

Somehow I had ended up wandering these halls. Somehow nothing. I was lost. I had a bad habit of late night wanderings and this one had brought me here. A voice, somewhat distant and barely distinguishable amongst all the ambience (not to mention wholly unintelligible) drew me further into the belly of the Townsquare Beast.

I knew I was getting into trouble. Samuel Banks (Old Sammy to most) just happens to be a tremendous movie fan and every step I took increased that deep churning fear that makes people yell “Don’t do that!” while watching a horror flick. But I kept on, and to this day I still recall how odd it felt when curiosity overrode that fear. The voice turned into voices, and it even grew faintly understandable as I honed in on its origin. I shifted from hall to hall, sometimes losing the voices only to find them that much louder as I poked my head down a ladder. I remember the second to final room with a good bit of clarity (probably because I hid in there for a good while). The room was basically an anteroom, an intermediate room, and through one of its doorways was the source of the voices. That driving, movie-like feel told me something was wrong, and it was a feel that at this point in time I didn’t find too much trouble agreeing with. But this feeling was still battling with that intense, driving curiosity, so as quietly as possible I made my way to the edge of the door.

I was bombarded by a dozen or so different types of scented smoke that streamed from the tips of expensive cigarettes, cheap cigars, and everything in between. The room was larger than the one I chose to hide in, but it was still quite full, holding over two dozen…things in it. They weren’t human. There were two groups, and it was quite easy to discern this because they were worlds apart.

The first, and larger group, were physically freakish. X-Files freakish. They were tall, all of them, the shortest of group looked to be about six and a half feet. And they were thin, like they’d been stretched, with long faces and long arms and legs and digits. Their ears were long and jutted out from the sides of their heads, through hair that had long napped into dreadlocks. Perhaps the oddest dimension of all was their eyes, pools of pure white: no pupil, no iris; their teeth were rows of jags like those of a shark. Their clothes too, were dark and drab. They looked worn, dirty. Most were decked out in a heap of a coat and hard boots. They seemed to seethe animosity.

“You’ve done enough, perhaps too much already.” It was one of the hideous ones. He jabbed out his comment with an accusing thrust from a cigarette; he jabbed at his polar opposite.

The second group was as far opposite of the first as possible. They were beauty to the point of overkill. Hard to understand? It’s hard to explain. Take an attractive person with splendid skin and hair, eyes that seem to shine and a stunning body. Take all that they have that separates them from the rest of mankind and take it all ten or fifteen times further. Make their skin so fair that it seems plastic and hard, eyes that are almost glowing, and bodies that are so perfect that they almost seem fake. These people were all too much, too extreme.

It was their conversation, or more aptly their argument, that drug my attention away from their physical oddities, their extremes that seemed that much more extreme in each other’s presence. I crouched low and hugged the door, taking the most possibly attentive mental recording of what was going on.

Anger seemed to fume from both groups and tension seemed to fill the room, choking out more air than all the wispy wafting smoke in the room. “Please, you people who have chosen to live your lives begging on man’s streets and hiding in their sewers, have no ground to pass judgment on us.” The curt reply came from one of the beautiful ones, a man who could have just walked off the pages of GQ and into this Townsquare sub-sub-basement.

“We try our best to not interfere with mankind, doing so will be the end of us all. You know that and we know that. A war would kill off Siren and Golem alike. But you refuse to stop meddling, you insist on walking amongst them and controlling them and risking so much more than you know.” The hideous one finished his short speech and ran his long thin fingers into his network of knots and dreads that served as hair.

“The sewers might be your idea of staying away from mankind, and we’re more than happy to give them to you. But for us, it’s just not going to cut it. It’ll be a cold day in Hell before you see a Siren begging on the streets.” The words came from a dark haired English-sounding woman.

“Then you will leave the Golem Council no choice but to act.” I couldn’t see the speaker, only the waft of smoke from where his voice had originated.

“Careful with your idle threats, your jealousy is showing.” It was yet a third member of the fashion plates. I saw a head turn towards me and I knew I had to run. My cover was blown and I wasn’t going to stick around to find out what would become of the conversation.