The october wolves, steam noir.

The October wolves A steam noir Richard Bartok III I was sitting in Corelli’s bar the night they came in, the old jukebox had just thrown on some old sad jazz wail, little puffs of light of blue white light coming off the transistor, shining like a beacon in the otherwise dingy little speakeasy. It was just me and the bartender Mike tonight, the rain keeping everyone else in their little shanty apartments and out of the bad old games they usually play. I was currently wasting what little money I had gathered for the month from my recent activities in the Ambrose street area in little town on cheap under the counter liquor from Mike. Refilling my mug as I laid the shiny image of Nikola on the table he took the coin up and checked it, Suddenly we both looked at the door as dark rain drops sounded from outside and lightning flashed blue black through the sky. If I was a superstitious man I would have taken that as a sign that I needed to get out of there and get myself into a new safer profession, like professional scalpel juggler or live coil repairman. However being a man of little superstition and even little less a man for wasting good cheap ice block cooled liquor I stayed where I was gulping down the sweet and frothy liquid as my eyes adjusted on the figures walking in from the downpour. I should have known the minute they walked in that they would be trouble with a capital T and an underscore on the rest. The old man was wearing a tattered brown ramshackle coat and a battered old hat, some number that might have looked good a few years ago. Now it just showed his age even more than the wild unruly shock of white hair and deep creased lines on his face. He looked more than a bit out of place in this side of the town even as tattered as he was trying to appear. His eyes darted left and right trying to adjust to the dimly lit bar, finally setting his gaze on the open bar between me and Mike. Walking beside him was the real trouble, some young dame, nothing but blue eyes like the swell of the ocean and red crimson lips that could set a man on the mind for murder. She walked beside him with just a little sway of her hips like a woman in charge as she led him toward my stool at the end of the bar. Sitting down she looked at Mike and then guided the man down to the stool next to her. His body unleashing some tension as he sat back. “Gimme two raw bourbons and make the ice like the titanic big man”, she said as she crossed her legs showing off the alluring pale white and creamy skin. Mike set the glasses down in front of her and she laid a small group of bills on the table, the image displaying the presidential seal of technology and history on the back in the guise of a circle around a pyramid and lying in the center of it a series of interlocking gears. Deus Ex Machina set in the small type at the top. Placing her hand on top of Mikes, she brushed her smooth red nails against his small fingers and smiled bright white teeth at him. “ Would you be a dear and maybe go around back for a bit, take stock and check the inventory, something like that darling. I would be ever so grateful if you could” she said as she ran her fingers slowly off his hands as he took up the bills and counting them looked at her and then picked up a mug and began to walk to the back without saying a word. Say what you will about Mike, but at least he can be trusted on to be an absolute professional when it comes to shady dealings and bribery. Putting my glass in front of me and leaning down against the table I looked at the old man fidgeting with his drink, his lips finally wrapping around the strong hooch. His female counterpart had no such issue, sliding those gorgeous lips around the rim of the glass in an almost erotic way, her tongue flicking the last bits off the glasses edge as her throat finished bobbing up and down seductively. I took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, looking at both her and the old man and then opening the rim of the package offered each of them a smoke. The man shook his head and produced a small pipe of cherry wood and began to tamp it full of a rich aromatic blend. The girl put her small fingers into my pack of Barrington select and pulled it out, sliding the cigarette into her lips wrapping them moistly onto the edge. “Got a light pal?” she asked looking at me, studying me with those smooth baby blues as I pulled out the lighter. My rough hands flicked the Welsbach’s golden engraved body lighting up a small flare burning the cigarette tip a golden red glow. “Thanks” she said as she took a heavy drag off the cigarette as her partner smoked copiously from the curved pipe. “So why don’t you both go ahead and just tell me what you need already, that way I can either find out what you both need or go back to drinking my hooch” I said leaning back, my sharp black suit jacket hanging to the side as I looked at them both. “Right to the point Mr. Miles, I like that about you” She said sliding her legs one over the other again this time going the other way. “ This is my uncle, Professor Jules Garret, you may have heard of him and his research going on at the new Victoria school of energy and development”. “Yeah I heard of you”, I said lighting another smoke tossing the old one into a used and battered tray. “I read in the paper you were doing some work on Tesla and Deforests work on energy and tubes as well as some of the new stuff with steam concentration”. With that the old man leaned up with his back held much more proudly looking less like cheap squatter and more like the learned man of science he was. “ I was not only working on them, I was head of the special projects branch in charge of new developments!” he stated with energy, his white hair shaggy and unkempt moving as he illustrated his points, a slight Bavarian accent hidden under the tone. Probably just another transplant from the old world I thought as I pulled a drag off my cigarette. “So what do you need a guy like me for professor”? The girl looked up at me and answered for the old man “My uncle was the head of research until recently a break in occurred at the lab and several notes were stolen along with the newly developed prototype”. Taking out a black and white still photo she handed me a picture of the attaché case the files were held in along with a smaller photo of what appeared to be a grainy image of the invention, a copper wrapped device held in a ball of metal with prongs and flanges, silver engraving and scrollwork forming a path, like it was meant to be placed a certain way. Setting the pictures down I looked at the dame and the old man. “ I ain’t exactly a Sherlock anymore, ever since the good graces of the law decided to take the side of the Vanzetti twins against yours truly, I can practice but I ain’t exactly legit anymore”. “I don’t work for the city, so I guess as the orientals say, I’ve gone ronin, le mercenary, hell just a cheap hired gun if you want ,but I think you may want someone with more ties to the city for this lady”. She smiled as she slid a finger under my chin pulling her face close to mine. “You’ll do fine Mr. Miles, you’ll do just fine, you see we don’t want this getting out and the cops around here have big mouths and even shallower pockets. I think we can trust you more than we can the local bobbies”. “ My rates aren’t exactly cheap miss”? “ Vanbrook, Ellen Vanbrook”. “Well Miss Vanbrook I work for 30 blue backs a day plus expenses, and I need to have everything you have on the case”. Smiling she handed me a small packet along with the two photos and stood up, dusting her black dress off. Taking the packet from her hand I set it beside my now warm mug. “Your hired Aleister, your first day’s fee is in the packet. You may want to check with the lab security James Elders and my uncles assistant Prof.Albert Kesner tomorrow”. With that she walked forward swaying her hips, showing her body off like the apple that tempted eve itself, all beautiful curves and just as juicy, her uncle leaving with her walking out into the storm leaving me alone finishing my drink. After Mike decided to lock up for the night and politely kicking me out into the storm I began the walk to my apartment. The sky was such a pitch black you could barely see and dirigibles at all, probably tied to their moorings at the end of the city. Walking ahead the steam curling around my feet as the dim glow of the new style street bulbs led the way I began looking for an autocab to flag down but seeing that none were operational on this dark and dismal night I started walking for the nearest city train. Eventually I found my seat after a short three walk block hopping from awning to awning and brick and wood covering staying as dry as I could. The early morning steam workers, brawny and ashen faced youth were already on the train, too tired to be moved I finally sat in the very back half leaned against the floor as the steam and smoke belched out the side pipes of the short distance train. The workers departed at eighth and Hennipen for the local steam generator plant, moving out in a blurry eyed drone of half awake specimen. Leaning on the head of my dark wood cane I stood up and found myself a seat finally getting out near my street at the more seedy side of town on new bakers stree proper in the old district. The trollops and whores had already gone out of the rain which meant that only the tramps and wino’s were in the alley’s tonight and I wouldn’t have to compete with walking traffic. My cane clicked the ground as I pulled the key from my dark suit jacket pocket and finally opened the door to my little apartment. The rickety wood door creaked open as I pulled the brass handle and then shut it again, bolting the top and bottom latches. Setting the packet at the top of my small cramped work desk covered with bottles of screwink and an old Mothersbrow type writer against a magnifying glass and a reprint of some eldritch horror tales I had taken from some kid downtown selling used prints and penny dreadfuls.

The first rough of the whistling old man.

The Whistling Old Man

I will always remember that haunting broken sound, the sound that keeps the world at bay and the insanity from ripping through the thin fabric of the ethereal plane and tearing at the very sanity of the world. As I sit alone in my house on the dark nights I feel as if I can still hear the sound of the whistling coming from his lips as the wind slides through the tree branches. The cold air brushing through the cheap little house I rent on the dilapidated streets of this lower class suburb, chilling me to my core.

I remember I was a college graduate at the time when this all first happened. A proud member of those leaving that year from a small Midwest college along the Kansas/Missouri line. I had left my family that summer near fall and begun looking for work in the New England area which I heard was plentiful.

I soon found however, others had already beaten me to many of the jobs in the local area. Knowing not what to do and unwilling to swallow my pride and return home I did what many collegiate do and seek help from various institutions of higher learning. After enquiring to the strange flabby mouthed bus driver for a few minutes he told me he could arrange take me past a town called Innsmouth and through Arkham if I was willing to take a days ride and pay for the expense of doing so.

I checked my funds and though slim I felt I would be able to do just that. Settling in he began and ended the trip in silence, finally pulling into a dilapidated little town bearing a worn white sign proclaiming it Innsmouth, the finest fishing preserve in the United States. Getting off the bus I watched the man set my bags down and then proceed to talk to another heavyset and grey faced man, probably a relative. He pointed to me and indicated that I wanted, it seemed by his gestures to go upstate. Sitting at the bench waiting while the transaction took place was less than pleasant. It seemed the local color was out today and visitors were at best a rarity.

The town itself of course had seen better days but coming as I did from an area of trailers, pink flamingo yard stickers and beer opening garden gnomes I lacked the ability to pass judgement on the people here. However their flat eyed stares gave me a deep feeling of intense disgust and dread that I could not place and was only more than happy when the man summoned me in front of his kin and handed me my bags. “This is my cousin Elias, he will take you the rest of the way up through Arkham to Miskatonic for the price agreed” said the grey faced bus driver bluntly and then held out his hand looking at me expectantly.

Taking out a few new gold dollars and some bills I pushed them into his clammy flipper like hand. His eyes seemed to sparkle around the image of the gold imprint on the coin and he was, it seems barely able to take his eyes from the metal before taking my luggage and undelicately throwing it into the back of an old model station wagon, the wood of which seemed to be fading from the harsh sea air around the town, as many of the houses seemed to be similarly effected.

Bidding my flabby companion a good day I leaned to get into the vehicle and shut the door. I proceeded to spend most of the next few hours trying not to stare at the small slits around the drivers neck. I gathered they were some odd form of scar or birth mark, maybe received as a boy. I spent the rest of my time making idle and almost one sided conversation with the driver asking him varied questions on the area.

He seemed only interested in a few topics but was quite enjoyable company when I brought up the sea and ancient mythology, taking a great deal of pride in his own accomplishments at catching lobster and swimming. He was also, after a while of cajoling quite amiable to speak of specific fishing spots and cooking certain local recipes. The conversation did not stray much outside of these things but it seemed that I had unlocked what was the core of this man’s being and it seemed he relished getting to speak of his own joys to an outsider as he referred to me several times.

I also spent part of the time noticing many of the unusal sights of the local towns of Arkham and Dunwhich, where after taking a wrong turn we nearly got lost but eventually righted outselves. Pulling up on the Outskirts of town my driver drove me to a place he knew of in the area. “You just tell em you comes from Innsmouth and that Elias sent you” he croaked at me in a deep froggy voice. “ They will set you right up with a nice room much better than what you would get in town for that price”.

With that we pulled up to the Gilman hotel of Miskatonic outlying, the car sputtering in a way that I was sure it was broken at the very least. Taking my bags he wished me well, seeming almost like he was taking time not to cut this human interaction short, that it was something he missed when in his own town. However he finally waved one last time and started the car, with a loud bang from the tailpipe leaving a trail of dark smoke behind him as he leaned his bulk over the steering wheel looking all the world like the cross of a hunched frog and a man. Taking my bags I walked inside and talked to a slim man of graying hair and dark recessed eyes.

I told him what I had been recommended by the gentleman from Innsmouth to this hotel. Smiling widely, almost Cheshire he told me the rates would be rather decreased for my stay and if I needed anything but to ask. I requested that a newspaper be sent to my room along with a shaving kit and a bus schedule to the campus the next morning. I paid him and added a small tip on to the gratuity to the man, Danforth.

His grin never faltering as I walked away to the second story, unlocking my room with the large antique style brass key given to me. Opening the door I placed the do not disturb sign on my door and using the black classic keypad phone I called down to place a wake up call for the next day at 8 am. Setting the lock on the door as I had been careful to do since my early days of traveling and hearing of how those of the criminal element would often take advantage of those alone in their rooms for burglary or worse.

Some writings on the concept album/work from the group.

Two drinks before the apocalypse, the red rider running up the trail and the tall white king with hell behind him doesn't get through the door but old trucker billy sidles on by wishin for a cold whiskey and a hot sandwhich. Been through almost everywhere including there and back again says the old man as he talks to the old waitress with her white servers shirt tuckerd half in, a cigarete between her lip as she boredly writes the menu down smilin for the regular.
-Rick Bartok

The old chevy broke down in this backroads placesweat pourin down off of billies face.

The smoke pouring down from the engine block

billy grabs his bags and starts to walka diner up ahead open any old time

billy grabs his money and moves down the line.

The boy outta prison walks in from the heatthe cold air hitting his chest

He sits down and leans back in the booth,enjoyin the soothin rest.

The waitress comes over and says what will it be with a smile and a wink in her eye

why beth baby girl you know what I need

His hand reachin gainst her thigh.she sits down and she hold him tighttears up in her eyeshe got her man, he got her the cash and it was worth the crime.

If it was worth the crime, do it any time, got your mind on the cash, women and wineIf the rich men can rob us, well so can IGonna rob them folks of every dime

Well billy grabbed his girl and they looked outsidethe croakin of the locust filled the air

and the red sun against the sky

Two damn lovers without any careas they look up at the red dessert sky and stare

Well he did the time did his time for some misbegotten crime

and thats all back in the pastall he got right now, is his cash and his girl and he aims to make it last.

Another version being worked on.

Johny stuck walking down the highway with a military ruck over his shoulder and a pistol in his hip pocket. The skinhead scum making trouble down at the cafe' in the heat of the beginnin night. Their hands too close to johnny's girl beth, making comments and makin threats. Their fingers grabbin her slender wrists.

The young blonde girl throws the soup in the head boys face, his swastika dripping with hot onion soup, red hot anger on his face. Grabbing her by the hair he slaps his knuckles across her lips and pulls out a knife. The old man and woman behind the counter look at the man.

His gang laughing breaking dishes as they throw the girl down on the table holding the knife to her neck. The old mans hands wrap around the double barrel shotgun waitin for his chance, the knife to close to her pretty little neck, sweat rolling down her forehead as the greasy bastard slides on top of her unbuttonin her outfit slowly.

Flaring lights hit the diner blinding the men inside, they windows glowing as the skinhead punk climbs off her, dragging her to the floor by her hair, the other hand holding the knife over his eyes.

The door flies open as Raymos walks through, tall as a redwood and wide as houses. His hands grip the pump action from his truck as he blows a hole through the little fuck next to the skinhead, his limp body flying back, a hole in his face spraying brain and blood over the window. Johnny calmly walks in and levels his colt at the mans head. The man backs up as Raymos chambers another round.

His friend reaches for the pistol tucked in his back pocket tryin to ease it out. Johnny turns as the man yanks out the pistol as another shotgun blast rings through the air, this time blowing out the young mans eardrums causing him to drop the knife as he watches his friends body behind him get shredded along with the old pinball machine, chips shattering off the high score marker along with part of the boys throat.

Clutching his torn flesh his body goes pale, blood dripping down from his neck, one eye shattered rom the bullet spray as he coughs up blood and collapses dead, the pinballs rolling down beside him from the table and continue on. Grabbing the skin head by the back of the jacked Beth and Billy walk outside, the diner workers looking on, Raymos standing holding the pump in one hand offering it to Billy.

He pushes it away and pulls the hammer back on the colt, the round pushing up into the chamber ready to fire as he puts it in the young mans mouth. Tears streaming down across his face, his chest mopped with sweat over his die nigger die tattoo and swastika as Billy pushes the weapon down the mans mouth metal scarping over teeth.

Beth looks coldly at the would be rapist covering her bare skin as best she can with her torn unbuttoned shirt. The nazi fuck begging for his life, pleading, demanding. The bullet fires out of th barrel through the mans back teeth carrying them into the ground behind him, the bullet ripping out the back of the mans head and throat as he collapses twitching on the ground.

Billy lean back and puts ont more through the top of the mans head leaving the brain matter to sink into the earth. Grabbing Beth he smiles and walks her back inside and sits down as Raymos and Ol' Jake begin to drag the bodies to the back storage freezer. Looking down at the booth where the men sat just a minute ago, Beth grabs the bag sitting under the table and opens it up. Billy and Beth look inside and begin to count.

Another version of the storyline of one song after some debate in the forums.

So I guess conservapedia is good for something after all...

So if you have never read any of ragnar bensons works, you probably should get on that. While I don't think you should ever use any of these things (cause there illegal) they are fun to know, and you can own them in this country....so thanks constitution. Anyway here is a bibliography in case you want to look up them kinda things like making your own tents....and survival stuff....and man trapping...and maybe explosives.


Acquiring New ID : How To Easily Use The Latest Technology To Drop Out, Start Over, and Get On with Your Life
Action Careers: Employment in the High-Risk Job Market
Breath Of The Dragon: Homebuilt Flamethrowers
Bull's Eye: Crossbow
David's Tool Kit: A Citizen's Guide to Taking Out Big Brother's Heavy Weapons
Do-It-Yourself Medicine: How to Find and Use the Most Effective Antibiotics, Painkillers, Anesthetics and Other Miracle Drugs... Without Costly Doctors' Prescriptions or Hospitals
Eating Cheap
The Greatest Explosions in History: Fire, Flash and Fury
Guerrilla Gunsmithing: Quick And Dirty Methods For Fixing Firearms In Desperate Times
Hardcore Poaching
Home-Built Claymore Mines: A Blueprint For Survival
Homemade C-4: A Recipe For Survival
Homemade Grenade Launchers: Constructing The Ultimate Hobby Weapon
Live Off The Land In The City And Country
Long Term Survival in the Coming Dark Age - Preparing to Live after Society Crumbles
Mantrapping
The Modern Survival Retreat
Modern Weapons Caching: A Down-To-Earth Approach To Beating The Government Gun Grab
The Most Dangerous Game: Advanced Mantrapping Techniques
New And Improved C-4: Better-Than-Ever Recipes For Half The Money And Double the Fun
Ragnar's Action Encyclopedia of Practical Knowledge and Proven Techniques (A compilation from some of his other books)
Ragnar's Big Book Of Homemade Weapons: Building And Keeping Your Arsenal Secure
Ragnar's Guide To Home And Recreational Use Of High Explosives
Ragnar's Guide To Interviews, Investigations, And Interrogations: How To Conduct Them, How to Survive Them
Ragnar's Guide to the Underground Economy
Ragnar's Homemade Detonators
Ragnar's Tall Tales
Ragnar's Ten Best Traps: And A Few Others That Are Damn Good Too
Ragnar's Urban Survival: A Hard-Times Guide to Staying Alive in the City
Survivalist's Medicine Chest
Survival Nurse: Running an Emergency Nursing Station Under Adverse Conditions
Survival Poaching
The Survival Retreat: A Total Plan For Retreat Defense
Switchblade: The Ace Of Blades
Starting a New Life in Rural America: 21 Things You Need to Know Before You Make Your Move