Twitter has a trend called #vss365 where every day there is a one-word prompt, and authors can write tweets that include that prompt word and are a self-contained very short story. For 2024, I am participating in this trend, but instead of writing 366 very short stories (because it's a leap year), I'm writing a single novella composed of all 366 prompts. I don't know what the prompts will be until they're released, and I don't know where the story is going until I get there. It should be uncontrolled chaos. And here it is!
Jeff strode confidently into the dimly-lit bar. A source had told him he could make progress on his case by making the #acquaintance of the owner. His better judgment told him this was the wrong part of town to find a lead, but after two weeks this was all he had.
"One whiskey," he announced as he claimed a seat at the bar. The bartender nodded that he'd heard the request, but several minutes later there was still no drink.
"Excuse me?" Jeff prompted. "My whiskey?"
The bartender grunted. "How #forgetful of me, Redcloak."
"Is it that obvious?"
The bartender splashed a glass with whiskey and slammed it onto the bar in front of Jeff. "Your kind ain't welcome here, you #damnable coward."
"I don't want to be here any more than you want me here."
"Then you'd better get to leaving."
Jeff nodded, then smashed the glass on the edge of the bar and grabbed the bartender's shirt, pulling him close. He held a shard of the broken glass to the bartender's neck, threatening to #sever an artery. "I'm here to see the owner. Are you helpful, or just in the way?"
The bartender swallowed hard as the colour drained from his face, as if in #remembrance of a previous run-in with an angry Redcloak. He extended a shaky hand toward a swivel door with a round window. Jeff released him and said, "Thank you," and started towards the door.
"He won't talk to you," the bartender called out from behind him. "You know that. You're wasting your time."
Jeff glanced over his shoulder, a #sardonic grin on his face. "Sure he will. I'm very friendly." Then he pushed through the door and strode into the kitchen.
The kitchen was filthy. The originally white walls were speckled with grease. The floor was littered with discarded and forgotten food, which was now feeding the rats and insects. None of this was a surprise, given the cultural #abyss that was this part of town.
The south end of New Toronto had long been abandoned by law enforcement - the misplaced #wrath of a Mayor scorned by one too many gang leaders and thugs. They all wanted to run the lakeshore, so he let them fight among themselves for it, with all too predictable results.
Jeff glared at the lone chef seated on a wooden stool in the corner. The chef raised a nervous hand to point towards a door at the other end of the kitchen. Jeff exited through it to the base of a staircase in #exquisite condition. The white walls were perfectly clean.
The oak steps climbed to a second storey and ended at a small landing with a frosted glass door. Jeff turned the handle and entered the office.
The room was larger than the bar downstairs. The walls were papered in blue, and decorated with pictures of #shipwrecks. The wall facing the street was almost entirely comprised of full height privacy windows - transparent from the inside but opaque from the outside, and thick enough to silence the #clamour of the people below. In the center of the room, one man sat behind a black desk.
Jeff approached slowly. The heavy clacks of his black leather boots striking the mahogany floor echoed #poignantly off the walls. The man at the desk remained there unmoving, as stoic as a statue.
"I hear you're the man to talk to around here," Jeff announced.
His comment was met with silence, so he continued: "I was told you might be able to help me with a matter of #law." That deliberately chosen wording normally elicited a response, but the man behind the desk remained completely unfazed. Static.
Something wasn't right.
As he drew nearer, the man's state became clear. His skin was pale; his eyes were bulging; his head was propped up by a metal brace. He wasn't moving because he was a corpse.
Jeff let out a frustrated sigh. This was not how he'd envisioned spending his #sunday afternoon. It didn't take an #intellectual to see this man had been killed to prevent him from talking. So what is it he wasn't supposed to talk about?
Jeff rolled the body out of the way and started pulling drawers, searching for anything that looked like it might be important. Each one contained a myriad of random papers in no particular order, as if their entire purpose was to #discombobulate anyone who might come searching through them. He was sure there must be something there to find, but going through them individually would take hours.
He fanned through them, hoping to spot a name, or a company - something that could link this man to his case. One page bore the header "#Moonstruck Landings". Cute wordplay, but not useful. He closed the drawers one by one in frustration. Then one of them wouldn't open.
"Well, well, what are you hiding in here?"
Before he could investigate further, his senses were overwhelmed with the sweet aroma of #muskmelon. He cocked his head, trying to identify the source of the scent. Then the body in the chair emitted a low, guttural groan.
The body's mouth pushed open in starts and stops, making an unsettling cracking sound. Jeff stared at it in enchanted disbelief, unable to look away, as if taken by a peculiar #limerence. The body's chest pushed steadily upward. Its head flopped back, unsupported.
The gravelly moan grew to a loud screech as the body began pulsing, before erupting in a #vermillion spray of blood and entrails. Jeff recoiled from the explosion, his black leather coat covered in viscera. As he wiped it off, a voice behind him yelled, "What did you do?"
Jeff spun to face the new voice, pulling his laser pistol from his holster and training it on them in one smooth movement. Facing him was the bartender, leveling an old physical ammo shotgun at him. Jeff replied, "I have no love for #snollygosters, but I didn't do this."
The bartender anchored his gun against his shoulder. "#Codswallop!"
"You can't win this," Jeff warned, his vision narrowing on his target. "You know what I am."
A moment of doubt passed over the barkeep's face. Then it was replaced by resolve and he pulled the trigger.
Jeff easily rotated out of the way of the slug and fired a pulse shot into the bartender's chest, crumpling him to the floor in a heap. "Enjoy your #dysania," he muttered.
As he bent over to try the locked drawer again, something slimy wrapped around his wrist. The body in the chair was sprouting new appendages at an alarming rate. He fired his weapon into the one around his arm, and it recoiled from him, its tip lashing back and forth like a captured #dragonfly. The desk was quickly becoming enveloped within a mass of flesh.
Pursuing entry to the drawer would be a #fandango, so he holstered his gun and started towards the door. Then he stopped. The meaty tendrils were already there. He would have to find another way out. He quickly scanned the room, and his eyes settled on the windows.
He crossed the room in a matter of moments, and pushed out the window panel at the end of the wall to open it. This was no time for #velleity. The flesh creature was now screaming a long deep syllable, drawing the attention of civilians from the dirty, grey street below.
Jeff spun around and lobbed a thermal grenade at the monstrosity, then leapt through the window, landing on his feet amid the #kerfuffle of people reacting to what he'd done. A moment later the grenade detonated, raining chunks of biological matter from the window above.
As the pedestrians scattered to avoid the falling debris, Jeff surveyed his surroundings for anything else that might be #vexatious. Satisfied there were no such things to be found, he straddled his hovobike, and tapped on his earpiece to call in to Redcloak command.
"I need a cleanup crew to my location. There was a Popper."
"Has it been dispatched?"
"It has. Gives some #credence to my source."
"We'll send a team over right away. Good work, Executor."
Jeff tapped his earpiece to end the call. He wasn't returning to base just yet. His source had clearly been telling the truth that the bar was concealing something out of the ordinary, but he couldn't help feeling that he'd been sent here to #balter into a trap. He couldn't just let that go. It was time to pay his informant an uncomfortable visit.
Jeff parked his hovobike in the upscale neighbourhood of Forest Hill and pushed open the glass doors to enter the #Endgame Cafe. In contrast to the Lakeshore bar, the air here was clean, the floor waxed, and the customers' clothes worth more than Jeff's house.
However, affluence doesn't grant #freedom from self-destruction, it just allows it to be more expensive. Half the people here were addicted to dustflower. That's what Jeff was interested in - not the elaborate offerings of the cafe, but the high end drug den in the back.
The patrons ignored him as he strode the length of the shop and kicked open the saloon-style doors at the back. His informant, Jimmy Foot, was seated at a round table opposite a woman dressed head to toe in mink. "Jimmy. I hope I'm not interrupting your latest #hustle."
"Jeffrey, my friend!" announced Jimmy, his face a mask of surprise and fear. "A man who lives on the #frontier of good taste. W-what brings you back so soon?"
Jeff closed the distance to the table in two strides and placed a hand on the woman's shoulder. "You should go."
The woman glanced back and forth between Jeff and Jimmy, then rose and left without #protest. Jeff brushed off the seat of her chair and lowered himself onto it, placing his laser pistol deliberately on the table. "Indeed, Jimmy, whyever would I be back here so soon?"
Sweat beaded on Jimmy's face. "I don't know. The info was good, right?"
"The info was supposed to be about a luxor #heist. You led me to a Popper."
Jimmy straightened in his chair, his eyes wide. "Whoa, hold on, I didn't know nothing about no Popper. That ain't on me."
"I think you did know. I think maybe you want to get rid of me in case I decide to step on your business."
"Jeff, please, I would never try to get rid of you! I'm a #lover, not a fighter!"
Jeff leaned forward, his eyes locked on Jimmy's. "See that it stays that way."
Jimmy fidgeted with his hands. "So, the info was no good?"
Jeff holstered his weapon. "Popper went up before I could find out."
"You're okay though, right?"
Jeff chuckled. His #dogma was that problems deserve to have answers. Jimmy's was whatever would keep him alive. The concern over his wellbeing was performative. He rose to his feet. "Call me if you learn anything I need to know." Then he left without waiting for a response.
Poppers didn't just appear out of nowhere. Something #twisted the bar owner's insides to make that happen. Jeff needed to find out what. He sat astride his Hovobike and returned to the #picaresque Lakeshore bar.
The bartender was sitting on the sidewalk nursing his head. Jeff had figured it was fifty-fifty whether the man would survive the blast. He was pleased that he did. When the bartender noticed Jeff approaching he inclined his head towards him and said, "You must be pleased with yourself."
"I told you, I didn't want any of that."
"That was #paranormal levels of crazy."
Jeff took a careful seat next to him and said, "Tell me things."
"About what, that thing up there?"
Jeff stared at him silently.
The barkeep sighed, seemingly deciding whether to say anything at all. After a moment he began, "The owner came back from a meeting yesterday spouting some #radical ideas about putting luxor in the drinks."
Jeff straightened up, his attention piqued. "Luxor in an #alcoholic beverage doesn't just make it addictive, it makes it deadly."
"And in whiskey it turns into a toxic gas that kills everyone around it. Like I said: radical ideas. I told him I wouldn't do it. "I'm not looking to kill anyone or go to #prison."
"When was that?"
"A few days ago. A week, maybe."
"And how long has he been dead?"
The bartender glared at him, staring daggers through his eyes. "You tell me, Redcloak." He spat out the last word, his opinion clear.
Jeff, unfazed, calmly responded, "I don't care what you think of me, but I'm here to do a job. Right now that means finding out who put a Popper inside your employer. Who was he meeting with?"
The bartender's face softened, losing conviction. "#Randy. His name is Randy. He's a Judicator on the #parole board."
"You're telling me a New Toronto Judicator was trying to get your boss to mix luxor into his drinks?"
"Look, I don't know what they talked about, I just know that he met with this guy, and then he came back changed. That's it."
Jeff pulled his business card from the inside pocket of his jacket and placed it on the sidewalk, leaving it there to be picked up by the bartender. A Judicator pushing luxor would #dwarf the case he was originally investigating. It was time to go get some hard answers. There was no telling how many Judicators were named Randy, or which offices they worked at. He would have to narrow it down.
He returned to his Hovobike, to find a Free Guatto #magnet stuck to it. Guatto had become somewhat of a folk hero to the poorer New Torontonians. They thought he was jailed for standing up to a corrupt government. What he really did was firebomb a public #park during the Mayor's speech, killing dozens and injuring hundreds.
Of course, the government was corrupt. The existence of the Redcloaks was proof of that. Originally called Capes, they were augmented with cybernetic enhancements to crush dissent, whatever the cost. The Capes were the previous Mayor's #baby. Then they turned on him and went into business for themselves, leaving a bloody mess behind them - hence the new name.
After the Capes stood up to him, the Mayor ran a smear campaign against them, and they became villains. Not that they minded - being feared made their work easier. Right now Jeff's work was to see if a Judicator was using their position as a #costume while hurting people.
The main parole board office was in the #stuffy community of Forest Hill. Once simply a haven for the rich, it had grown over the last twenty years into a community so decadent it would make Gatsby blush. Where better to house a department for judging the downtrodden?
Arriving at the parole building, Jeff left his Hovobike at the curb and entered with purpose. The grey marble welcome desk was run by a man who looked like his face had been hit by a #shovel in his youth. "I need a list of Judicators," Jeff announced without being asked.
"That information's not available to the public," the man responded without looking up.
Jeff reached across the counter and raised the man's chin to face him. "I'm not the public."
The man pushed Jeff's hand aside like an annoyed #sibling. "It's still not available."
Jeff drew his laser pistol and thumped it onto the counter in a single, well-practiced motion. "It is for me."
The man smirked at him. "What are you, someone's #uncle?"
Jeff fingered the trigger. "Redcloak." The man's face dropped in realization. "How about that list?"
"Th- that's a very long list."
"Then you'd better get started on it."
"Are you looking for someone in particular?"
"Yes. Get me the list."
The man didn't move, his expression quickly becoming a thousand #yard stare. Jeff snapped his fingers in front of his face. "Go."
The man quickly leapt into action, typing on his keyboard. He glanced nervously over at Jeff from time to time, then back to his screen. Then he disappeared into another room, and quick as a #bird he was back with a stack of papers half a centimetre thick: the Judicators.
Jeff stared at him. "Paper?"
"It can't be tampered with."
Jeff nodded, holstered his weapon, and took a candy from a glass #bowl on the counter. "Thank you for your cooperation."
The man shrank two sizes, his eyes darting back and forth as if he'd done something wrong. Jeff leaned over him deliberately before exiting, to ensure the man would remember him next time. In a sink or #swim job like this, intimidation was a necessary tool. He shoved the printout into the side compartment of his Hovobike and set out back to his office.
In a just and proper world, a Judicator pushing luxor would be unimaginable, but there was no sense feeling #anemoia for an imaginary age of innocence. Power has always corrupted. Gaining power breeds it; losing power accelerates it; keeping power requires it. And when someone abuses power, the Redcloaks take it away.
Jeff sat at his desk and took a sip of his #draught of giants - a terrible name for a mediocre non-alcoholic beer - and thumbed through dozens of pages of the printout, searching for every Judicator named Randy.
He grunted a bored syllable. Sitting behind a desk doing paperwork was a waste of his skills and enhancements. He should be out chasing suspects, not in the office making a list of them. Sitting here made him feel like a tightly #wound starling. But it had to be done.
By the time he had his list of names - seven Judicators named Randy across six locations - he felt like he was going to nod off. He pulled one of the #war needles out from his desk drawer and injected its contents into the receptacle on his arm. Just a little 'go juice'.
The first name on his list was the #Ring Giver. A lot of Judicators had nicknames. Some came from their personalities. This one was due to how many surveillance rings the people unlucky enough to stand before him had received. People were intimidated by him. Jeff wasn't.
He parked his Hovobike and walked with purpose to the parole office, pausing a moment to clear the bird #feeder of ravens, then jerked open the door and strode into the front hall. The officer behind the desk glanced up with eyes that immediately filled with recognition.
Jeff approached the desk and locked eyes with the man, and growled, "Randy Tupper."
"He's-" the man stuttered. "He's gone."
"Gone where?"
"GONE gone. He died."
"When?"
"Two months ago. He was in a car crash on #Swan Road."
Jeff sighed. The list was out of date. He turned wordlessly back towards the door and calmly returned to his Hovobike, taking a second to watch two raven #feathers fall to the street and frown at them. The only superstition he held was that ravens were an ominous sign of bad things to come. And here they were.
Before he could dwell on the birdsign, two young boys ran past him with toy swords and fake ears, one of them yelling, "I will defeat you, in the name of high #elf glory!" Then they stopped to stage a duel and laugh. Jeff smiled. Children don't succumb to superstition.
As one of them stopped to wipe the #battle sweat from his forehead, Jeff sped away to the next two Randys on his list, in the Beaches office. Hopefully they would still be alive and well. Whichever Judicator was pushing luxor, they wouldn't be the top of the food chain.
He pulled up to the office, across the street from the lakeshore with a row of #Sea Steed watercrafts. Sea Steeds were typically owned by gang members, but they knew better than to be reckless around a Redcloak. It was curious that they were this close to a parole office. Something must be up.
The gang running the Beaches called themselves the #Anvil of Joy. Jeff stalked towards the door, on high alert for anyone trying to get the drop on him. His path was clear, but four gang members were gathered around the girl at the reception desk.
Jeff yanked open the door, purposefully drawing attention with it. He quickly glanced from face to face. "Gentlemen."
"Oh, my," exclaimed one of them. "A Redcloak in our midst. We were just discussing the #grief of the elm tree outside at having to see people like you."
Jeff examined the receptionist's expression. Her face was a picture of anxiety. He turned back to the one who had spoken. "You need to leave, now, or you'll end up in the #sea thatch next to your watercraft."
The man strutted towards him a few steps. "Oh, is that right?"
Jeff openly fingered the butt of his laser pistol. "I imagine there's enough of you to make a very nice #corpse fjord out there."
"Is that what you think?" The four began spreading out around him, with sinister grins on their faces.
"This doesn't end well for you."
"We'll see about that."
"Enough!" came a booming voice from the elevator. The gang members snapped their heads around towards it and then seemed to shrink three sizes. Emerging from the doors, next to a picture of a #dice ship, was a small, unassuming man in a blue suit. "This man didn't come here for a #riot. Go home."
The gang members slowly filed out the door, each one taking a moment to stare down the Redcloak who had interrupted them. "You're lucky he saved you," the talkative one teased on his way by. "Saved your life, brother."
In a blink Jeff grabbed the man by his shirt and raised him onto his toes. The other three took a step towards him, then stopped in their tracks.
"If you were my brother, I'd stab my mother with a #firefly knife." In one smooth movement Jeff hurled him through the door. He watched them scramble back to their watercraft, waiting for them to depart before turning his attention to the man who had halted the confrontation.
He couldn't have been taller than five feet. His skin was the #colour of strained peaches, and his mouth was a smirk. At the sight of Jeff his eyes lit up like a kid watching a #train go by. In a much less imposing voice than before, he crowed, "You're a Redcloak, aren't you?"
Jeff glanced at the receptionist, who quickly busied herself behind her computer. "Yes," he responded simply.
"That's so cool, I've never seen one of you in person before." The man rushed forward with one hand extended. "Randy #Rose, at your service."
Jeff left the offered hand hanging. "And what service would that be?"
"Oh, I'm sure we can figure out something for you!"
"Rumour has it you sometimes try to #force people into figuring something out."
Randy lowered his hand, pinching his eyebrows together. "Mr. Redcloak, I'm not sure what you mean by that, but I'm quite certain it's not meant as a compliment."
"Let's talk in your office."
The receptionist made a point of diverting her gaze as Jeff directed the Judicator back through the door. Another man took a step into the hallway before them, then immediately turned away after seeing them, becoming a #specter of himself to avoid attention. Jeff grinned.
Jeff entered the office first. The Judicator closed the door behind him and invited, "Please, have a seat, take a #load off."
"I'll stand."
"Suit yourself." He circled around to the back of his desk and dropped into the plush leather chair. "So, you were insulting me?"
Jeff leaned against a light blue wall, casually holding his hand near his weapon in case it was needed. "I watched a man pop this morning. A bar owner in the Lakeshore."
"That's very unfortunate. Are you okay?" Despite the kind words, his face was a #mask of indifference.
Jeff continued, "He ran a bar. After removing his #scarlet spray from my visage, I learned he had been in contact with someone who tried to coerce him into dosing his drinks with luxor. Someone with your name. I don't suppose you know anything about that, Randy Rose?"
The Judicator leaned back in his seat. "Tried and failed, I take it?"
"The persuasion succeeded, actually. It was the #iron will of the bartender that prevented it from going forward."
Jeff noted a sly glint in the man's eyes, which vanished upon word of the failure. That removed any doubt: this was the man he was looking for. He continued, "Perhaps you could shed some #light on why a Judicator would attempt such a scheme?"
The Judicator leaned forward, placing his elbows on the mahogany desk. "This isn't a fight you want, Redcloak."
"Maybe." Jeff pulled a toothpick from his inside coat pocket and pretended to use it appropriately. "But it wouldn't be the first time I did something foolish. Won't be the last time, either."
"They'll bury you in a #desert where no one will ever find you."
"Who will? Give me a name."
Sweat was beading on the Judicator's face. His demeanor was no longer confident, his expression now one of abject fear. "They'll shoot me."
In a blink Jeff's laser pistol was drawn. "I'll shoot you."
The man shrank at his desk. "#Captain Coranello."
Jeff slowly lowered his laser pistol, his own face now a #stone mask. Coranello was the top of the New Toronto gangster food chain. If he was involved, this was far bigger than just a heist and some luxor going into bar drinks. This had the potential to be a real problem.
He holstered his weapon and placed a card on the Judicator's desk. "You work for me now. Go ahead and do what you need to do to survive, but anything to do with Coranello, you tell me about it. I don't care if he just turns a #lamp on, I want to know. Do you understand?"
The Judicator nodded sheepishly.
"You will also stop telling bartenders to dose their drinks with luxor. Someone is going to end up dead, and I WILL come after you."
He nodded again.
"Good. Now #slither back to the hole you crawled out of before I change my mind."
Jeff didn't wait to see what the man would do, instead exiting to the lobby. The receptionist was hiding behind her screen, pretending not to pay attention. Jeff grinned slyly at her on his way by and opened the door to a #cacophony of angry shouting outside.
"What now?"
"Well, if it isn't the Redcloak, back to receive his beating," bragged one of the gangsters Jeff had sent packing. Members from two gangs were standing on opposite sides of the street, threatening each other. "This is a Redcloak, boys! I say we #fling him into the lake."
Jeff raised a wary eyebrow. He hadn't expected the day to #percolate with this much aggression so quickly. As several men from both gangs approached him with their weapons drawn, a raven alighted on top of a lamppost across the street. He keyed his earpiece. "Extraction."
The man who spoke drew a weapon. In a blink Jeff was on him, knocking the gun away and striking his chest, leaving him to #wheeze his next few breaths. Jeff spun him around and wrapped an arm around his neck, using him as a human shield. "You don't want this," he warned.
As a dozen angry men stalked towards him, a tiny #speck on the horizon behind them grew larger. The man in his arm tried to squirm away, to no avail. "You're not getting out of here alive," he threatened.
Jeff held his laser pistol to the man's back. "If I die, you die."
The gangster laughed maniacally in response, either unconvinced or unafraid. Three more from his gang rushed in from the side. Jeff hurled the man at them like a sack of potatoes and then dodged gunfire from the rest, moving like a #lithe cougar.
The speck grew nearer.
Jeff had no qualms about taking down every last one of them, but not in the middle of the #parched Lakeshore with kids here. He ducked around the corner of the parole building and calmly checked the charge on his laser pistol. Nearly full. He hoped it would stay that way.
Pieces of brick flaked off from the wall as bullets impacted it. Jeff sighed, leaned around the corner, and took a single #cathartic shot. One of the gangsters crumbled to the ground, no longer having knees to hold him up. "This doesn't end well for you," Jeff announced.
The silence was deafening and immediate. Jeff peeked around the corner to #probe the situation with a quick glance. Two of the gangsters were tending to their fallen ally. The one who'd mouthed off was slowly backing away. The whirr of electric motors sounded overhead. Jeff grinned. One well placed shot and the situation was basically defused - the benefit of superior firepower.
He glanced up. The extraction copters were lowering ropes. One attached to his Hovobike with a special #glue to hold it securely. One descended into his hand. He grasped it firmly and waited for his ascent.
The information the Judicator had given him was concerning. He would need to verify it, of course, but if it was true it would mean very bad things for New Toronto. If the info didn't pass #muster, he'd be coming back here.
Jeff's feet left the ground. In one #fluid motion the rope raised him far above the street and retracted towards the copter. His Hovobike ascended towards the second copter where two Redcloaks pulled it inside. Jeff nodded once it was secure, and swung inside his copter. A moment later he was on his way back to home base.
Another Redcloak tapped him on the shoulder. "Did you get what you need?" she asked.
"Maybe. He said it's Coranello."
She straightened up, now visibly uncomfortable. "You sure you want to try to #chop down that tree?"
Jeff turned away from her and took his seat. He didn't want to go after Coranello. Part of him was hoping the lead was garbage so he could #brush it aside and then pursue the real mastermind. The rest of him suspected everything would prove to be exactly how it seemed. At least he already had a #rat in the mix. His first instinct was that the Judicator was a low-level insert, being fed orders far down the chain, but that wouldn't explain how much control he'd demonstrated over the gangsters.
Jeff grinned. That flex had tipped his hand. The only question was how long it would take for his #greed to get the better of him.
The copter dropped Jeff in front of the next Judicator's office. Rooting out one bad apple didn't mean the rest were sweet - due diligence must still be performed, and leads eliminated.
Fortunately the remaining Randys were all very boring. Rather than uncovering a #saga of corruption and ill repute among the ranks of the Judicators, everyone left to interview was doing their job honestly and forthrightly. That kept things simple: one case, one bad guy.
He returned to the office to #lock up his Hovobike. The sun was setting over Lake Ontario, bathing the water in an array of yellows and oranges. This was the one time of day that all of the smog and pollution was an improvement. Jeff smiled to himself, then left for home.
Jeff pulled open the front door to his house. He took a moment to #manipulate the locks into position, then called out, "I'm home!"
Immediately he heard the rapid thumping of two small children galumphing down the stairs. "Daddy!" shouted his eldest, his son.
Jeff knelt down to hug his seven-year-old and ruffle his hair. "Hi, Taco Bowl."
The boy giggled. "That's not my name, daddy!"
"It's not? Is it Tortoise?"
"Daddy, no! Heehee."
"But I remember you used to #crawl all over the place."
The boy started running in circles. Jeff's wife's voice from the kitchen calmly said, "You're later than usual. Is everything okay?"
Jeff slid off his shoes as Thomas ran past him, and dodged the small missile on his way to kiss Veronica. "No worse than usual."
"Jenny's been reading Indigenous #folklore."
Jeff turned towards the stairs where his five year old daughter was just arriving by the front hallway's #mirror. "Has she, now? And what have you been learning, Jenny?"
"Wendigos are monster people who are cabbinals and eat people!" she announced proudly.
Jeff blinked. "There is so much to unpack there."
Veronica added, "I didn't realize she was reading such a mature story."
"We'll have to #deal with that later."
"Wendigo!" Jenny cheered, thrusting her arms straight up.
Jeff carefully took her hands and lifted her up to eye level. "Has Wendigo done her homework?"
"Wendigo has not."
"Wendigo should go and do that, then."
Jeff lowered the giggling Jenny back to the floor, where she immediately ran up the stairs yelling "Wendigooooo!"
Veronica, watching her go, said, "What a #marvelous evening."
Timothy torpedoed into his leg and wrapped his arms around it. Jeff stared down at him. "And have you done your homework, Tummy?"
"Yes. I also found this weird #coin outside." He reached into his shorts pocket and held up a large gold coin with a flower embossed on it.
Jeff carefully took the coin from his son and inspected it. A glance towards his wife told her this was no random coin left here through chance or #serendipity. He placed a smile on his face and ruffled Timothy's hair. "I know whose coin this is," he calmly told his son. "Thank you for bringing it in."
"Can I keep it?"
"No, it's not yours."
"But it is mine, I found it!" Timothy complained.
"You found it, but that doesn't make it yours."
The boy stomped up the stairs in a huff. Jeff held the coin up to Vanessa. "Like #clockwork."
She stared at it quizzically. "I don't get it."
"Coronello is telling me he knows who I am and where my family lives."
Vanessa's face grew progressively more pale. "How bad is this?"
Jeff smiled for her. "It's a warning, not a threat. I'll slay that #dragon tomorrow." He would never let her know how dangerous that coin actually was. She didn't need that stress. His job was to take out threats to the city, but his life was to keep his family happy and safe. The coin represented the #rebirth of a battle she didn't know had ever happened.
"Have you eaten?" she asked.
"No, I didn't get a chance. All work."
"There's fish in the fridge. Just needs to be warmed up."
Jeff chuckled. "That's #poetic. I almost threw someone in the lake earlier."
"Did they deserve it?"
"They would have. It didn't go that far."
"Well, that's good. I worry about you out there."
"I worry about you in here. Those kids are gonna get the better of you one day. I'll come home to them eating your drumsticks."
Veronica laughed, slapped him in his shoulder, and went to water the #aster pot in the hall.
Jeff slid the fish into the microwave and watched it rotate. He didn't want to spend another #chronon of his time on Coronello tonight. He pulled the plate from the microwave after the ding, turned the wall screen on to a romantic comedy film, and sat to enjoy his dinner.
It wasn't long before Timothy was sitting next to him to show off a #graph he'd made for class that plotted random cartoons against how old the main character looked. Then Jenny declared her homework done and sprawled herself out on the living room floor to be a walrus.
By the time Jeff had finally been able to finish his meal, he'd found an #acanth fishbone the hard way, and happily given up on any hope he'd once had of following the movie. The next two hours were spent laughing and playing with his wife and children, as they should be.
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