“The mobster’s plan to organize the underworlds mercenaries, and gain the political power to change history definitely was at stake to Toni Cipriani and the legacy of his family tree. With super enhanced people getting into turf wars all around New York City with criminals and crime lords of all kinds, Toni knew he had to begin strategizing differently. A few vigilantes in particular were known to have some pretty spectacular and daring powers. Perhaps one day Toni Cipriani could exploit these power through specific means. The TV in Toni's small one bedroom apartment showed white and blue collared workers gathered by the masses on the New York streets were to start a strike outside the industrial research facility known as Green Tangerine Industries. The owner of the industries named Norman Osborn, had built up commotion which caused a protest at first among the citizens of Hell's Kitchen, yet now it has turned to the citizens of Yonkers, New York.”

Larry sat in his car puffing on a cigarette. Loretta hated it when he smoked in the car, but he continued to do it anyways. Glancing out the window he watched as the young kids played basketball in the school playground. And the young girls were sitting on the bench chatting among themselves. He wondered if they had any clue about real life yet. Did they even know what could happen to them. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Loretta. She was on the other side of the street at the dirty run down motel. He had followed her there and waited for her to come out again. He knew what he needed to do, and it had to be done today.

Agent John Rathbone was transported back to Iraq and to the last moment he had held his partner Corporal Bosco, as she was dying. She had been shot twice at close range; the second shot found its mark under her left arm, bypassing her Kevlar vest. Rathbone saw what he thought was the shooter melting into the crowded market a short distance away. He called out to him in Arabic, “Wakef, Wallana Petucha,” Stop or I’ll shoot. The assailant turned, pointed his gun at him and leaned his head to the side and imitated shooting him, and he was gone.

Scarlett slowly pulled the mascara wand through her eyelashes. She was careful not to get any of the makeup on her skin and to not leave any clumps. She meticulously repeated the process on her other eye before examining her reflection to make sure that the amount of mascara was even on both eyes.

“State your full name.”

I finally broke through.

I am known as the Pickle. To some, it’s Darth Pickle. I have been on his trail for weeks, always one step behind. That’s all right, because I can feel myself getting closer. Any day now, I’ll catch up with the Pickle-Tickler. He thinks he’s funny, but we’ll see who laughs last.

Staring at the fluorescent glow of the red light masked behind the fog left over from the thunderstorm that happened that evening, Katherine began to recall those disturbing images playing over in her head like some dark and twisted fantasy world while her fingers tapped away on the steering wheel as she impatiently waited for the light to turn green. She knew she had to get away, and fast, but why? Despite those possible illusions or maybe even figments of her imagination she clearly remembered the images but couldn't remember how it all happened.

Ashley Von Brandt was sitting in her boss' office waiting for her boss to come in. Her boss said he had some good news for her, something about a promotion or at least an opportunity to make more money. She never has been unable to get along with her boss. Hell, she doesn’t even really know why he hired her in the first place. She was a waitress at a shitty bar at the time she met her boss, and all she did was help him calculate some numbers and he asked her to be his secretary. Maybe it’s because he knew who she was and that’s what tipped him off. She thought to herself how it would only be a matter of time before she gets fired as her boss walked through the door. Her boss was an older Irish man whose Irish swagger never left him, whether he was at a board meeting or waiting in line at Starbucks. He had recently become the CEO of Public Automotives, the largest and prosperous automotive company in Las Detras. “Looks like we have some business to attend to Ms. Brandt,” said Mr. Braden as he lit himself a cigar. Ashley scooted closer to her bosses desk and lit a cigarette of her own. “I think you can be of help to me, or more like obliged to do this for me,” said Mr. Braden.

The year was 1989, in an alternate universe very different from ours. In this universe, technology was very far ahead of ours, and with that, so was science. The world was advanced, yet was still rotting away from global warming, even quicker than ours.