pulling a train...

[Garnate]

Name: Candice Carlsberg

Outward appearance: Today? She's playing up her more masculine features with a smart suit and shiny shoes. Briefcase in one hand, stock report in the other.

Inside information: Candice sometimes goes by the name Carl, depending on her mood. She plays both parts so well, not a single person has ever been able to tell what her natural state is. Well, except for her lovers.

What he is thinking: That top-heavy bimbo over there has some killer heels on. I wonder what size she wears....


Name: Garnetta Boobsby

What she is thinking: ZOMG THAT HOT GUY IN A SUIT TOTALLY WANTS TO BANG ME. Could you be more obvious?? Hello! My eyes are UP HERE. Guy must have a serious foot fetish.

 

[CandiCame]

Name: Candice Carlsberg

Outward appearance: Today? She's playing up her more masculine features with a smart suit and shiny shoes. Briefcase in one hand, stock report in the other.

Inside information: Candice sometimes goes by the name Carl, depending on her mood. She plays both parts so well, not a single person has ever been able to tell what her natural state is. Well, except for her lovers.

What he is thinking: That top-heavy bimbo over there has some killer heels on. I wonder what size she wears....


Name: Garnetta Boobsby

What she is thinking: ZOMG THAT HOT GUY IN A SUIT TOTALLY WANTS TO BANG ME. Could you be more obvious?? Hello! My eyes are UP HERE. Guy must have a serious foot fetish.

http://media.tumblr.com/f9b45ae35dcb4cfa7110dee213d863af/tumblr_inline_mqupm5I4iB1s6v63e.jpg

 

[zipman]

Name: Jonathon Frisch

Outward appearance: Age 22. He's wearing a suit a little too large for him, tat looks like the hand me downs he wore as young boy. His hair is short, but it looks like friend cut it.

Inside information: About to start his 1st day of his 1st job in an entry level position.

What he is thinking/doing: His fingers drum nervously on his knees and his body seems to be continually in motion. He is sweating, though not profusely. He questions if he will be able to do this job, but his anxiety that he won't grows the nearer he gets to his stop. He hears his father's voice in his head telling him that "you are not enough, you will never be enough." He wonders, not for the first time, if that voice will ever go away.

 

[RobDownSouth]

Name Quincy Bates

Outward Appearance
Coke-bottle glasses.

Insider Information
Mom always says he is the smartest guy in the room.

What he is thinking/doing
He steps on the train and looks around. He says "I am the smartest guy on this train". There is a pause and then everyone starts laughing at him. Horrified, he realizes he had actually said what he'd been thinking out loud. His face reddens. "Well, I AM!" he says defensively.

"Say something smart then!" the tall bald good looking guy challenges.

Quincy is taken aback...he's not used to being challenged on something that should be so obvious.

He thinks a moment, then says "The proper translation of 'speed trap' in Danish is "Fahrt Kontrol". He looks around, daring anyone to further challenge his expertise. People are giggling.

"Fart Control, eh?" says a greasy looking guy wearing a Pussycat Lounge shirt. He lifts one butt cheek off of his seat. "Control THIS!" A 12 second blast of flatulence follows....

 

[butters]

loving this thread and all the contributors

smart, funny, sharp, witty, sad, intriguing... and with potential to be added to over time.
special mention to marshalt - who's surprised me with his really neat cameos.

 

[RobDownSouth]

f
the idea comes from geof ryman's book 253, where he's written 252 pasengers plus the driver, separated out into 7 carriages and covering the course of a 7 minute journey on the london underground, dedicating 253 words to each person. given the characters here on the geebee, i think we have the makings of a fascinating commuter ride.

I actually bought the book on Amazon today. Interesting: 50+ used copies available from the UK, only one from an American bookseller.

 

[butters]

I actually bought the book on Amazon today. Interesting: 50+ used copies available from the UK, only one from an American bookseller.

given the location of the journey, the main readership might be londoners but it's accessible to anyone imo. hope you enjoy the book!

 

[cleaver]

the motherfucker didn't want too damn much to do with it
but the fuckers were jabbering way too much.

the one nigger was gonna end up in camp.
you don't wear the take like that - and tell the story!
and his homey, though smarter, was weaker...
the second nigger gonna take a trip to school, too...

teach the fools?
fuck!

ray wore his hat with style.
he liked it.
it was ugly.
people talked.

he could not give a fuck.

not.
one.
fuck.

ray'd paid his time.

stupid fucking kids!

he needed ice and some lemons
and something else, he remembered ...
but couldn't remember what?

like, ummmm?

he did need the ice at least...
which was cheaper if he got off at the next stop,
instead of the closer one.

he'd call her from the store,
to be nice...
she wouldn't want nothing.

he hoped the dummies didn't get off with him
there.

 

[Laurel]

name Jen

outward appearance
Early 30s. College roommate dubbed her "Birdie" for her delicate physique, which is currently swimming in Al's sweatshirt, the one she slept in whenever he was away, still holding traces of his smell despite the one (reluctant) washing. Shoulders hunched against the seat, she can't smell him now, or anything, or see or hear the sounds around her. Fine blonde hair falls in strings over her face, obscuring tear-reddened blue eyes. Slim fingers clutch a mobile phone.

insider information
She's one of two people on earth besides him who know about his special place. The evenings they spent sitting on a bench, his hand on her thigh as seagulls scrambled for bits of thrown pretzel, the bay a furious red, the sun dropping off the edge of the world... She cringes, happy memories driving her further into the pit.

what she is thinking/doing
Why why why. No answer comes. She can't even blame booze; sensing trouble, she'd chosen mineral water with her pizza. Asshole's cocky smile turning her guts to warm butter. Just a friendly dinner, he'd said. Like friends. She'd been so lonely the last two months. Al was doing important work, and they Skyped every night - but that only sharpened her need for his touch.

She knew better. She'd gone anyway. Asshole was a predator for sure, but his prey wasn't unwilling.

Al's face...

She closes her eyes, willing the train to move faster, willing time to warp and allow her to arrive before he does...

 

[Laurel]

name Brett

outward appearance
Well-trimmed stubble dots his face below the high cheekbones cutting a broad face. Cat-like blue eyes shine with mirth, even now. Blue hoodie beneath a weather-softened motorcycle jacket over perfectly distressed jeans. Just-thrown-on style that'd fit on a runway. He could dress, that's for sure. A hand rubs his smooth scalp. He feels women's eyes on him, and the men's. He always does. Dressing's not the only thing he's good it.

insider information
Just a game, right? Since sixth grade camp when Al got to second base Cindy Eckels before he'd had a chance to even kiss Becka Price, it'd been just a game - a game at which Brett excelled. Al caught the girls' eyes, to be fair. But he was too weak to play it well, too sensitive to win.

Jen. Brett preferred lusty meaty brunettes, but Jen had a quiet grace that stirred his hunter instincts. The kind of girl who was too good for him. The kind he liked to knock off her pedestal, onto her knees. And she was Al's girl, so there was that.

But Brett knew this time was different. He didn't understand why, but Al's eyes... Brett wanted to scream, "She's just a girl, man!" Brett waiting for the punch, the angry retort, something, anything but Al backing out the door...

what he is thinking/doing
At the pier. I'll take it all - the insults, any punches, all of it. Maybe we can quit the game. Whatever it takes.

Hey - that guy in the hat. Isn't that...?

 

[Laurel]

name Charles "Chip" Bartkowski

outward appearance
Mid 30s. Bulk sheathed in a silver-gray overcoat over a gray tailored suit. Black wingtips. Black fedora, his signature. Rumor has it he only takes off his hat to do a job - so if you see the top of his head, it likely was the last thing you'd see.

insider information
Caught the red-eye from Miami after Sammy's text. Feds showed up at the private party on the wharf, took down Jonny, Big Ben, and the crew from Boston, along with 50 kilos of merch.

One of Ben's runners said he knew the new guy but didn't know where from - the tall motherfucker who Jay vouched for. He only remembered after the fact that it was the same guy who busted Charley Cooper. He was a motherfucking cop.

It wasn't just about tidying loose ends (though Chip preferred tidy). It was the principle of the thing. Someone oughtta pay.

what he is thinking/doing
He flipped on his phone and stared at the jpeg: dumbfuck copface under a dumbfuck cop cap, with a name: "Alfred James Armstrong".

Tore up the cop's place, but didn't find the missing $200k or the file. He had to be at his girl's. And sure enough, that's where Chip saw him - just as he dropped into her corner station.

Lost him at the gate, but whatdya know... that tall fuck with the sourpuss - that looks like the ratfuck cop in question.

He thinks he's sad now. Just wait. Chip smiles, and enters the car...

 

[subdued_passion]

I'm only saying this to suck up to Laurel. I like how all three sound different. I liked the tone of #111- has a noir feel to it.



@Rob/Bob- How did I become Tas?

 

[Lorilei]

name Jen

outward appearance
Early 30s. College roommate dubbed her "Birdie" for her delicate physique, which is currently swimming in Al's sweatshirt, the one she slept in whenever he was away, still holding traces of his smell despite the one (reluctant) washing. Shoulders hunched against the seat, she can't smell him now, or anything, or see or hear the sounds around her. Fine blonde hair falls in strings over her face, obscuring tear-reddened blue eyes. Slim fingers clutch a mobile phone.

insider information
She's one of two people on earth besides him who know about his special place. The evenings they spent sitting on a bench, his hand on her thigh as seagulls scrambled for bits of thrown pretzel, the bay a furious red, the sun dropping off the edge of the world... She cringes, happy memories driving her further into the pit.

what she is thinking/doing
Why why why. No answer comes. She can't even blame booze; sensing trouble, she'd chosen mineral water with her pizza. Asshole's cocky smile turning her guts to warm butter. Just a friendly dinner, he'd said. Like friends. She'd been so lonely the last two months. Al was doing important work, and they Skyped every night - but that only sharpened her need for his touch.

She knew better. She'd gone anyway. Asshole was a predator for sure, but his prey wasn't unwilling.

Al's face...

She closes her eyes, willing the train to move faster, willing time to warp and allow her to arrive before he does...

name Brett

outward appearance
Well-trimmed stubble dots his face below the high cheekbones cutting a broad face. Cat-like blue eyes shine with mirth, even now. Blue hoodie beneath a weather-softened motorcycle jacket over perfectly distressed jeans. Just-thrown-on style that'd fit on a runway. He could dress, that's for sure. A hand rubs his smooth scalp. He feels women's eyes on him, and the men's. He always does. Dressing's not the only thing he's good it.

insider information
Just a game, right? Since sixth grade camp when Al got to second base Cindy Eckels before he'd had a chance to even kiss Becka Price, it'd been just a game - a game at which Brett excelled. Al caught the girls' eyes, to be fair. But he was too weak to play it well, too sensitive to win.

Jen. Brett preferred lusty meaty brunettes, but Jen had a quiet grace that stirred his hunter instincts. The kind of girl who was too good for him. The kind he liked to knock off her pedestal, onto her knees. And she was Al's girl, so there was that.

But Brett knew this time was different. He didn't understand why, but Al's eyes... Brett wanted to scream, "She's just a girl, man!" Brett waiting for the punch, the angry retort, something, anything but Al backing out the door...

what he is thinking/doing
At the pier. I'll take it all - the insults, any punches, all of it. Maybe we can quit the game. Whatever it takes.

Hey - that guy in the hat. Isn't that...?

name Charles "Chip" Bartkowski

outward appearance
Mid 30s. Bulk sheathed in a silver-gray overcoat over a gray tailored suit. Black wingtips. Black fedora, his signature. Rumor has it he only takes off his hat to do a job - so if you see the top of his head, it likely was the last thing you'd see.

insider information
Caught the red-eye from Miami after Sammy's text. Feds showed up at the private party on the wharf, took down Jonny, Big Ben, and the crew from Boston, along with 50 kilos of merch.

One of Ben's runners said he knew the new guy but didn't know where from - the tall motherfucker who Jay vouched for. He only remembered after the fact that it was the same guy who busted Charley Cooper. He was a motherfucking cop.

It wasn't just about tidying loose ends (though Chip preferred tidy). It was the principle of the thing. Someone oughtta pay.

what he is thinking/doing
He flipped on his phone and stared at the jpeg: dumbfuck copface under a dumbfuck cop cap, with a name: "Alfred James Armstrong".

Tore up the cop's place, but didn't find the missing $200k or the file. He had to be at his girl's. And sure enough, that's where Chip saw him - just as he dropped into her corner station.

Lost him at the gate, but whatdya know... that tall fuck with the sourpuss - that looks like the ratfuck cop in question.

He thinks he's sad now. Just wait. Chip smiles, and enters the car...

What happens next?!?!

 

[Bidin~Time]

Name: Helena Argyris

outward appearance: Helena watches Mr. Kennedy as he walks away. A hint of a smirk plays across her lips and she goes back to her textbook, marks the page, and returns it to her bag. Her stop is coming up soon and she likes to be prepared.

Insider information: Helena had thought Mr. Kennedy looked familiar but it didn't click in her head right away. Then she remembered. He was Mr. Herpes-bed-11 from Friday night. He had asked for a male doc, so Dr. Jenkins, a man about Mr. Kennedy's age, had treated him. Even with his active case of herpes, Kennedy had tried to get Dr. Jenkins to prescribe Viagra in addition to the Valtrex. She didn't remember if he obliged the request, but couldn't imagine why he thought he needed Viagra. At least for the next couple of weeks or so. The junior high pick up line and obvious lack of patience meant he'd probably be prone to hook up with anything he thought might have a willing orifice. She chastises herself for being judgemental, "not everyone with an STD sleeps around, but Hannah Montana? seriously?"

What she is doing: Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him walk up to Gina, the floor nurse from 6 East with blue hair. Gina had a reputation in the hospital as a bit of a free spirit and a fantastic nurse. Helena knew Gina's kid brother had been deaf from birth, and Gina had helped her brush up on her American Sign Language from time to time. She debates a few seconds, but decides to hell with HIPAA, this is professional courtesy, and catches Gina's eye. In that split second, as the train approaches her stop, she signs "herpes" and nods in the direction of Kennedy, who now has his back to her. Gina acknowledges with a hint of a smile as the train rolls to a stop, and Helena exits onto the station platform.

 

[Laurel]

name Al

outward appearance
Dark-haired, lanky, unshaven. Usually after an undercover gig, he stopped off at his apartment for a shower, shave, and fresh clothes before meeting Jen. But after literally watching his life flash before his eyes staring down the barrel of Sammy's gun - right before the Feds busted in - he filled out his paperwork, got debriefed, then cabbed straight to the jewelry store and slapped down his savings on the ring before walking to her place, using his key on the door, and seeing...

He clutched his head and moaned. Suspecting mental illness, his seatmates inched away.

insider information
A familiar face has entered the car.

what he is thinking/doing
The hat - fuck.

Chip.

Fuck.

Don't run. Don't move. He won't shoot me on a moving train in front of all these people...would he?

 

[Laurel]

name Brett

outward appearance
Tense, pulled to the edge of his seat by the passing man like an iron splinter to a magnet. His head craned to watch the suited man's stride into the adjoining car.

insider information
His work as a private investigator - one of four at the firm, but he'd start his own company once he made the connections, you'll see - involved hours pouring over faxed documents, emailed PDFs, phone calls to credit bureaus, online searching (his specialty - boss called him The Google Whisperer for his ability to coax info from the internet when no one else there could).

Brett'd seen Chip in grainy newspaper photos, usually half-hid behind some crime boss's shoulder. A shadowy figure. A name attached to a half dozen aliases on a rap sheet of charges - breaking and entering, assault - stretching back a decade, notable for its length and complete lack of the crime for which he was most known: murder. He could take out a target in a crowd and leave squeaky clean. He was good, and paid accordingly. Besides the convictions, his record (and past) was a blank.

what he is thinking/doing
The big bust hummed across the wires. Though Al kept mum about his work, Brett knew Al made that happen. The intricate planning, the patient manipulation of sources - pure Al.

Chip's presence in town was risky. He wouldn't be here if he didn't have an urgent job to do.

Brett's heart sank as he stood...

 

[Laurel]

name Jen

outward appearance
When the car nearly emptied at the last stop, she grabbed a corner seat, sinking into it, pushing her hot forehead against the cool metal handrail. A phone buzzes as she makes yet another unanswered call. She sighs. The phone is slipped into her pocket.

insider information
Al had a been a policeman for as long as she'd known him - three years, and a few years before that even. He mom warned her not to fall for cops, fireman, or doctors. The hours drove you crazy. She'd know, as the wife of a surgeon. Her parents had shared maybe five meals together her entire childhood. They grew even more distant after his retirement. She can't remember ever seeing them kiss.

But as a famous philanderer once said, the heart wants what it wants. Jen loved Al at first sight.

And Al loved Jen - so much that he'd lived a white lie to keep her from worry. She had no idea he did undercover work at all, let alone in the seedy underbelly of the city's illegal drugs and guns trade.

what she is thinking/doing
A man rushes through the car, followed moments later by another man. Another man she knows.

Brett? BRETT?!

What the FUCK!?

She leaps up...

 

[Lorilei]

Laurel's good at this!

 

[butters]

name 'H' (changed legally once he was 18 because, seriously, who wants to go through their entire lives named John Thomas?)

outward appearances
late twenties, 5'9'', head half-shaved, half brushed over to hang in a geometric cut framing his jawline and bleached white-blonde. skinny jeans and a white, drape-necked tee bearing a grim-faced Margaret Thatcher as the Mona Lisa with the inscription 'FCUK U IRONY MAIDEN'

insider information
He's begun to regret the name-choice, finding the inane, inevitable questions something of a bore. plus no-one takes him seriously. his bestie's a hairdresser who uses him as a guinea pig which sometimes works in H's favour, sometimes not - but since it doesn't cost anything he takes a chance. he drifts from job to job and hangs out a lot in trendy art establishments, hoping to catch the eye of someone (anyone) in the world of media, depsite having nothing to offer other than his look.

what he is doing/thinking
looking at his reflection in the darkened window, wondering if if it makes him look fatter than he is and secretly fearing he might look a bit of a dick.

 

[butters]

Laurel's good at this!

i can't wait to read what happens next

 

[Laurel]

name Brett

"...the FUCK!?" a female voice hissed as a hand gripped his shoulder.

outward appearance
The face that spun around to meet Jen's was so strange that for a moment she thought she'd followed a stranger. But the features were Brett's - the same rugged yet symmetrical face that'd gotten him laid more than the average. But the eyes - something not right there, something off...

insider information
Brett should be less surprised to see Jen here. Both of them knew where he'd likely head. And had she not flipped out on him - forcing him outside naked, tossing his clothes out her kitchen window - they could've cooperated, made the trip to the pier together, intercepted Al, made their apologies.

But Al had bigger problems right now - problems from which Jen should stay far, far away...

what he is thinking/doing
"Jen, go. Get to the other side of the train, as far as you can from here. I'll explain later, but right now you gotta get the fuck away. I'm dead serious, Jen. GO."

He shakes off her hand and continues pursuit of the man in the hat...

 

[Laurel]

name Jen

outward appearance
She stands on the platform between cars, watching Brett run through the cars. She's stunned, still unable to take in his words or even move.

What the fuck is going ON?

insider information
He wants to get to Al first. That's it, she tells herself. Brett'll say Jen was the aggressor, that he was the innocent victim.

But she knows that makes zero sense. Al knew her, Al knew Brett. Al had even vaguely warned her of such a thing happening. Al was shattered not by belief that she and Brett were in love, but by Jen's weakness. He thought she'd be better than that. She knew this about him. She knew him so well, and he her.

what she is thinking/doing
It suddenly comes to her, what was wrong with Brett's eyes. They were filled with fear.

Something was happening, and she sensed that it involved Al.

Her feet move her down the car toward the running men...

 

[Laurel]

name Charles "Chip" Bartkowski

outward appearance
Chip is grinning to himself. He pulls a folded newspaper from his coat pocket, unfolds it, scans the front page, assuming the role of a man on his way to work.

insider information
He's right where he needs to be. Can't very well do business on the train. Cop needs to be persuaded to divulge certain information of importance to his employer. That sort of persuasion was an art and a science. Some guys, they get so excited they fuck it up. But Chip, he was patient. And thorough. He needed time and a quiet place.

what he is thinking/doing
Cop knows I'm here, and why. Just follow him out. A gun muzzle against his side hidden beneath a coat sleeve. Lead him to a warehouse on the pier. That was his turf - or his boss' anyhow. They'll talk. Hopefully cop will give it up with a minimum of fingers lost, blood spilled. Then a bullet, and into the sea. Chip wasn't a sadist, had no beef with this badge. He'd make it quick.

Or knocked unconscious, off the pier without the bullet. Cop Commits Suicide After Stealing Evidence.

It's a beautiful day. Sunshine in rapidly moving variegated stripes across the car. Thin white clouds above the city.

Chip smiles at his paper.

 

[Laurel]

name Al

outward appearance
Thousand-yard stare is gone, replaced by a thoughtful look. Legs pulled in. He bites it lip.

insider information
In a basement of a condemned apartment building, wrapped in plastic then blankets then wedged into old paint tubs, sat $200,000 in untraceable small bills, about half a million bucks worth of uncut poached gemstones, and a manila folder containing an SD card and paper printouts detailing all those on Sammy's payroll.

On the list: Al's precinct captain.

He'd stashed it as insurance. Protection.

He wouldn't actually spend that money, sell the gems. Nor would he stash it away, give Jen the life she deserved...

He had good intentions. He'd give it up. Right?

He couldn't answer that. Or didn't want to.

what he is thinking/doing
After the family moved to the next car, only one other occupant.

Chip won't shoot me here. He wants the goods.

And Chip was a bottom-line kind of guy. Maybe they could cut a deal. A 60/40 split was better than a bullet in the head, no doubt.

Wait.

BRETT?!

 

[Laurel]

name Brett

"Excuse me, you dropped something..."

outward appearance
Slamming a fist into Chip's round face, catching him straight in the jaw. Brett stands over Chip as he drops to the ground like a sack of wet flour.

insider information
Hitman with a glass jaw. Who'da thunkit.

Brett loved women. Yes he did. But he loved his buddy Al more. Their lifelong friendship bound them as brothers. He'd do anything to protect his quieter, more sensitive friend. Even slug a deadly hit man.

what he is thinking/doing
"Hey Al..."

Al smiles at him, face all relieved confusion. Brett watches Al start to rise, then Al's eyes cloud, dart over Brett's shoulder...