Frank's Story Thread

[Frank Cox]

Note to Mike: This isn't your Roxy.

The Roxy
By Frank Cox

A faded relic of a bygone era, the theatre was a ghostly silhouette against the backdrop of the city skyline, its grandeur faded like an old photograph left out in the sun. The once-bustling theatre had become a silent spectator to a world that had moved on, a hollowed-out cathedral of celluloid dreams.

The sign above the theatre read "Roxy" in bold, neon letters, but the once-vibrant colours had faded to a dull, lifeless hue. The letters were cracked and broken, some of them missing entirely, and the neon glow that had once illuminated the night now flickered faintly, casting a feeble light on the crumbling building.

The marquee below the sign was a sad shadow of its former self. The once-bright lights that had announced the latest films and performances now lay broken and shattered, their shards of glass scattered across the ground. The posters that had once advertised the glamour and excitement of Hollywood now hung tattered and torn, their colours faded and their edges frayed.

The ticket window, once a crowded hub of activity, now lay covered in a thick layer of dust. The cracked glass reflected the deterioration of the building, the shattered remnants of a bygone era when dreams came true and the impossible became possible.

The once-grand entrance, adorned with ornate molding and intricate carvings, now stood as a testament to the passage of time. The faded paint peeled away from the walls, revealing the weathered bricks beneath, and the once-lush gardens that surrounded the theatre were now overgrown with weeds and littered with trash.

A ghostly mausoleum of silver screens and popcorn shadows, the abandoned theatre stood like a solitary sentinel on the desolate street corner, an obsolete and outdated reminder of a past that can never be recaptured.

Amidst the desolation, there was a flicker of life. An old man, his once-dapper attire now frayed and worn, shuffled into the theatre, his arthritic hands clutching a battered cane. His eyes, once bright with the fire of youth, now held the somber wisdom of a thousand sunsets, and the lines on his weathered face told tales of a life lived hard.

He made his way to a worn-out seat, the faded red velvet groaning beneath his weight and a cloud of dust rising into the air. He settled back into the chair, his worn-out boots scraping against the cracked tile floor, and closed his eyes.

As the sun set and the moon ascended its celestial throne, the old man sat in the faded seat, his eyes locked on the vacant screen.

In that moment, the theatre held its breath and as the sun dipped below the horizon, the ghostly whispers of the past seemed to swirl around him, weaving a tapestry of memories that only he could see. The theatre, once witness to the stories it housed, now became a stage for the old man's own tale, a narrative that refused to be silenced in the face of the ravages of time.

The auditorium thrummed with the mournful cries of forgotten films and the whispers of memories long past. Dust danced like spectral wraiths in the feeble rays of light that filtered through the cracked and peeling curtains, casting a pall of gloom over the decaying seats that lined the cavernous expanse.

The screen flickered to life, casting a spectral glow over the crumbling auditorium. The old man's eyes widened as the ghosts of the characters that had once graced the silver screen came to life, their ethereal forms shimmering in the moonlight.

He could feel the ghostly presence of Humphrey Bogart, his voice smooth and seductive, whispering in his ear. The ghost of Marilyn Monroe, her smile as radiant as ever, beckoned to him, her hand outstretched. The old man took a deep breath, rose from his seat and stepped forward, his boots echoing in the emptiness of the theatre.

The walls seemed to hum with the music of a thousand forgotten scores, and the weight of the years slipped away.

The old man was transported to another world. He danced, twirled and spun with the ghostly characters, his laughter echoing through the empty theatre. And as he danced, he felt alive, his spirit rejuvenated by the magic of the silver screen.

As the sun began to rise, the old man grew tired. He stumbled and fell, his body crumpling to the floor.

The ghostly characters began to fade away, their ethereal forms dissolving into the mist.

A single ray of sunlight found its mark on the old man in the dimly lit auditorium. His shadow on the cracked screen was a specter of the past. The wind wafted through the broken balcony, carrying with it the scent of memory, as it shimmered with the dust motes that drift around the old man.

The air was thick with the weight of a thousand stories, each one as silent and as heavy as a lead pipe.

And the old man waited for the final curtain to fall, for the last reel to spin, for the credits to roll and the story to come to a stop.

[Frank Cox]

Kangaroo Glue
by Frank Cox

In the gritty heart of the city, where the sun hangs low and the shadows dance like demons on a hot summer night, there was a man known as Slate. A hard-bitten gumshoe, a knight errant of the asphalt jungle, a lone wolf in a city of wolves. Slate was the kind of man who carried his resolve like a rusty knife in his back, and his humour like a loaded revolver in his holster, just waiting to be used.

One sweltering afternoon, Slate found himself in the creaky confines of a hardware store, a place where the air was thick with the scent of sawdust and oil, and the walls were lined with rusty relics of a bygone era. He was there for a simple task, to order a can of glue to mend a broken chair, a scarred wooden rocker that had seen better days.

"Give me a can of carpenter's glue, Mac," Slate grumbled, his voice as gravelly as a desert road. The old man behind the counter, a grizzled relic himself, scratched his chin and peered over his glasses.

"I'm afraid we don't carry that particular item, friend. But I got me a mighty fine glue right here," he said, holding up a can with a picture of a kangaroo on it. "It's Australian, imported. Strong as a bull, they say."

Slate scratched his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the can. "What the hell's a kangaroo got to do with glue, Mac?"

The old man chuckled, a sound like sandpaper on glass. "Well, that's the question of the day, ain't it? But if it's strong glue you want, then this here's your ticket."

With a sigh, Slate handed over his money, his curiosity piqued. As he left the store, the heat seemed to close in around him like a vice. He shook his head, muttering under his breath about the strange ways of the world.

Back at his office, a cramped room filled with the clutter of a thousand cases, Slate opened the can of kangaroo glue. The smell was unlike anything he'd ever encountered, a mix of something sweet and something wild. He dabbed a bit on his finger and pressed it to the broken chair. To his surprise, it held tight, stronger than any glue he'd ever used.

The rest of the day was a blur of case files and cigarette smoke, but Slate couldn't help but notice the odd smell of the glue that still hung in the air.

Slate fell asleep at his desk that that night, the heat and the city's symphony of sounds lulling him to sleep, and he wondered if the strange glue was a sign of things to come.

The next morning, as the sun rose like a blood-red eye over the city, there was a knock at Slate's door. He opened it to find a kangaroo standing there, its eyes wide and curious, a band of brightly coloured ribbons around its neck.

Slate stared at the creature, wondering if he was actually awake. "What the hell..." he muttered, his voice rusty as an old saw. The kangaroo hopped forward into the room, its tail swishing like a whip.

"I thought you might like a pet," a voice said from behind him. Slate whirled around, his hand on his gun, to find the old man from the hardware store standing in his doorway, a devilish grin on his face.

"What the hell's going on, Mac?" Slate demanded, his voice shaking with anger.

"I figured you could use a friend, Slate." the old man said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Besides, the glue's pretty good, ain't it?"

Slate looked back at the kangaroo, now hopping around his office, its ribbons flapping in the wind from the open window. He sighed, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "I guess you're right, Mac. I guess you're right."

And so, the kangaroo became Slate's new partner, a strange and unlikely companion in the dark underworld of the city streets. And as they fought crime together, Slate began to realize that sometimes, the strangest things could turn out to be the best. The city was still a hellhole, but with a kangaroo by his side, it seemed just a little less so.

[Frank Cox]

Fire!
by Frank Cox

In the dark heart of a city that never sleeps, where shadows dance in hidden corners and the moon plays hide-and-seek behind the skyscrapers, there resides a lone wolf named Jack "Rain" Rainsford. A hardboiled detective, as gritty as a worn-out boot and as sharp as a switchblade's edge, Jack was a man who knew the streets better than the backs of his own hands.

On this particular night, the city was shrouded in a blanket of fog and drizzling rain, the only light coming from the neon signs of the dives and dive bars that lined the streets. A chill wind was blowing off the river, carrying with it the stench of rot and the whispers of secrets long buried. It was the kind of night that made even the bravest souls think twice about stepping out their front doors.

But Jack wasn't one to be deterred by a little bad weather. He was sitting in his office, a small, cramped space filled with the scent of stale coffee and the memories of a million cases, when the phone rang. It was a call he couldn't ignore, a voice filled with fear and urgency.

"Jack, it's me, Daisy. Please, you've got to come. Something's wrong at my place. I think there's a fire..."

Jack was instantly on his feet, grabbing his coat and heading for the door. He didn't need to be told twice. He knew that time was of the essence, that every second counts when it came to a fire.

As he hit the street, the thunderous rumble of iron horses echoed down the asphalt canyons as a huge beast of a fire truck barrelled past him through the urban jungle like a torpedo on a collision course. Flashing lights cut through the veil of twilight and the rain, casting an eerie, strobing dance upon the concrete and brick facades, a spectral ballet of red and blue.

The siren's wail, a mournful dirge of warning, wailed loud enough to make the very walls shake, a clarion call to all who heard it that danger was nigh.

The fire truck roared down the street like a ravenous beast on the hunt. The firemen inside were the brave knights of the inferno, fearless champions of the people, their axes and hoses the instruments of their courage. The flames on the horizon only served to fuel their urgency, and they knew that every second counted, every mile was a battle, and they had to win if they were to save the day.

Tires screeched in protest and equipment rattled as the truck rounded the corner, a defiant scream that drowned out everything on the dark city streets, a symphony of chaos and urgency that demanded attention.

Jack raced down the street, the wind tearing at his coat and the rain pelting down on him like a thousand tiny daggers. He could see the flames in the distance, their flickering tongues of fire casting a sinister glow over the city. The air was thick with the smell of dirty smoke, the stench of burning wood and the taste of fear.

Jack didn't have time to think. He didn't have time to hesitate. All he cared about, all that existed was the need to get to the burning building and rescue Daisy.

Running down the street like a man possessed he could feel the rain pounding against his coat, the wind tearing at his hat. There was nothing in the world but Daisy, getting her to safety.

As he ran, Jack could feel the flames getting closer, the heat like a furnace before him. He could hear the sound of crackling wood and the roar of the fire, a malevolent presence that seemed to be taunting him.

But Jack didn't waver. He didn't falter. He kept running, his mind focused solely on Daisy and the danger she was in.

He could see a sea of fire trucks and emergency vehicles converging on the scene, their flashing lights cutting through the darkness like a thousand tiny beacons. The fire department was working frantically to contain the blaze.

As Jack approached the burning building, he could hear the cacophony of sirens and blasting horns growing louder and louder. The air was thick with black smoke and the sound of crackling flames.

When he arrived, he could see the flames leaping and snarling from the windows, like a pack of wild animals on the prowl.

He was nearly run over by a roaring fire truck just pulling up to the scene. But he didn't care. All he could think about was Daisy, there was nothing else in the world that mattered.

The scene was chaos. Firetrucks with flashing lights were scattered throughout the street. Hoses formed a tangled web of steel and rubber, their coiled bodies writhing and thrashing in the frenzy of the moment. Firemen in heavy coats and helmets were running back and forth carrying axes and crowbars, their breathing masks obscuring their features.

Police officers were manning barricades, keeping the onlookers at a safe distance. The crowd of spectators was large, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames and the glare of the lights from the firetrucks. They stood around watching the fire, some with a sense of awe and excitement, others in sadness and despair.

The smoke billowed and swirled, a choking, suffocating cloud that hung heavy in the air. The flames leaped and roared, their tongues of fire dancing and twisting in the night.

Jack pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers, his eyes fixed on the burning building before him. Some policemen and firemen tried to stop him, their voices raised in warning.

"It's too dangerous, mister! You can't go in there!" they shouted.

But Jack didn't listen. He just bulled his way through. A burly fireman stood in front of him but Jack shoved him aside, barely noticing he was there.

He raced to the front door and stepped into the inferno, the heat and smoke nearly overwhelming him. He could feel the flames licking at his skin, their tongues of fire snaking around him like hungry demons. But he pressed on, driven by a fierce determination that would not be denied.

He ran up the stairs, his lungs burning from the smoke. It was impossible to see. He could feel the heat bearing down on him like a wall, the weight of it pressing against his chest.

He choked and gasped. He stumbled, barely able to stay on his feet in the narrow stairwell. He kept going, his eyes stinging and his vision blurred.

Finally, he reached the top of the stairs and burst into a room at the back of the building. The flames were roaring all around him, but he didn't care. All he could see was Daisy, huddled in the corner, her face streaked with soot and tears, and her eyes wide with terror.

Smoke rose between the floorboards and the fire raged right below his feet.

Daisy bounded out of the corner and leapt toward him, saying words that were lost in the roar of the fire.

Jack bellowed as loudly as he could. "We're getting out of here, Daisy. I've got you. Lets move!"

Daisy nodded her understanding and together they fought their way through the smoke and flames back to the door of the room, Jack's arm was wrapped protectively around Daisy's waist. The fire raged around them like a malevolent spirit trying to hold them back, trying to drive them to their deaths in the flames.

They stepped out of the room and had just started to move toward the front when the building groaned and the staircase suddenly gave way, collapsing into the conflagration below in an explosion of heat and black smoke.

The roar of the flames below them was a deafening tumult, a wall of sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, a relentless, unstoppable scream of heat and pain.

"Is there another way out?" Jack shouted.

"There might be a back stairway," Daisy cried, barely audible over the sound of cracking wood and furniture shattering as it fell through the burning floorboards.

continued...

[Frank Cox]

They made their way through the choking smoke, coughing and gagging as they went. When they reached the back stairway, Jack tried the door, but it was locked.

He reared back and smashed his boot into the center of the door with all of his strength. The door flew open, slamming against the wall behind before tearing off its hinges and clattering down the stairs into the smoke-filled depths below.

There was a series of loud bangs and the floor shook as something below them exploded in the flames.

They rushed down the stairs, heat and smoke battering down on them like a wall. As they neared the bottom, Jack could hear the sound of the building groaning and creaking, as if it was ready to cave in at any moment.

"Come on, we've got to run faster!" he shouted, and they sprinted down the last of the stairs, their hearts pounding in their chests.

Daisy tripped and fell with a sharp scream of pain. Jack dropped to his knees and scooped her up into his arms, barely missing a step in his race toward the exit, cradling her against his chest.

He could feel the heat of the flames at his back, scorching his coat and the hair on the back of his head. But he didn't care. All he could think about was getting Daisy out of the building and to safety.

The smoke was thick and heavy, and he could barely see the exit ahead of him. But Jack kept going, his legs aching and his lungs burning.

Jack burst out onto the street, the fresh air hitting him like a refreshing breeze.

Suddenly a loud amplified announcement boomed from the fire trucks in front. "Get back. Everyone get back. It's coming down. Back up now!"

Jack ran down the alley as quickly as he could with Daisy in his arms, the heat of the flames at his back and the smoke stinging his eyes. He could see a crowd of onlookers who had gathered to watch the fire disperse in a panic on the street in front of him, running in every direction.

The ground shook beneath his feet as the building groaned and creaked, the weight of the fire beating it down with an irresistible force. The walls crackled and crumbled, the windows shattering and exploding outward onto the street in showers of glass.

The roof collapsed first, a thunderous crash that echoed through the night. The walls followed soon after, the entire structure coming down in a heap of rubble and smoke.

Jack and Daisy reached the safety of the street just in time, the building breaking up behind them in a shower of dust and debris.

"Can you stand if I put you down, Daisy?"

"I... I think so."

Jack set Daisy on her feet and they stood there in the rain, catching their breath and watching as the flames consumed what was now nothing more than a pile of wreckage.

"We made it," Daisy said.

Jack just nodded, his gaze fixed on the remains of the burning building and the firemen still spraying water in a relentless deluge. "Yeah," he said. "We did."

***

The next day, Jack stood in front of the ruin that was once a thriving apartment house. The smoke had long since dissipated, and the flames had been extinguished. But the remnants of the building still smouldered, a grim reminder of the destruction that had occurred.

Jack stared at the rubble, his mind filled with memories of all that had taken place within those walls. He thought about the laughter and the joy, the love and the heartache. He thought about the lives that had been lived, the stories that had been told.

But as he walked away down the street, his heart filled with a renewed sense of optimism and he couldn't help but believe that there was still a little bit of hope left in this hard, cold world. After all, even in the darkest night, everyone has a shining star.

[Frank Cox]

City Bus
by Frank Cox

The city bus, a steel chariot of the masses, rolled like a thunderous wave through the veins of the metropolis, a symphony of clattering wheels and diesel smoke. A heavy mist cloaked the streets, shrouding the city in a veil of mystery. In the back, a weathered detective, a lone wolf among the herd, sat with his eyes as cold as the wind outside, gazing on the reflection from the rain-slicked window.

The bus rumbled along, its engine straining against the weight of the passengers and the cargo it carried. It was a sauna on wheels with steamy breaths fogging up the windows, but the chill of the wind-whipped night seeped in around the windows and doors like a cold blooded snake. The seats were worn and hard, the upholstery frayed and torn, but the detective didn't seem to notice. He sat with his hands clasped in his lap, lost in thought, his mind a million miles away.

The rain continued to fall, the drops pattering rhythmically on the window, creating a hypnotic pattern that seemed to soothe the detective's troubled mind. The city outside was a blur, a swirling mass of lights and shadows, a kaleidoscope of colours and shapes.

Suddenly, the bus jerked, the smooth rhythm disrupted by uninvited intruders. Two robbers, snarling wolves in a pack of sheep, burst through the front door, their faces hidden by ski masks, their hands clutching cold, metallic shadows. The air suddenly thickened with the acrid stench of fear, the bus falling silent as a graveyard at midnight.

"Everybody, this is a stick-up," one of the robbers growled, his voice a low, menacing hiss. "Start handing over your wallets."

The passengers stared back at the robbers, their eyes wide with terror, their hands trembling. Some fumbled in their pockets, their hearts pounding in their chests, others simply sat frozen, unable to move.

The robbers moved down the aisle, their guns held steady, their eyes cold. They stopped in front of each passenger, their voices harsh and commanding.

"Wallet," one of the robbers demanded, his voice a low, menacing growl. "Now."

The passengers handed over their wallets, their eyes filled with fear and resignation. The robbers pocketed the wallets, their movements quick and efficient, their eyes never leaving their prey.

The detective watched them coming down the aisle toward them. He could feel the predators circling, sensing the fear of their quarry, but this old hound wasn't about to roll over and play dead.

He slid his hand into his trench coat, fingers brushing against the worn wooden grip of his revolver. The robbers didn't seem to notice him yet, their attention taken up by each person they passed on their way toward the back of the bus, grabbing valuables as they went.

The detective waited, biding his time, watching and waiting. He could feel the tension building, the air thick with fear and anticipation. The city was always hungry.

The detective watched the robbers approach in the mirrored window.

Then they were next to him.

"Move slow, friend," one of the robbers growled. "Don't make us hurt anyone."

The detective's eyes narrowed. "I ain't nobody's friend," he replied, his voice a low, gravelly purr. "And I don't play by your rules."

He stood up, his movements fluid and deadly, the revolver clear in his hand.

The robbers suddenly looked uncertain, their hands twitching, but the detective's gaze never wavered. He was a stone in a storm, unmoving and unyielding. The bus held its breath.

The detective took a step forward into the aisle, his boot heels clicking loudly on the metal floor. "You see," he said, "I've been around the block a few times. I've seen men like you come and go. And I've got to tell you, you boys ain't got what it takes. You're just fleas on the back of a dog, trying to bite the hand that feeds you. A couple of bums who ain't got the guts, the smarts or the chops to hang with the big boys."

The robbers paused, their eyes darting between the detective and the terrified passengers. One of them raised his gun, a snarl on his lips. The detective dodged to the side, his reflexes honed by years of experience, and fired a shot that exploded through the bus like a cannonball, with a thundering blast that sent everyone diving for cover.

The robber yelped, the gun clattering from his wounded hand to the floor. The other robber hesitated, his eyes wide with fear, his grip on his gun trembling.

"I'd drop that gun if I were you," the detective commanded.

The robber hesitated for a moment, then slowly lowered his gun.

The robbers stood with their hands raised in surrender.

"Alright, partner," the detective said to the bus driver. "We'll be getting off at the next stop. But everyone else should continue on their way. I've got these lowlifes under arrest now so they won't be causing any more trouble."

The bus driver nodded, his relief clear in his eyes. "Yes sir. Thank you, sir," he said. "I surely appreciate what you did."

The passengers murmured their agreement, some offering words of thanks, others simply nodding their heads. The detective turned to the robbers, his gaze cold and unyielding.

"You two are coming with me," he said, his voice hard with authority. "And you won't be bothering anyone else for a long long time."

The detective led the robbers off the bus and onto the sidewalk at gunpoint and the bus pulled away, its engine roaring like a wild beast as it disappeared into the rain and the mist. The taillights flickered for a moment, casting an eerie glow on the pavement before they too were swallowed by the darkness.

The detective marched the robbers down a narrow alley, the rain pouring down around them. The mist was a ghostly, ethereal presence, swirling and twisting in the icy grip of the wind that seemed to seep right through the fabric of your coat, making your bones shiver and your teeth chatter. The buildings loomed overhead, their windows glowing like eyes in the darkness. The detective's gaze and his gun never wavered, his mind focused on the task at hand.

Finally, they reached the police station, a towering brick building that seemed to rise up out of the darkness like a fortress. "Right this way, boys," the detective said as he led the robbers inside, their feet dragging on the wet pavement, their eyes filled with trepidation. The detective handed them over to the waiting officers, his work here done.

The detective took a deep breath, his chest expanding as he drew in the cool, damp air. The city was still a dangerous place, filled with shadows and secrets, but for now the old hound could rest. The night seemed a little less sinister, the pavement shone a little brighter under the glow of the streetlights. Yes, the city was always hungry, but the old hound was always ready.

[Frank Cox]

Guardian Angel: Beauty and the Beast
by Frank Cox

In a gritty metropolis, where the shadows are as deep as the secrets and the rain falls like tears from a broken heart, there's a dame who's no stranger to the seamy side of life. Her name's Beauty, and she's as bold as a lion and not afraid to stand up for what she believes in. She's a hard-nosed detective, and the city was a fickle mistress. She had learned long ago that its secrets were not easily surrendered.

One night, Beauty gets a case that hits close to home. The Beast, a brute with a golden heart, is accused of a crime he never committed. It's a setup, a dirty trick, and Beauty has no patience for that kind of lowdown skullduggery.

In the heart of the city, nestled between towering skyscrapers, Beauty's office was a den of disarray – a one-woman fortress that was as untamed as a wild stallion. The room, a smoky haze of dust and paper, was a battlefield long past the fight, with case files strewn across the floor like fallen soldiers, and photographs stacked to the ceiling like the walls of a war memorial. The air was thick with the scent of old coffee and cigarette smoke, a heady mix that could put hair on a toad. The desk, a worn-out relic, sat center stage, cluttered with half-empty coffee cups, yellowed notes, and a vintage typewriter that had seen better days. It was a scene straight out of a hardboiled detective novel, a testament to a life lived at a breakneck pace, with no time for tidiness or frivolous decorations. The room was a maze of shadows and secrets, filled with the echoes of whispered confessions and the silent judgement of unfinished cases. It was the lair of a woman who wouldn't be tamed, a detective with the grit to crack the toughest cases and bring hardened criminals to justice.

But when the Beast walked in, something changed. The darkness seemed to recoil, the shadows receded like mist in the morning sun.

He was a towering presence, a giant among men. His muscles bulged beneath his skin, like stone columns supporting a great cathedral. His eyes burned with a fierce intensity, a blazing fire that could not be extinguished. His face was hard and implacable, his jaw as unyielding as Fort Knox, a fortress of steel that'd take more than a sledgehammer to crack. His hands were like iron grips, calloused and powerful, the kind that could crush a walnut to dust or gently cradle a woman's face. His body was a stone wall, chiseled and muscled. His chest was a mountain range, his arms were like tree trunks, a canvas of scars on his back was a map of the battles he'd fought and the wounds he'd endured. His walk was a steady, deliberate strut, a menacing dance that spoke of a predator stalking his prey. Yet there was something about him that was undeniably captivating, a magnetism that drew people in and held them spellbound. It was as if he was a force of nature, a storm that could not be controlled. He was a man who had faced the worst that life had to offer and emerged stronger and more resilient, a man who had walked through fire and come out unscathed. It was a sight to behold, a man who had overcome the odds and emerged victorious, a man who was truly one of a kind.

But there was a gentleness to him, a kindness that made you forget about his fearsome appearance. He took a seat across from Beauty, his massive form filling the small space.

"Beauty," he rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly, "I need your help."

Beauty's eyes narrowed. "I thought you were a cop. Why do you need a private detective?"

The Beast shifted in his seat, muscles flexing under his shirt. "I've been framed for a crime I didn't commit. They're saying I killed a man, but it ain't true. I didn't do it."

Beauty's heart skipped a beat. "Who's behind it?"

The Beast's eyes grew dark. "I don't know. But I know they're powerful, and they're not gonna let me walk away from this. I need you to find out who's behind it and clear my name."

Beauty leaned back in her chair, her mind assessing the implications of taking on the city establishment. "I'll do what I can, but I can't promise anything."

The Beast nodded. "I understand. But I have to try. I have to fight this. For me, and for the people who are still out there, who don't know who they can trust."

Beauty looked at the Beast, and she saw the fear in his eyes, the desperation. She saw a man who was fighting for more than just his own life. She saw a man who was fighting for justice, for truth, for a world that was worth believing in.

And in that moment, she knew what she had to do. She'd take the case, she'd fight for the Beast, and she'd do whatever it took to clear his name. Because in a city like this, the good guys had to stick together. And Beauty was one of the good guys.

"Alright," she said after a pause, her voice thoughtful. "I'll take the case. But you have to promise me one thing."

The Beast looked at her, his eyes filled with hope. "Anything."

"You have to trust me," Beauty said. "You have to let me do my job. And you have to be patient. This won't be easy and it will take some time."

The Beast nodded. "I trust you, Beauty. And I'll be patient. I just need you to clear my name."

Beauty nodded. "I'll do what I can, Beast. And I won't rest until your name is cleared."

And with that, the Beast stood up, his gargantuan form towering over Beauty. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling, and then he turned and walked slowly out of the office, leaving Beauty to gather her thoughts, to prepare for the battle that was to come.

With a determination that could cut through steel, she dove into the investigation, leaving no stone unturned and no lead unchecked. She stalked the city streets, penetrated the shadows and interrogated the suspects, her keen instincts and sharp mind guiding her every move. The nights grew long and the days blurred together, but she pressed on, fueled by a relentless drive to find the truth. Her every step was a dance with danger, as she navigated the treacherous world of organized crime, but she never faltered, never wavered. She's a force of nature, a hurricane in a trench coat, and her trail of informants was as long as a train track, stretching out behind her like a river of information.

The Beast, a man who's never done anything bad to anyone, is being railroaded. And Beauty won't let that stand. She's gonna clear the Beast's name, no matter what it takes.


continued 2....

[Frank Cox]

Beauty's heels clicked against the pavement as she walked towards the police station, her mind consumed with thoughts of the Beast and the frame up. She'd been working the case all day, digging through evidence, talking to witnesses, and following leads. But she was no closer to finding out who was behind it all.

As she approached the building, she felt a sense of unease, a feeling that she was walking into a bad situation, but she went up the steps and strode through the battered front doors like she belonged there.

She created a mild sensation when she marched right past a couple of lounging plainclothesmen in the outer office through to a private office at the rear.

They were scrambling up behind her and saying, "Hey, you can't go in there" when she opened the door and her eyes locked onto the pair of heavyweight gorillas parked at the desk, cold, hard men with sharp suits and sharper eyes. The air was thick with the stench of cigarette smoke and whiskey, as though fresh air had been banned from the premises a long time ago.

"Detective," one of the men said, smiling like a spider inspecting a fly. "We're glad you came in. It's time to have a little chat with you. We've got enough evidence to put the Beast away for a long time. We're charging him with murder, and we're going to make sure he pays for what he's done."

Beauty's eyes narrowed. "I'm not here to discuss the case. I'm here to find out who's behind the frame up."

The cops exchanged a glance, and then one of them leaned forward, his voice low and dangerous. "That's none of your business, Detective. We've got our orders, and we're going to follow them."

Beauty leaned back against the wall, her hands tightened into fists. "You don't scare me, pal. I've seen a lot of dirty cops in my day, and I know when someone's trying to pull a fast one. So I'm gonna find out who's behind this, and I'm gonna make sure they pay for what they've done."

The men stood up, their faces red with anger. "We're going to make this very easy for you, Detective. You're going to walk out of here and forget you ever heard anything about this business. Otherwise things are going to get very messy. We don't take kindly to people who meddle in things that are none of their affair."

Beauty's eyes flashed dangerously. "I don't care what you think. I'm gonna find out who's behind this, and I'm gonna bring them down. So if this is the best you can do, you'd better watch your back, chickies. I never stop until I get what I want."

Beauty turned and strode out of the office, her face dark with outrage. She knew she was in over her head, but she also knew that she couldn't back down. She had to find out who was behind the frame up, and she had to clear the Beast's name.

The city's a jungle and the sharks were circling, waiting for her to slip up. But Beauty's got a heart full of courage and a mind full of tricks. She's a wolf in a city of sheep, and she's not afraid to show her teeth.

So she digs, and she scratches, and she claws her way through the city's filth, leaving no stone unturned. And bit by bit, she uncovers the truth. The city's elite are behind it, using the Beast as a pawn in their twisted game. But Beauty is no one's pawn. She's a queen, and she's gonna take them down.

Beauty strode down the street, and city pavement seemed to vibrate beneath her heels, as if it was trying to keep up with her swift pace. She'd been working on the case for weeks, digging through evidence, talking to witnesses, and following leads. But as she turned a corner she found herself face to face with two men, wolverines with brass knuckles.

Before she could react, they attacked, their fists flying. Beauty fought back, her body moving like a well-oiled machine, her fists landing blow after savage blow. But they were strong, and they were determined. And as the fight raged on, Beauty realized that this wasn't just a random mugging. This was a message, a warning.

Beauty was a force of nature, a whirlwind of fury and determination.

She broke free from the scuffle and danced a deadly ballet, her legs a blur as they whipped through the air. Roundhouse kicks, as swift as a cobra's strike and as powerful as thunderbolts, rained down on the goons like bullets from a Gatling gun, driving them back like a hurricane. Each blow landed with the sound of bones cracking, sending them reeling against the nearby walls and into the street, howling like wounded animals. Her movements were as fluid as a panther's, each strike precisely on target. It was a sight to behold, a symphony of violence and brutality that left the men wishing they'd never crossed her path.

Finally, one of the men swayed and lost his footing. He crashed to the pavement and stayed down, blood pouring from his arm and a wound in his head. The other one stumbled and collapsed in a heap. "The Mayor sent us," he gasped, spitting out a mouthful of teeth and blood. "He wants you to stop investigating. He wants the Beast out of the way, and he's willing to do anything to make that happen."

The Mayor? Beauty was as rattled as maracas at a salsa party, and her thoughts swirled around in her head like leaves caught in a gale. She couldn't believe it. But the evidence was clear.

If the Mayor was behind it all she had to act fast. He was trying to silence her, trying to stop her from exposing the conspiracy. But she wasn't going to back down. She wasn't going to let the Mayor intimidate her, not when she had a job to do.

As she looked at the two men lying on the ground, her breath coming in ragged gasps, she knew that this was just the beginning. The Mayor was going to fight her, he was going to do whatever it took to protect himself.

She knew that she was up against the toughest challenge of her life.

So she had to keep moving, keep fighting, keep pushing forward.

If the Mayor was behind the conspiracy she was going to bring him down, and she was going to clear the Beast's name.

It wasn't going to be easy. The city was full of corruption, and the higher up you went, the worse it got. But Beauty was a fighter and she was going to see this through. She was as determined as a bulldog with a bone, because in this city there are some things that matter more than anything else. Honesty. Integrity. Justice. And Beauty's got all three.

Beauty's heels clicked against the marble floor of city hall as she walked towards the assistant's desk. She'd been to this office before, but never like this. Never with the knowledge she had now.

The assistant looked up as she approached, and his face paled when he saw who was in front of him. "Detective," he said, his voice shaky. "What brings you here?"

Beauty leaned over the desk toward him, invading his space, her eyes cold and hard. "I'm here because I know everything. I know about the frame up, about the Mayor's involvement, and about the cover-up. And if the Mayor doesn't resign, he's going down. Hard."

The assistant looked as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over him. "But the Mayor..."

"But the Mayor. But the Mayor. That's all you have to say?" Beauty said, her voice low and dangerous. "What I say is justice. And I'm going to see that justice is served, one way or another."

The assistant swallowed hard, his hands shaking. "I... I don't know what to do," he stammered. "The Mayor... he's ruthless. He'll stop at nothing to protect himself."

Beauty's expression was as unyielding as a wall of stone. "I know. But I'm not afraid of the Mayor. I'm going to bring him down, and I'm going to make sure that the truth comes out. And if the Mayor tries to stand in my way, he's going to regret it."

The assistant nodded, his face pale. "I'll... I'll tell the Mayor what you said. I hope... I hope he listens."

Beauty leaned forward, her voice soft but deadly. "He'd better. Because if he doesn't I'm going to make sure that everyone knows what he did. And I'm going to make sure that the Beast's name is cleared. Because in this city, the good guys have to stick together. And I'm one of the good guys."

The assistant nodded, his face pale but determined. "I'll tell him," he said, his voice trembling. "I'll tell him right away. I hope... I hope it's enough."

Beauty smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "It's enough. More than enough," she said, her voice unyielding as a diamond. "Trust me on that. Now get out of my sight."

The assistant nodded, scurrying out of the office like a scared mouse. Beauty watched him go, her mind engaged with thoughts of the Mayor, of the Beast, and of the battle that was still to come.

continued 3...

[Frank Cox]

The Mayor's office was a grand affair, with dark oak paneling, a plush Persian rug in the center, and a huge wooden desk that seemed to take up half the room. The atmosphere was heavy with cigar smoke and the smell of old leather.

The Mayor looked up as the assistant approached, his face dark with anger. "What is it?" he snapped.

The assistant swallowed hard, his hands shaking. "It's Detective Beauty, sir," he said, his voice trembling. "She's on to us. She knows about the frame up, about the cover-up, and she's going to be coming after us if we don't do something."

"What do you mean, 'coming after us'?"

The assistant gulped. "She said she's going to bring us down, sir, to make sure that justice is served. And if we don't resign and leave town she's coming for us, and she's not going to stop."

The mayor's face turned as red as a tomato, his fists clenched like a vise. "How the hell does some girl gumshoe think she can pull a fast one on me? I'm the kingpin. I'm the one who calls the shots. This town is my domain, my kingdom. I'm the ruler, the boss, the big kahuna – and nobody, but nobody, can touch me." He roared, his voice deep and menacing. "I'll have her hide for this, and I'll make sure she'll never walk these streets again."

The assistant's voice was as shaky as a leaf in the wind, and he felt like he was going to pass out. "I'm sorry, sir. But that's what she said. And if we don't do something, we're finished."

Suddenly the door slammed open with a crash as jarring as the crack of a hammer striking an anvil. Beauty strode into the office with all the grace of a lioness on the prowl. Her heels clicked against the floor, each beat a challenge to the man sitting at the desk. With a visible effort he sat up straighter and squared his shoulders, his eyes narrowing as they size her up like a wolf sizing up his prey.

She marched up to the desk, her movements as smooth and powerful as a steamroller, and leaned down to look him in the eye. Her bearing was as relentless as a shark, and she would not hesitate to tear him limb from limb if he dared to challenge her. The air was thick with the scent of danger.

This is a showdown.

The Mayor looked up at her, his face truculent. His nostrils flared like a bull's, and his veins bulged like ropes under a heavy load.

"Detective," he snapped. "It's customary to knock."

Beauty pointed an accusing finger at the Mayor, her manner cold as a marble statue. "I'm here because I have evidence of your corruption, your involvement in the frame up, and your cover-up of the conspiracy. And if you don't resign and leave the city, I'm going to blow the whole affair wide open. You're going to spend the rest of your life in jail, and your reputation is going to be destroyed."

The Mayor's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching.

Beauty nodded and slapped her hand on the desk in front of him. "It's true, Mayor. You're finished. I have the evidence, and I have the witnesses. And if you don't resign, I'm going to make sure that everyone knows what you've done. And you can bet your last penny there's going to be a reckoning and the piper will be paid in full."

The colour drained from the Mayor's face, leaving him as pale as a ghost. His mouth dropped open, and his breath hitched in his throat. His body seemed to shrink, as if the very air had been sucked out of him. It was as if he had been struck by a bolt of lightning, leaving him stunned and trembling. He looked as if he had seen a spectre, a vision of death itself. The room seemed to close in around him, the walls closing in like a vise, crushing the life out of him. It was a sight to behold, a man reduced to nothing but a shell of his former self, his dreams and hopes shattered like glass in an instant.

The Mayor slumped low in his swivel chair and stared at Beauty in silence, like a man who had been kicked in the gut.

"I'll be coming for you, Mayor," Beauty said.

She turned and walked out of the office without another word, leaving the door standing open behind her.

The streets were alive with the sound of newsboys hawking papers, their voices loud and insistent as they cried out the headline: "Mayor Resigns and Can't Be Found Anywhere!"

Beauty was in her office, the weight of the world seemingly lifted from her shoulders. The air was thick with the scent of victory, a fragrance filled with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. The desk, once cluttered with papers and files, was now clean and organized, a testament to her hard work and determination. The light filtering through the window cast a warm glow on the room, illuminating the space with a sense of calm and peace. It was a sight to behold, a woman who had fought and won, who had overcome obstacles and emerged victorious.

When the Beast walked in, the room grew still. He was a hulking figure, a man with muscles that looked like they'd been carved from stone and eyes that seemed to glow with an inner fire. He took a seat across from Beauty, the chair groaning under the weight of this giant of a man.

"Beast," Beauty said, her manner confident and sure. "I've got some news for you. The Mayor has resigned, and he's disappeared."

The Beast's eyes narrowed. "You're sure?"

Beauty nodded. "I'm positive. The papers are all over the city. The Mayor's gone, and he's not coming back."

The Beast's face grew soft, a look of relief washing over him. "Thank you, Beauty," he said, his voice like a man suddenly released from a nightmare. "Thank you for clearing my name."

Beauty leaned back in her chair, her hands clasped in front of her. "It wasn't easy, and I'm sorry it took so long," she admitted. "But I had to do it. I had to make sure that justice was served."

The Beast nodded, his eyes filled with gratitude. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Beauty," he said, his voice soft and heartfelt. "You're a guardian angel, a knight in shining armour. You're a beacon of hope in a city that's forgotten what it means to care."

Beauty smiled gently, her eyes flashing. "I'm just doing my job," she said, her voice humble. "But I'm glad I could help."

The Beast leaned forward, his enormous hands clasped in front of him. "I want to thank you, Beauty," he said, his voice earnest. "I want to thank you for everything you've done. For clearing my name, for fighting for justice, for being the good guy in a city full of bad ones."

Beauty's expression was as warm as a summer's day. "I try to do what's right," she said. "And in this city, that's all that matters."

The Beast nodded, a look of reverence in his eyes. "You're a hero, Beauty," he said, his voice filled with awe. "You're a hero in a city that needs them."

Beauty was as modest as a violet among roses. "I'm just a detective," she said.

The Beast hesitated, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hope. "Beauty," he said, his voice trembling. "I... I have to tell you something. I... I've always loved you. I've always cared for you. And I... I want to ask you out on a date."

Beauty's eyes widened. She didn't know what to say, didn't know how to react. But as she looked at the immense form of the Beast sitting in the chair before her, she felt a strange warmth, a strange connection.

She looked into his eyes and she knew what she had to do. She had to be honest, to be real. She had to tell him how she felt, even if it was difficult.

"Beast," she said, her voice soft and gentle. "I though you'd never ask."