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Sounds very nice! I tried to write some stories when I was younger, but I would always get wrapped up in the most mundane, tiny details, that I couldn't progress the story more than a chapter or so.
http://bradymajor.deviantart.com/art/John-Believes-381632338?q=gallery:bradymajor/41938068&qo=2
And here is another version of the piece, with more of a blue theme added to it:
http://bradymajor.deviantart.com/art/John-Believes-Blue-version-381636737?q=gallery:bradymajor/41938068&qo=1
And here is the text I wrote for it that goes along with the visuals (again, spoilers!):
Now, Sherlock, let’s talk about that great insomnia you’ve given me, shall we? I try to sleep night after bloody night, but all I do is toss and turn, with images of you lying dead in a pool of your own blood haunting me every single time I shut my eyes. I haven’t had such nightmares since I was over in Afghanistan, and I would rather take an eternity of the explosions and gunfire noises over what I am feeling inside me now. Hell, I figured going to my shrink would help, but guess what, Sherlock? She just sat me there for an hour twice a week and kept telling me to accept that you were a fraud and move on the best I can. “The sooner you forget his lies, the sooner you can move on,” she says. “Write on your blog, it will be cathartic,” she says… Two weeks ago I finally snapped at her, we had a row and I stormed out not long after, so I guess I won’t be going back there again. I wasn’t going to have anyone tell me you were a fake, because no matter how many bloody people tell me you were, I will never in a million years believe them. I won’t even believe you, Sherlock.
From the first moment I met you I knew that you were way too genuine to be a fake. The way you looked me in the eyes and told me about yourself, Mycroft, your work, all the laughs we shared in Baker Street… I could see it in your eyes, in your mannerisms that you were telling me fact, not fiction; that we were sharing genuine moments with each other. I still remember that night when you knew Moriarty was trying to burn you, and you thought he had gotten to me too. You smacked your hand off the table, and shouted while staring right into my eyes with complete and sincere intensity. Your expression in that moment couldn’t ever be faked; not even by the greatest actors alive today, Sherlock. On your face was the look of a man who knew just how good he was and couldn’t stand being lied about and turned against by everyone he trusted. I could see plain as day that it was all genuinely getting to you, that you were all you said you were and more. You showed me in that moment that Moriarty wasn’t a bloody actor you paid to make yourself look cool. You were too arrogant and self-assured in your own abilities to be desperate enough to need to pay for attention, Sherlock. No, that night, more than ever was when I knew you were the real deal.
Even the way your voice choked when you tried to tell me you were a fraud before you jumped gave you away. I could hear it in your voice that you didn’t mean any of what you were saying and that you couldn’t bear trying to convince me that you weren’t genuine. I was your proudest audience member from the very start, Sherlock, and it ate at you that you had to lie to me. Though, did you ever think I would believe you? There is no possible way you could fake all those amazing feats, all those clever deductions and plans, like how you showed me that you memorized all of London’s streets when we were hunting down the cabbie killer. So, whether your lie was made up to protect me or to make me think you weren’t who you said you were, I’ll never know. All I do know is that it didn’t work, and I will never let anyone spread slander about you as long as I live. Not the news on the telly, the press, or even Anderson and Donovan.
And so I will stand all across London, my sign in hand, and I will speak the truth about the Sherlock Holmes I knew so well. I will shout loud and proud that you were the most brilliant man I will ever know, the greatest detective who ever shall live and the best friend a man could ask for. With my sign I will stand tall against the media who paint you as a fool, even if I am standing all alone in the pouring rain, speaking to nothing but the raindrops cascading off of me. I will stand soaked but in the hopes that my words affect just one, just one single person passing by me, because even that would mean what I was doing wasn’t all for nil. You may find all this to be a rather pointless crusade, but when I was nothing but a broken soldier you didn’t give up on me, so I won’t ever give up on you, not for anything, Sherlock.
I don’t really know where to move on from here though, but I am trying, day by day to grow a little stronger, to be a little less cynical about everything. I think it is about time I try to kick some of my worst habits, and hopefully I will get better because of it. I’ll try not the stare at your empty chair, try to stop visiting your website, and instead try and clean up the mess at the apartment… I might even try taking a walk every now and then and have some nice thoughts for a change. Yeah, some nice thoughts would be good, I think. Don’t you, Sherlock?
My most recent happy thought was a few nights back, actually. I fell asleep in the chair and for just a brief few minutes I dreamed of a happy moment for once in all this darkness. And it wasn’t about the war, or your fall, or one of our cases or anything remotely morbid. It was just us, Sherlock; just you and I, meeting again, right here in 221B. I was heading towards the door to the apartment after exchanging words and payment with a cabbie, and I slowly started making my way up the stairs. Then, I heard the faint sound of your violin being played upstairs, the strings being lightly manipulated and playing a melody you would’ve loved. At the notice of it I speed up the rest of the stairs, almost burst through the door, and by the light of the window I see your silhouette and for the first time in a long time I can’t help but smile. It was a strange dream, Sherlock. There wasn’t anger, or pain or anything like that in my eyes. You, there in the flesh, breathing before me was enough for me to forgive anything you have done. Then, your head turns almost in slow motion to meet my gaze, and just when I am about to run to you, I wake up in a sweat. Though it felt like my brain was teasing me, trying to make me think you were alive again, and though I know we will never meet again in this life, it was a nice break from the nightmare my life has turned into. And, it is nice to dream about the impossible for a change. That you will someday walk in our door again and everything will finally return to normal.
And so, Sherlock, until fantasy becomes reality, here I will be. Mourning your absence, saluting you like a fallen soldier, and carrying the message to anyone that will listen that I believe in Sherlock Holmes, that Moriarty was real and that Richard Brook was a lie. I’ll do it not for Lestrade, not for Mrs. Hudson, not for your fans and not even for myself. I’ll do it because standing for a few hours in the pouring rain with my sign, defending your memory with my chin held high is the least I can do for all that you have given me. And until the world believes, I won’t stop, and I’ll keep up the hope that all of this is just one bad dream and that you are still alive out there, somewhere.
You know, I meant with all my heart what I said to you at your grave that day, Sherlock. And I am still waiting for that one last miracle.
-John H. Watson
It was so much fun to finally get back to doing some creative writing again, even though it is a sad piece that I wrote! :)
I kept the usual items of clothing you would expect Sherlock and John to wear, and tried to stay close to the GMD art style while still adding my own touches to it. Considering John is a military man, I have this version of Dawson doing a simple salute, and since there is a smiley face spray-painted on the flat walls at Baker Street I thought it would only be logical that the GMD equivalent of that would be a spray-painted mouse face. I kept the same 221B wallpaper and just gave it a red color to make Basil and Dawson really pop out.
Next up, Basil and Dawson will be adapted into the Downey/Law Holmes universe!
Here is the original piece:
http://bradymajor.deviantart.com/art/Basil-and-Dawson-in-the-Ritchie-Holmesverse-
1-400786090?ga_submit_new=10%253A1379389518
And here is a slightly altered version where I added cuts, mud spots, and dirt to the characters since Holmes and Watson get put through the ringer in the films, especially in A Game of Shadows:
http://bradymajor.deviantart.com/art/Basil-and-Dawson-in-the-Ritchie-Holmesverse-2-400786850?ga_submit_new=10%3A1379389587
Thank you very much! Your feedback means a lot. :)
http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2863/10285023425_b67ed4fa36_o.jpg
I got the idea to use a maze in the poster, and soon this image was born:
I tried to think of cool ways to drive the motif forward, so the tagline compares the world to a maze, and the actual logo for the title "Labyrinth of Lies" is one big maze, that starts at the H in "Labyrinth" and ends with the S in "Lies." To create the logo I used the font for Inception, and then added in a bunch of my own lines to make it look more like a maze, recreating many sections of the logo to make it into a huge maze with a beginning and end. And instead of going with the O as it appears in the Inception typeface I used a circle maze for that letter in "Of" made by this person on deviantart, and changed it a bit to fit my needs:
http://ryoshi-un.deviantart.com/art/Circle-Maze-324141035
I usually don't do these kinds of posters where I work with layers upon layers of images, and instead go for the more arty and at times minimalistic pieces, but I am reasonably happy with how this turned out. I have never really done a poster just for Pierce, so I thought it would be cool to try it out instead of going with Sean or Dan as I would usually do. I hope you enjoy it. :)
http://bradymajor.deviantart.com/art/The-Ghost-of-Vietnam-413099351?ga_submit_new=10%3A1384228415
Any and all feedback on the story and my writing in general would be extremely appreciated, as I am really trying to grow as a raconteur.
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<center><font color = black size = 5>“The Ghost of Vietnam”</font></center>
“They out there,” whispered Sergeant Cole Williams, in a voice as strained as my bones and as gentle as the rain pattering off the tops of our helmets.
“Who?” I answered clearly, replying if only to fill the deadly void of silence with something other than my own paranoia at what lay beyond our post. The ever-present sense of fear that my every move was being watched had seized my heart in a death grip since I had begun those nightly shifts deep inside the Vietnamese jungle.
“Charlie out there,” Cole quietly returned, this time pointing with his meaty index finger out over the muddy trench hole and in the direction of a wall of trees laid out beyond our position.
I knew his answer needed no further response. Yes, Charlie was out there. We all knew that clear as day, and Charlie was aware of it too. And that’s where they had us. Our army had the most advanced and powerful weaponry out there, yet Charlie had us one better: they knew how to play our minds; they knew about fear. We were in their territory, on their home field, and they weren’t about to let some heavy stepping Yankees march into the place without putting up a fight.
From the very start it didn’t take long to realize that at sunset Charlie owned the darkness, and in association, owned us. As the fierce, sizzling sun sunk deep into the Vietnamese horizon, we all knew that our army full of high performance firearms and explosives weren’t a match for Charlie at nighttime. They had an almost supernatural hold over us from the very beginning, where during peak hours of the night they would shriek out in unison as if in prayer, breaking the silence like a gun blast through a pane of glass. Looking back on those moments I still don’t understand why they did it. Was it a moment to join together in a battle cry? An attempt at communicating with a God beyond the deep canopy of leaves that blocked out the stars above? Or maybe it was simply a message to us, a chilling missive that they were still out there, breathing, waiting and packing the kind of heat that made a burning iron feel painless to the touch in comparison. Just hearing them all shout in that collective voice acted as a language barrier to our ears and sent chills up my spine. Even now I can’t shake it. As I laid there in the trench I knew that they were out there somewhere, waiting for us to come creeping towards them through the darkness, just as we had expected them to do.
Once I heard their shrieks, experienced my body shiver with a foreboding sense of sorrow, and felt the cover of night fall down upon me like the wave of a nasty swell, I knew Vietnam was a losing game for my fellow boys in the red, white and blue. After we touched down in Vietnam, Charlie didn’t need to nail “No Trespassing” signs into the bark of the trees. The stinking piles of American bodies stacked ten high transmitted that message just fine.
And then there was that jungle, a pit of darkness with a life of its own. Sometimes the rest of the boys and I wondered who the real enemy was: Charlie, or the jungle? I mean, Charlie was crafty, but the jungle was on a whole different level. That landscape was absolutely indifferent to race or ethnicity and lacked the capacity to feel the kind of sentiment found in mere humans, making the terrain like a feral dog released off the chain. The jungle was the all-seeing, all-knowing power in Vietnam, the unchallenged master of masking what we could feel was there, and what we never dared to go out looking for. It played on our anxieties nightly, making damn sure that we woke up soaked with sweat at the snap of every piece of wood and the shuffling of every blade of foliage. At moments like that, we felt like the terrain itself was working on its own behalf, setting evil designs against both Charlie and our unit, ultimately waiting for the perfect moment to creep out and strike. It was the silence of nights like that, with black darkness that hid away whatever was out there waiting to kill you that could haunt your wildest dreams. It is the untamed animal of the Vietnamese jungle itself, covered by the hand of night and holder of all that is unknown in this wild country that will eat away at you if you let it. And I let it.
While things were certainly rough there in Vietnam, things were getting just as chaotic back on home soil. Not long before that time you had big Joe McCarthy waving his so-called “black book” full of known communists around while men and women were getting blacklisted left and right at shoddy trial proceedings. As our country ran to the aid of a crumbling South Vietnam in an effort to combat the very political system McCarthy had previously rallied against, our nation entered its own period of desperation and dissatisfaction. During that time the country had seen some of its darkest days, with its own national forces shooting down fellow Americans during protests against the very war I had found myself deep in the heart of. Times like those gave you a new perspective on life, making you question just what the hell all this fighting and killing was supposed to mean in the long run. American society as a whole seemed to be at a breaking point, where opposing sides in politics and beyond still couldn’t settle their differences and work together just once for the good of the people. It seemed that just as Agent Orange was eroding the plant life of the Vietnamese jungle, our own people were eating away at each other, fist for fist and bullet for bullet. These were the kinds of thoughts I kept bottled up inside my head during that time, and though it wasn’t exactly healthy, I couldn’t help it.
As the world entered the 70s, commanders flew more often than ever into our bases all across Vietnam almost weekly. Their reports were frequent, and mostly concerned untold numbers of civilian deaths occurring at home during war protests. A few other visiting commanders delivered news focusing on the continued paranoia left over from the communist witch-hunts that were still having an affect on the nation as a whole. As if to confirm the existence of the storm cloud looming overhead at this period, I heard about the situation at Kent State, Ohio the week of my birthday. To receive reports of our own national guard shooting unarmed student protestors ate away at me all day, and forever after. Needless to say, not even the best dinner the unit could muster up helped to quench my anger, my growing cynicism, and my tireless hatred of that war. The other soldiers often looked at me with growing concern, always telling me to keep my head up, and that “Everything would be alright in the end.” But they didn’t know what I was feeling, and they sure as shit didn’t know how badly we were losing the war. I probably could have smiled a bit more back then if I tried real hard, but I quickly found out that after experiencing so much bad you begin to find it hard to see anything good in what you’re doing.
As promised, the 70s kicked on and my experience in Vietnam was as soul sucking as ever once things really started heating up. What started as small missions to transport men and ammunition to outposts along the rivers running deep inside the jungle had turned into far more drastic efforts. My unit and I would watch Vietnamese families living all across the terrain kneel in pain with their crying newborn babies, carrying with them any valuables they could hold on to as commanders ordered us to clear them out of the area, burn their homes to the ground and poison their water supply.
I looked at the crowds of women and children we were pushing out and thought of all the Charlie in the jungle, wondering if any of them were their loved ones. Gazing at the pure looks of innocence on the faces of the babies, I instantly craved to be a child again, back when I had no knowledge of hate, war or death. As we removed the Vietnamese from their villages and set fire to all they had known, I found a sick parallel to how my own life had played out, with no place to lay my head and no hands to hold on to for comfort.
Looking at the charred remains of what were once people’s homes and sense of safety, you would think things couldn’t get much worse for Charlie’s loved ones. Sadly, it didn’t end there. It never ended there. If our commanders were feeling especially infuriated that day, they’d order a few boys to line up some of the Charlie and shoot them all down in one burst. The bullet-riddled corpses toppled like dominoes as if it was all some sick game to them that I refused to watch. While I often questioned how some of us were all a part of the same species, I had darker moments where I had to drop my gun to the ground just to resist making Swiss cheese out of the bastards. The way I saw it, if you ordered the inhumane executions of a bunch of defenseless innocents you were obviously empty of any tangible humanity and weren’t deserving of the kind of respect your status demanded.
Staring down at the corpses of all those Vietnamese laid out in a line, I thought again of their native people fighting elsewhere in the jungle who were now deprived of their families forever. For that moment in time I realized that maybe we weren’t that different after all, Charlie and I, and once again questioned my place in this world. I mean, you can only watch so many Charlie light themselves on fire before you begin to question just what the point of all this war is anyway. Watching them roll around in a charred frenzy upon the pavement made it clear to me that the only enemy we were fighting were the untamed savages contained in ourselves. On most days, I decided that a bullet straight through the heart for any of us would be a pleasant escape from that conflict.
I sometimes felt like sharing these kinds of feelings with the rest of the men in the company, like Cole, but instead chose to shut myself off as much as I could from everyone around me. I had previously made the mistake of creating friendships while stationed close to Saigon, only to have those closest to me die in my arms, choking back on what blood was left inside them once Charlie was finished. No, a young boy like Cole who was only here because he couldn’t afford a college education wouldn’t be any better off hearing me bitch about my own adjustment issues to Vietnam. And so, I sat in silence most of the time, salvaging what comfort I could from utter isolation. If you switched off like that, and rid yourself of any social contact outside of your mission objectives, you could sleep better at night; though only a little. And yet, no matter how much you try to seek that shelter there always remains a pounding sense of dread in your heart. You grow concerned that soon you’ll become a victim of your own poor decisions, too unresponsive to human contact and more like a callous savage than a brave drafted soldier. Yet it was on nights like that one with Cole, away from those of my unit who behaved like animals that I reflected upon myself, and made the distinction that I hadn’t yet been completely lost.
“Sir? Are you scared of dying?” Cole had spoken yet again, but my mind had drifted far from my body at that moment and into the abyss. It seemed like every time I made a point of avoiding conversations with my unit one of them would inevitably engage me in a discussion. The memories of those who did the same before Cole and grew on to become dear friends still flash vividly before me. First it was Billy Martin, a journalist reporting war news from deep in the field along the Mekong Delta. Not long after him, there was Private Phillips who was working as our unit’s translator until the My Lai Massacre where he lost his life saving a family of Charlie our men were mercilessly killing. Then there was Richard Strang, Jonathan Hardy, and Thomas Pearson, drinking buddies all killed in a failed assault on a known prisoner of war camp deep inside Viet Minh controlled territory. And of course we all knew what had happened to Colonel Walter E. Kurtz. Would Cole become the next friend of mine that I would have to watch die agonizingly before my eyes? Back then I think I knew the answer, and just didn’t want to admit it to myself. A savage would have accepted such casualties and moved on, but as I said, I managed to cling tightly to what remained of my humanity one night longer. Looking over at Cole on his side of the trench, I saw the recognizable fear in his eyes, the need for reassurance and a desire for some sense of company in that bleak darkness. I indulged him, and asked if he could repeat his inquiry once more, using the same hushed tone.
I pondered his question with earnest dedication. Was I scared of dying? While it seemed like a bit of a vain question to present to a soldier fighting for his country in a foreign territory, I decided to take a bite at the apple and thought it over real hard in my head. In my most cynical moments I waited for death, almost wishing for it to take me away from this hell, but did that mean I wouldn’t be frightened when it came? Of course not. While I was still lost in my thoughts over the matter, I did know one thing: death meant different things to everyone. For some it signifies leaving this plane of existence for a greener pasture up in heaven. For others it’s an escape for their soul as they exit their current existence, leaving behind an empty shell of a corpse. And for some others, death is like scratching off a winning lottery ticket, because they view life as one long trial filled with nothing but pain and suffering. They are often too cowardly to kill themselves and instead let fate do its bidding. Considering my own feelings about our nation’s entry into Vietnam and the fierce cynicism I held for what had surrounded, me, it still wasn’t the latter.
For me, death meant something far more frightening. For me, death was Charlie: a nameless, cloaked figure of the night, armed with a gun and charging towards me head on, muttering words as foreign to my ears as their terrain was to my eyes. They were all specters forever placed over my shoulder, because their cries revealed to this beating heart that they were out there, and they would soon come for me. It was just a matter of when.
I had prepared to reply to Cole, who sat looking at me in a dumbfounded manner as I had again trailed off into my own little word. Just as I cleared my throat, a familiar wave of shivers began traveling along my spine as if a jolt of electricity was making its way up and down my vertebrae.
“Did you hear that?” I lightly asked Cole as I got in closer.
“Hear what?” he returned.
“Exactly.” Charlie was usually quiet, but not this quiet. While they often made a point to shout out, rustle the leaves or let off an automatic round to ensure we were all aware of their presence, now there was nothing. Not even the slightest whispers or cracks of tree limbs entered my ears. It was like they were listening the whole time, mapping out a plan of attack as both Cole and I sloppily took our eyes and ears off of the environment surrounding us, using it to their advantage.
Before I could prepare a strategy to combat what appeared to be a pack of Charlie approaching for an ambush, my train of thought was derailed as I heard something softly ricochet against the side of the trench and land with a firm thud into the muddy ground inside. If I hadn’t been paying attention I’d have thought it was Cole adjusting himself or checking his gun for a jam, but he was still in that same position, his eyes alert and searching as he tried to listen for any outside movement. Only then did his mind put together the pieces of what I had noticed just seconds before, and we both jumped forward to the place where we heard the resounding thud, almost bumping helmets as we went.
Gazing deep inside the mud, I linked eyes with death in the form of a grenade, a homemade design from Charlie himself. Before I could shout a warning to Cole, curse Charlie for his audacity, or give out a shrill cry in answer to the many my ears had endured while inside that thick jungle, it was all over. All I can recall seeing is a bright flash, with hues of yellow, red and orange beginning to engulf the almost holy white light, and in turn, me. My whole body was aflame, as if I was a Vietnamese sacrifice being burnt for their own sacred purpose. The explosion had sent shrapnel on a direct path towards my face where pieces of the hot metal had now made their home; the blood spilling into what was left of my eyes made them burn with the same intensity as the fire. My ears were apparently still functioning, for I could hear bloodcurdling cries exiting from Cole’s lips, deep and guttural as the life too was squeezed out of him. Through the putrid smell of my own charring skin I too tried to cry out, but my mouth was over-flowing with blood and my vocal chords produced only gags.
Anything I had known up to that point was gone, and I felt as if I was drifting away, the seething fire now more temperate in its fiery passions. What felt like hours of writhing agony passed by in mere seconds as I came closer and closer to my destination at Death’s doorstep, the only saving grace being that I would finally escape Vietnam. As everything in my world grew black, I heard the slightest echo of laughter coming from above the trench, as if a pack of hyenas had come to bear witness to my demise. Straining my head upwards, I found only a pack of Charlie staring down upon me with rice hats on their heads and automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. It was there in those final laughs to ever reach my eardrums that I found my answer to the conundrum Cole had placed upon my shoulders during his own final breaths. Dying there upon the cold mud that acted as an interesting contrast to the inferno surrounding me, the answer came in one last flash to my mind. I realized that if there existed those like Charlie who found pleasure in the termination of another human being, life was far scarier than death.
Here's the link to it on my deviantart page, though I understand that many have had an issue viewing it directly on the site:
http://bradymajor.deviantart.com/art/The-Plight-of-Officer-Sherman-Tubbs-418035687?ga_submit_new=10%3A1386302433&ga_type=edit&ga_changes=1&ga_recent=1
As police officer Sherman Tubbs took a sip from the substandard cup of precinct coffee, he gazed out at his fellow officers with genuine envy. He saw the bastards staring back at him with glares full of pity and amusement as his overweight carcass sat in the suffocating office. They all knew what day it was just as much as he did, evidenced by the fact that he was chugging down his eighth cup of joe since his morning shift began. Though Tubbs had tried to fistfight Father Time all week long, it was Friday once again, and that meant Chief Woodhouse would be knocking on his office door any second now as three o’ clock slowly crept by. With that nauseating thought in mind, Tubbs rose up out of his chair and bee-lined once again to the coffee machine. He had barely filled up half the cup when he felt a strong tug on his left shoulder that made him spill some of the sweet elixir on his hand.
“Get ready to head out on the beat, Tubbs. My boy has just arrived!” Sure enough, Chief Woodhouse had just gotten back from picking up his delightfully lovable son Melvin from school, the description “delightfully lovable” translating roughly to “smart ass little prick.”
“Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that, chief,” Tubbs quickly replied in between licking the burning coffee off his hand.
“There’s nothing to talk about, Tubbs. Now, where in God’s sweet Sally did that boy get to?”
Sherman followed Woodhouse as he continued shouting at the top of his voice about the whereabouts of his son, addressing what seemed to be the entire police force in the process. He had always observed that the chief’s movements while navigating through the precinct looked very militarized, honed and earnest, his protruding square chin, intimidating gaze and stern, pointed finger something to be reckoned with. It was on days like this when Tubbs mused that the army were robbed of a great drill sergeant when Woodhouse decided to dedicate his life to the force. Just as the chief was going to let loose another bellow inquiring about his son’s location, Melvin came pacing in through the front doors as if he owned the place. Perks of being the chief’s boy, Tubbs guessed. This kid was truly a sight to behold: raven black hair spiked out like a javelin in the front with a splash of orange hairspray across one side, bulky headphones jammed into his ears and donning the t-shirt of one of those shitty anti-government bands kids his age were into. He looked like the stereotypical teenager in most people’s eyes, but as far as Tubbs was concerned, the kid could’ve had horns growing out of his head.
“What up, pop,” he said as he approached the chief, and then turned his gaze to Tubbs. “How’s it hangin’, Sherly?”
“We’ve been over this, Melvin. My name’s Sherman, thanks,” Tubbs retorted. “What up, pop?” he continued mockingly. “Are you a gangster or something all of a sudden?”
“Hey, don’t hate the player, hate the game.”
“What the hell does that even mean? What game?”
“Quit your antagonizing, Tubbs, and take the boy out on the beat,” Chief Woodhouse interrupted, giving Tubbs a glare that seemed to say “Don’t make me tell you twice.”
This was how it had worked, every single weekend for about a month or so now. Tubbs would wake up, smash his alarm clock to the floor trying to turn it off, take a shower, eat his breakfast and then make his way to the precinct. As soon as he stepped into his office, looked at the date on his calendar and saw that it was Friday, he had a permanent “piss face” on until the weekend was over. Every Friday once school got out, the chief would pick up Melvin from school and drop him off at the precinct so that Tubbs could “show him the ropes.” The Chief told him that his son was considering following in his footsteps, and thought it would be useful if Melvin had an idea of what the life of a policeman was like. Since Tubbs was the only poor bastard in the precinct without a partner at the time, he was unanimously volunteered for this grand opportunity. While he couldn’t stand the kid one bit, he knew not to argue with the wishes of the chief, and bowed his head like the loyal, dimwitted dog he was to Woodhouse’s every command.
After their regular Friday greeting session was over, Tubbs took the patrol car keys from Woodhouse as he had so many times before, and walked out the back precinct door to the parking lot with Melvin not far behind.
“What the hell is that shirt about?” he asked the kid once he had unlocked the car door, hopped in and started the ignition.
“This?” Melvin said as he looked down and tugged on the upper collar of his t-shirt. “It’s a shirt for one of my favorite bands, ‘The Spitfire Syndicate.’ Their music’s like, totally a symbol about how the man is our controller and how we have a human obligation to rise up and tear that corruption and shit down and just say, ‘this stuff ain’t gonna fly no more.’”
“Wow, that sounds real poignant, real hard-hitting. Forgive me if I don’t look their music up first thing when I get home.”
“No need to be accostin’ me with your sarcasm, fool. You know what, man? Your ass is just like what the “Syndicate” sings about. You’re the like, power hungry, greedy white man that’s like, abusing their power and blocking the world from changing for the better and shit like that. Move outta the way, man. Move outta the way!”
“Are you high or something, kid?”
“If being like, passionate about the world and shit means I’m high, then hell yeah, son, I’m high as a kite.”
“What the hell were your parents thinking when they had unprotected sex?” Tubbs mumbled indirectly, shifting his eyes left and right across the parking lot exit as he made his way out into the street.
“What’s that?” Melvin snapped back.
“Huh? Oh, nothing…”
As if by some God given miracle, the car ride had remained quiet for a while after that as Tubbs directed the patrol car across town looking for any signs of disturbance. In an effort to escape the awkward silence, he turned on the radio and put on an Oldies station that was playing Frank Sinatra’s “Come Fly With Me.” Tubbs began humming along to the crooner’s tune, but before the song even reached the bridge section, the station was changed. Snapping out of his musical trance, he turned his head quickly to the side and spotted Melvin fooling around with the knobs on the radio.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, kid?” he spat. “Nobody, not even the chief’s son, turns Sinatra.”
“Oh, give me a break, grandpa. We need some sweet ass cop music up in here, not some la-de-da Oldies type shit.”
Foaming at the mouth, Tubbs slapped Melvin’s hand off the knobs and switched the station back, resuming his whistling.
“There’s no truth in this art, man,” Melvin continued even as the song went on. “No truth. This dude is just like, mackin’ on honeys and shit while there’s real problems needin’ fixin’ in the world. Not cool, man. Not cool.”
“Oh, but the Shitball Syndi…whatever speaks all the truth, right?”
“They’re called ‘The Spitfire Syndicate,’ old man,” Melvin corrected, “and yes, they speak it loud and proud. This Sinatra dude should really let his balls drop and like, challenge the establishment who is totally beatin’ the common man down. If you ain’t a part of the solution, you’re a part of the problem, you know? That’s always been my motto. So, how about we play some Spitfire? I got one of their tapes right here in my bag.”
“That’s it, kid, I’m drawing the line right here. That garbage will not be played in this patrol vehicle, do I make myself clear?”
“Pfffft. Whatever. Your bitch ass is just like the man, Sherly, always bringing me down and shit. I hate you, man. I hate you.”
“Hey, don’t hate the player, hate the game,” Tubbs remarked, giving the punk a piece of his own medicine.
“Shit, didn’t my old man warn you about antagonizing me and all that? You don’t listen too well, do you? Man, why the hell did I get stuck patrolling with your stupid ass anyway?”
Tubbs let out a sigh he had been saving up ever since he looked at his calendar that morning. “You got stuck with my ‘stupid ass’, because I’m the only officer at the precinct without a partner at the moment.”
“And why the hell is that?”
“Well, apparently Officer Barnes didn’t get the memo warning policemen against heading into bars after hours with their guns still loaded.”
“Oh shit, dog.”
“Yeah, oh shit is right. Some guy down the bar was getting fresh with one of the female bartenders and Barnes, who was drunk as the day is long and about as balanced as an overweight couch potato on a tightrope stumbles towards the bastard, gun in hand, and shoots a hole in his own leg while tripping on a bar stool. Needless to say, the place cleared out real quick, and your dad was there not long after to give him a slap on the wrists. They made him take a few weeks leave to think about what he did, and now he’s trying to get himself sorted out for good this time.”
“That shit’s mad crazy. I guess I’m stuck with you for a while, then.”
“Yep, it sure looks that way. I could always talk to the chief about reassigning you to someone else”, Tubbs said, mentally crossing his fingers that such a miracle was within reach.
“Nah, my pop wouldn’t go for that. He likes gettin’ under your skin too much. Man, I wouldn’t even mind this type of shit if somethin’ like, exciting just happened, you know? We drive around every weekend and the most trouble we freakin’ see is like, some wrinkly old bitch needin’ help crossin’ the street or some shit. It’s boring!”
“Well, that’s the reality of the job, kid. We’re in a small town for Christ’s sake, not Gotham City.”
“Ah, now that’s what the precinct needs.”
“What?”
“You know. A bat signal.”
“A bat signal? Really?”
“Well how else do you expect Batman to come around and kick some ass?” Melvin returned, making punching gestures with his fists as if he was boxing the air.
“Yep, you’re definitely high on something.”
“I told you, fool I’m-“
Just as Melvin was about to refute Tubbs’s statement, a voice came from the police scanner.
“Shit, hold on a second, kid. We’ve got something coming in.” Tubbs picked up the walkie-talkie and held it close to his mouth, brushing it up against the mustache he had managed to groom above it. “Car eleven-fifteen here, dispatch. What do you have for us?”
“Car eleven-fifteen, we’ve got a 10-51, Code 1 on North Hampton Street, the Mongrave apartments.”
“Shit, that doesn’t sound good. All right, we’ll take the 10-51, Code 1. Car eleven-fifteen out.” Tubbs placed the walkie-talkie back on the top of the dashboard and took a hard left turn, making his way back across town to North Hampton Street.
“10-51, Code 1? What’s that?” Melvin inquired, swaying madly back and forth in his seat as Tubbs drove every which way along the roads.
“It’s police code for a suicide jumper. I don’t know the full situation, but these things are never pretty.”
* * *
Tubbs was right: it wasn’t pretty. As he pulled up to the Mongrave apartments, he spotted a chain of police cars all lined up opposite to the building, with crowds mashed together in one big semicircle out in the street. To make matters worse, the town’s elementary school was just yards away, and innocent youths were staring out from behind the fences, a mix of awe and excitement in their eyes. Tubbs dragged Melvin by the shirt to the crowd amassed in the street, and pushed his way through to the center where his fellow officers were debating a course of action. He looked up at the apartment floors and spotted a man standing to the right of his fourth-floor window, trying to keep his balance on the short cement ledge that protruded outwards from the building.
“Oh, Christ,” Tubbs muttered, searching around for anyone he could speak with. Just as he was about to break through the other side of the crowd, Chief Woodhouse came towards him out of the fray with a megaphone in hand. “Chief, what’s the situation?” he asked urgently.
“Well,” he said, “we’ve got a Mr. Thomas Aldridge here, threatening to make a mess of himself on the pavement because his wife is screwing around behind his back, and he feels he is under surveillance by “the man,” whatever that means. Could be on drugs, as he’s obviously delusional. We’ve been here for only ten minutes or so, and we can’t seem to talk any sense into the guy.”
As the chief was speaking, Tubbs could make out the shrill screams and rants of Mr. Aldridge from where he was standing in the street, though some of it was unintelligible.
“That bitch!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, almost falling off the ledge due to the force of his call. “That bitch thinks she’s gonna cheat behind my back? Where the fuck does she get off playin’ me like that?! And she’s in on the government scheme too, man, you can bet on that. I just know it! Comin’ around my place, plantin’ surveillance equipment so that Big Brother knows exactly what I’m up to. That’s just her style!” As far as Tubbs was concerned, the only thing stranger than Aldridge’s ravings was his appearance. He looked straight out of San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury district, wearing a mesmerizing tie-dyed t-shirt that collected all of the various colors of the rainbow into one swirling pattern. His hair was of a sandy brown color, wiry, unkempt and all in tangles around his head, looking as if it hadn’t been shampooed or tamed by a comb in weeks.
“This one is obviously not thinking straight,” Woodhouse muttered.
“Chief, we’re not going to do any good shouting at him from the street,” Tubbs advised. “We’ve got to get a man up to the apartment to try and talk him back inside, face to face.”
“Good thinking, Tubbs. Hell, why don’t you head on up and give it a go? It was your idea after all.”
Tubbs should have seen that coming, but once again he bit his tongue and did as he was told. “All right, sir. I’ll try my best.”
“Aldridge lives in apartment number 4B. And Tubbs,” Woodhouse added as Sherman was making his way to the entrance, “try not to fuck this up. We’ve got children watching.”
As Tubbs climbed the stairs leading to Aldridge’s apartment, he fought back the butterflies in his stomach and the nervous twitching of his hands. He always bitched and moaned about how underappreciated he was at the precinct, but moments like this could be what led to a serious promotion or pay raise. At the most, maybe Melvin would get re-assigned to an officer of a lower rank and become Woodhouse’s new whipping boy. It was all wishful thinking, sure, but Tubbs could dream.
As he made his way to the fourth floor, Tubbs was out of breath with sweat collecting on his forehead, temple and brows, a strange odor filling in the air. He reached room 4B and tested the resistance of the apartment door. It was pretty sturdy, but he figured that the force of his overweight hide would quickly dispatch it and gave him clearance into Aldridge’s place. Backing up from the door a good seven paces to give himself more than enough room to work with, Tubbs charged at it and effortlessly smashed his way inside the apartment, losing his footing and slamming hard on the wooden floor as the sound of the doorknob smacking into the wall resounded. Brushing himself off and feeling quite fortunate that nobody was around to see his flub, Tubbs directed his attention to the open window ahead of him. As he looked around and saw dozens upon dozens of cats in all sizes and colors he finally understood why there was suddenly such a bad odor filling the air. He dashed for the window both to speak to Aldridge and to get some fresh, pure air once again, poking his head out and then his torso as slowly and harmlessly as he could manage. Aldridge’s eyes immediately locked with his, and grew at least twice their size.
“You one of her friends or somethin’, man?” he muttered, edging farther and farther from Tubbs on the ledge.
“One of who’s friends?” Tubbs inquired.
“Who do you think? Cindy, my bitch of a wife. Actually, probably ex-wife at this fuckin’ point.”
“Oh. No, no, no. I’m- I’m a policeman here to help you.”
“A policeman here to help me? That’s a laugh. You can’t fool me. I know you’re really just one of those government pigs settin’ designs on my ass because I know too much. I’m not trustin’ a pig as far as I can thrown one, and you look mighty big.”
“Listen, I really am a policeman. I’m not here to hurt you,” Tubbs said as if it was a disclaimer. “I just want to help you. Why don’t you come back inside the apartment and talk with me face to face about all this.”
“That’s exactly what you want, isn’t it, pig!” Aldridge yelled at the top of his lungs.
“There’s probably ten more of you fools inside, just waitin’ to take me in and meet another quota in Big Brother’s master plan! I’m not goin’ down that way, no sir!”
“Nothing like that is going to happen, Mr. Aldridge. Now, could you please just come back inside with me?”
“Nah, man. I should just end it right here, make a statement for the world that Big Brother isn’t takin’ me in. I won’t be brainwashed!”
“No, you don’t want to do that, Timothy. Please, there’s school children watching. They don’t need to see this kind of stuff. Just- just come on in with me, all right?”
“No, these kids should see, they deserve to see! They should know what’s waitin’ for them when they grow up. The system’s corrupt and it’s gonna steamroll all over their asses if they let it!”
Tubbs was at a complete loss at what to do when he felt a strong tug on the back of his coat and jolted so badly that he hit his head off the top of the window. Pulling himself back inside, he saw Melvin standing there next to him.
“This is a high risk situation we’ve got on our hands, kid. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m doin’ what you can’t,” Melvin said, making his way out the window and onto the ledge.
Tubbs peeked his head back out in absolute shock to watch the action unfold, Melvin now within arm’s reach of Aldridge.
“Now who the hell are you, the pig’s son?” Aldridge said.
“Shit, he wishes,” Melvin answered. “No, I’m someone like you, someone sick and tired of how like, Big Brother and the system are runnin’ this world dry.”
“Is that so? What do you know about all that?”
“Everything there is to know, man. I see like, surveillance equipment all up in this bitch. I already found three cameras in your apartment just by lookin’ the place over real fast like.”
“I knew it, I knew that bitch was workin’ for the man!” Aldridge yelled.
“Yeah, this girl of yours seems like total bad news and shit, Tommy. I’ve been with bitches before that ran the same kinda schemes as her.”
“They’re all like that, every fuckin’ one. That’s why I gotta send a message to her and the rest of those pigs and jump. I gotta show Big Brother that he don’t own me.”
“That isn’t gonna solve anything, dude. If you kill yourself you’re like, givin’ them pigs one less person to worry about. You’d be makin’ their job easier and shit, givin’ them the satisfaction that they got to you and made you give in. You don’t want that, man.”
“I don’t, do I?” said Aldridge, stepping back towards the window a little more.
“And who else is gonna tell that cheatin’ bitch of yours off but you? If you jump she’ll just keep on runnin’ the same damn schemes with another fine gentleman such as yourself. Now, we don’t want that, do we Tommy boy?”
“Fuck no. Fuck no!” Aldridge was just a foot or two from the window now.
“All right, Tommy, that’s what I like to hear. Now, I’m gonna get back inside and you’re gonna take my hand, then me and the pig will help you back through, aight?”
“All right.”
Melvin made his way back inside the apartment and helped a gob-smacked Tubbs pull in Aldridge. An explosion of applause met them as they took Thomas down to street level, and with the help of Chief Woodhouse, placed him in the back of a waiting police car. Tubbs was about to take the passenger’s seat when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.
“Not so fast there, Tubbs,” Chief Woodhouse said. “The front seat is reserved for heroes.”
Just then Melvin weaseled his way past Tubbs and took the seat, while he was demoted to sitting in the back with Aldridge.
“Where we goin’ man?” Aldridge kept on muttering, as if in a daze.
“Uh, we’re just going to go talk to Cindy at the precinct, Thomas,” Tubbs stated, willing to say anything to make him and his seemingly drug addled mind shut up.
“Oh, good,” he said. “Better keep that bitch under lock and key!” It was only seconds later that his head suddenly went limp and fell backwards. Aldridge began snoring, having drifted into a deep slumber.
“Hey pop,” Melvin said to Chief Woodhouse, who had just put the patrol car in drive, “do you mind if I play my “Spitfire Syndicate” CD?”
“Of course not, son,” he answered. “Heroes can play whatever they want. You hear that, Tubbs? You could learn a helluva lot from my boy here.” He reached across the seat and ran his hand through Melvin’s hair in a loving gesture as the kid rocked out to the Syndicate’s condemnation of the man and the system upon which he ruled.
“Let’s get on home, eh sport?” Chief Woodhouse continued. “Tubbs, I’ll just drop you off at your place and then take Thomas here to the station for a little chat. You look like a wreck, and you’ll need your energy for tomorrow.”
“Why’s that, sir?” Tubbs asked.
“Because, Melvin here has told me he wants to try out the shooting range bright and early.”
The image of being stuck in the same room with a gun toting Melvin was more than a bit disconcerting for Tubbs.
“I can’t wait, Chief,” he said, once again bowing to his master.
“That’s what I like to hear, my boy! There may be hope for you yet, Tubbs.”
As Woodhouse drove them far away from North Hampton Street, Melvin turned around in his seat and delivered Tubbs a devilish grin. Sooner or later, this kid was going to be the ruin of him, and it was only Friday. Almost involuntarily, Tubbs’s exhaustive features shifted into a “piss face” that he knew wouldn’t be wiped clean until Monday rolled around again and he had at least ten cups of coffee working in his system.
No, I haven't written any Bond stories, but I have tried my hand at some espionage fiction with a character named Ben Lyons that I created a few years back. I would write Bond, but I don't feel that I have quite cemented who Fleming's Bond is in my head yet, and I want to read all the novels before taking such a leap.
Wow, thank you, @Dragonpol; that truly means a lot. I hope it all lives up to expectations.
I have some ideas but nothing I've fleshed out yet, though I hope to do more misadventures with him and Melvin. Did you read the story?
Thanks for saying so.
Thank you very much, @Thunderfinger. I hope you take a look around and like what you see. :)
Be sure to pen to paper once you feel Fleming flowing through your veins!
http://fc01.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2013/343/b/2/young_sherlock_holmes__1985__basil_and_dawson_by_bradymajor-d6xc6ix.png
A link to it on deviantart:
http://bradymajor.deviantart.com/art/Young-Sherlock-Holmes-1985-Basil-and-Dawson-418792713?ga_submit_new=10%3A1386617843&ga_type=edit&ga_changes=1&ga_recent=1
Continuing with my series of Great Mouse Detective art pieces, this shows Basil and Dawson in the universe of 1985's Young Sherlock Holmes, a very underrated film and adaption of the classic characters with Nicholas Rowe and Alan Cox as young Holmes and Watson, respectively. While I am as much a Doyle purist as anyone out there, the film (though canonically separate from the stories and novels) is an excellent ride, featuring great winks to bits of the canon with a very compelling and oftentimes moving take on the two characters we all love so much.
I wanted to really capture the characters' styles while presenting Basil and Dawson in this piece, keeping the latter as diminutive as ever to the former but giving each some charm. Fans of the film will understand why Basil has a cut below his eye, and while he seems ready for a sword fight. I gave Dawson glasses since the young Watson has them in the film, and tried to keep his style close to how Watson appears near the end of the film, wrapped up in his scarf. While he's only supposed to be a boy in this piece, I couldn't imagine Dawson without that stache, so I left it on him. Is it canonically mentioned that Watson matured quite fast? It'd be worth looking into...
I tried to present both mice as much younger looking than usual here to connect the piece to the film, though I don't know how successful I was in that endeavor. Either way, I'm happy with how it came out, and feel I have a distinct style down when it comes to drawing these characters after making three versions of them at this point. I don't quite know where I will take these characters next, but maybe I'll do some BBC Sherlock inspired stuff with them or even adapt them Sidney Paget style as they appear in the canon. Stay tuned for those possible future pieces and a lot more, both Great Mouse Detective related and beyond.