Anthony is a vibrant persona standing out among the bright lights of the Cardyne Motherboard, the tech hub of Coldford City. As a lawyer he is known for his out of the box thinking and a fearless approach to cross examining. Specialising in cyber crime, Anthony knows his way around computer programs and is well acquainted with the dark side of the web.
Anthony is a family man. His wife, Grace is a nurse at Coldford General and his seventeen year old daughter, Sue, is studying programming at Cardyne Tech college.
Like most of his Cardyne neighbours, Anthony is considered a neutral and is welcomed by the rest of the City. Most notable he is part of the KLS group or KINGS LOYAL SUBALANS, a civil rights group who were supported by the King of Main, Reginald Penn.
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This brings me to Porter Russo, the third year student at Pettiwick who met his unfortunate demise in the knife attack. He had been a promising baseball player, handpicked for the Junior City Mainers baseball team and well liked among his classmates. That was at least what the family had thought. No one had expected Deborah to go mad. But then her daddy joined a cult so what did they know? Porter was always online so his sister requested the memorial page. It comforted their mother to see the well wishes flood in from his schoolmates. They posted pictures of themselves with Porter. The coach from the baseball team too left some comments on how he would be missed.
The day before the funeral, the sister, Pamela Russo, had woken in the early hours. She couldn’t sleep so she logged on to Porter’s memorial page to post some final arrangements to those who were coming along to bid him farewell in real life.
Her heart skipped a beat when she noticed someone calling themselves PINDROP25 had posted a picture of Porter. The picture had been doctored to show blood streaming from his neck. Cecil Mouse was looming behind him holding a knife.
IT’S HOT IN HELL BUT I’M HANGING ON. SEE YOU ALL SOON.
Pamela was understandably upset. She contacted @hangoutmod and the comment was removed. Such is the way with these things.
Within hours more pictures had been posted. Other people had seen the comment before it was pulled and were starting to respond. Most were calling PINDROP25 a vile troll. PINDROP25 flooded the feed with laughing faces and more doctored photos of Porter, showing him being molested by a cartoon Satan. These comments were pulled too. The HANGOUT admin jumped quickly on deletion of comments but PINDROP25 kept popping up in various other forms. Iris’ team were kept busy trying to contain the fall out. She could have just deleted the page but she felt that wasn’t fair on Porter or those who had come genuinely to share their memories. Pamela Russo was of the same mind. Why should a stupid troll be allowed to ruin outpouring from family and friends? The troll seemed to multiply and the day after the funeral the memorial page had become a hot mess. It was flooded with mockery to Porter and his family. Even the young girl he had been going steady with became a target. She had been in the class at the time and the mental health trouble she had suffered as a result became perfect troll feed.
Eventually PINDROP25 took a step back. Their job was done. Other trolls jumped on the bandwagon. When Pamela confronted one calling themselves SOULDIGGA13 they told her they were merely highlighting the ridiculousness of the memorial page concept. According to them it wasn’t a show of genuine concern. It was an outlet for egos and fakers.
STAY OFF MY BROTHER’S PAGE! Pamela had responded.
Pamela connected with Iris herself through chat. She still insisted that the page wasn’t pulled. She wasn’t going to be strong armed by trolls. Then a DM was sent to Pamela and Porter’s mother. It was a picture of Porter’s coffin.
ONE DOWN. ONE TO GO it teased.
When Pamela found out her mother had sent her life savings to them trying to make them stop she was furious. She and Iris had another chat. Iris collected all the data she could. It was now up to CPD to find the trolls. The search for PINDROP25 continued.
COMING SOON
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Intelligent and creative, Joshua Coby is the face of the future in Coldford City. A computer science expert and avid game developer, Joshua enjoys offering an escape from the mundane.
He is quite the rare commodity in that he is kind and selfless. His empire in Cardyne, the so called MOTHERBOARD, reminds the Shady City that there is a future to be had.
Whilst there is a future to be had, it was almost not the case for Joshua. He was almost the sixtieth victim of the free fall massacre that claimed the lives of fifty nine others. The details of how Joshua managed to escape that fate where the other rich investors plummeted to their death, are unclear. However, it is assumed his decency and kind nature struck a chord. This is something he isn’t likely to forget.
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A foreign presence in the Shady City, Van Holder spends most of his time in his native country of Subala. From an early age his life was fraught with war so it is something that he knows incredibly well. He is a strategic leader and has a NO CONSCIENCE approach to any tasks he undertakes.
Van Holder is confident in his ability to lead and he has unshakable trust in the strength of his Black Bands. He has been brought to the city to bring the warring fractions to account. He has never failed before and it is incredibly unlikely he will fail this time either.
Whilst it is kept quiet, Van Holder is also the father of CAMERON whom he shares with the formidable JUDGE DOYLE.
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Head of the Church of St Wigan. Sometimes referred to as His Eminence.
Confessor (m or f):
An anonymous member of the church who has come to Dominick seeking forgiveness for a grave sin they have commited. Age, gender and race are all open.
Location
Set in the cultish Church of St Wigan.
Time
Takes place in an unknown time. It is modern but with some noir, old fashioned elements to the styling.
SETTING: A church confessional.
AT RISE: The stage is set with a partition. DOMINICK is already seated on his side. The CONFESSOR takes their place. A blessing in the Wigan fashion is given.
CONFESSOR
I ask for forgiveness. I am a flawed being. I have committed a great many sins.
DOMINICK
You’ve come to the right place. St Wigan knows we are imperfect. Our imperfections are the reason he wished to embrace us all and bring us closer to God.
CONFESSOR
Do you believe that no man is beyond redemption?
DOMINICK
We cannot be saved. None of us can. If we repent though, we may be redeemed.
CONFESSOR
I’m worried I’ve fallen to far.
DOMINICK
Then unburden yourself. Confess to me as St Wigan’s ear and He’ll listen.
CONFESSOR
I’ve been lustful.
DOMINICK
Haven’t we all …
CONFESSOR
I’ve stolen property that isn’t mine.
DOMINICK
Then you must give it back.
CONFESSORS
Lies have been on my tongue many times.
DOMINICK
Then you must learn to speak the truth.
CONFESSOR
I get jealous and angry.
DOMINICK
Unfortunately, that’s what it means to be human. What did you find yourself coveting?
CONFESSOR
A perfect life. I knew a woman who seemed to have a perfect life. She was beautiful, bright and she sang with the tones of the waves. She would help anyone and she was loved for it.
At first I wanted to be near her. Her very presence was comforting. Then I couldn’t be without her. I thought I might have loved her but that wasn’t it. I didn’t love her. I didn’t want to be with her. I wanted to be her. She had everything that I myself never had. I’ve always been on my own and she had swarms of admirers around her. Her face was fair where I’ve always been the sullen sort. Her body was healthier than mine. She had it all and she lived a blessed life. The more I thought about it the angrier it started to make me until eventually I couldn’t look upon her pretty features without wanting to hurt her. She didn’t notice any of this. She still wanted to make me her friend.
Above all things she had a stepbrother who adored her. I guess that was the thing I coveted the most.
DOMINICK
What did you do?
CONFESSOR
I think you already know.
DOMINICK
They found her body. Her heart was torn out. Her tongue was removed. She was burned her remains as a whore because they claimed she tried to run away from the commune.
CONFESSOR
I know. I told her you had gone to the city. You had left the church behind. She went looking for you, her precious stepbrother. When we got there I plunged a knife into her chest.
DOMINICK
Why!?
CONFESSOR
I already told you. I coveted everything she had. She was a light in this world and if I couldn’t have that or be that it might as well be extinguished. We’re only human. You said so yourself.
(DOMINICK remains quite on his side.)
Can I ask you something?
(DOMINICK sniffs but doesn’t reply.)
If I tell you I repent, can I still be redeemed?
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The matriarch of the Penn family is widely considered a loving mother, dedicated wife and most importantly a noble queen. When the family is considered the royalty of Main, Queen Rita took that job seriously and selflessly dedicated herself to service of her people.
Her biggest passions were her work with the Central Theatre and the City Youth Fund which she set up to offer young people in her area support. She was mostly known for working with troubled teens with nowhere else to turn.
Rita hailed from the Delphine family who are a long line of chefs, famous for the Delphine restaurant in Filton. Rita herself was a ballet dancer. She also has a huge interest in botany. She is responsible for the memorial gardens in Coldridge where she planted several flowers in remembrance of youngsters who had been rejected by their families or for those who would otherwise be forgotten.
She met her husband to be at St Alban’s school which they both attended. They were inseparable as high school sweethearts and their bond only grew over the years.
Whilst the responsibility of Main presented many challenges, Rita always did her best to offer her family a true wife and mother.
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It was all eyes on the prize in the weekend’s fixture between Coldford City and Coldford Athletic who clashed at City Stadium. With only a point between the sides and a place on the top up for grabs it was an excitement filled ninety minutes. The first half culminated in a goal from Athletic striker Sammy Connelly giving City Main side a lot to think about at half time.
A season unbeaten. City dominate the league.
The words from the manager had an effect because the second half City squad attacked with hunger. A goal from City midfielder Louis Fang brought them equal.
The final score of 1 – 1 was a fine sum up the day with both teams running at equal pace. Sharing the points still leave City lagging behind in the league but it’s a tight margin that can easily be filled with one off day from The Shanties side.
Racing
Cardyne was buzzing this weekend as the first leg of the Shady City races got underway. Excited fans flooded in from Luen to see the famed Cooper Mad Dog fleet take to the tracks. Mad Dog Emerald took home the top prize on the street circuits. Whilst his pack mate, Sunny, sped home with the top spot on the Coldridge track and the Gigantidome circuit. It was a fine day of display for Cooper Cars leaving the other fleets with much work to do to catch up to the quality.
Boxing/ MMA
With Punchline Penn on a hiatus from the boxing ring, the city has turned to the MMA Octagon where new emerging talent is having an opportunity display their skills. Making quite an impression lately is Lloyd Walden of the Walden wine family. Walden’s undisciplined approach to the sport has served him well so far. When famed fighters Graham Grossen and Tommy Kolt came up against him they found him unpredictable.
With Grossen suffering a defeat at last night’s Shady City Championship it leaves Lloyd Walden going from strength to strength. All eyes on this impulsive sport as it rapidly grows in popularity in the city.
Your round of sport in Coldford is brought to you by Lee Wilson of the Coldford Express.
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Never had grey looked so vibrant. Light and dark battled for centre stage as greyish faces watched the artist from the shelving. Some were finely carved, almost human. Most were still waiting for their features. They had survived the abortion of the carver’s knife.
The artist looked at the shelf above him. Another clay face smiled back knowingly.
“You will just continue to fall downhill.”
The words WASHED UP were carved across it. The shame of this realisation was deeply embedded. The artist ignored it at first. He lifted the carving knife and reached for the clay in front of him, unborn, formless. He wet his hands in the bowl. The cool water did nothing to relieve his intoxicated mind. He reached out and caressed the clay carefully, searching for the curvatures.
“You are nothing.”
Three identical masks observed him, perched high. Each of them bore the word DOUBT. The artist leant back on his stool but his drug-addled mind was too far-gone to keep his balance. He leaned back too far and as he jerked forward he knocked the water bowl over and cut his finger on the scalpel he used to carve details into his creations.
“Fuck!” he exclaimed as the vibrant red began to gush from the wound, spilling onto the grey. His vision was blurry. He didn’t normally feel this way after a hit. Joe must have gotten purer than usual.
At age twelve the artist had turned to smoke. The calming effects saw him through pre-pubescence. It calmed the storm of his teen years. He tried powder and pills along the way but when he reached his twenties only needles would do. He had come off them for a while as his career as an artist took off. He had it all then but the high of life shook him, gave him unrealistic expectations, sucked him dry then left him with nothing but the needles for comfort. His friends encouraged him but no matter what he did, his work could never reach those heights again.
The needles didn’t think he was washed up. They were always there to make him feel better. They even numbed the pain as he put a deeper cut in his hand as he tried to grasp the scalpel again.
“A pathetic excuse for a human being.”
The artist looked at a clay face that lay discarded on the bench. The word FRAUD was embedded into it.
The artist swung his legs round but it threw off his balance again. This time he tumbled to the floor. He looked up towards the window. A figurine of a slim woman was hanging by it’s feet.
“He’s just a little down on his luck.”
The figurine spun around on the wire that held her captive. Her face was flat. It had no features yet. Only her buttocks had any detail. The words HAS BEEN were written into her.
“Fuck off the lot of you!” the artist cried, climbing to his feet. “What do you know about it?”
He swung his arms in a meaningless gesture but it caused him to fall into his bench. The corner caught his hip painfully.
A hand fell on him. He shrieked. The clay digits clasped his shoulder.
“You had it all. It’s gone now. You are nothing. You had no real talent.”
The artist cried out. Hooks, shelves, walls, more clay faces and figurines watching him, accusing him. Whatever he did have it was gone. His artistic vision was gone and all the needles in the world would never numb that kind of pain.
The faces closed in.
“Lost!”
“Broken!”
“A talentless junkie that got lucky!”
The artist hated that he had become a tortured cliché. He hated even more that everything he turned his hand to lately fell flat. It wasn’t inspired. It wasn’t bold. He struggled to get even those closest to him to give a second look. He was an artist cliché without the talent. He thought he was giving birth to kings and queens whose reign would be spoken of for centuries. Instead he held still born after still born. So he hung them, scraped away at their skins and occasionally, when provoked, he smashed them to pieces. Paintings, carvings, models, all deserved incineration. Burn them all. Never let those failed experiments see the light of day. They would tell everyone how uninspired their creator was.
The artist turned on his stool. Dizziness overcame him. A large male figure was looking down on him from the shelf. He had no legs and was leaning on muscular arms. The muscles in the arms and abdomen were painstakingly clear and well-defined. As strong as the figure looked, he would never have those legs. Below his waist would remain as absent as the creator’s mind.
“Why bother even trying?”
The question startled the artist. He stood up again and kicked the stool over. The eyes of the legless figure had more life in them than the artist’s own. The last time he dared look in a mirror his face was vacant. He looked dead. He might as well be. The dark roots were showing through greasy, bleached hair. His lips were grey.
“Leave me alone!” he warned them.
He stumbled out of the workshop, falling to his knees on the sodden grass as he missed the last step. He looked back up. The statues would always be there. They would always mock him for the ridiculousness of their existence. David Finn’s career as an artist was all but over.
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