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 Post subject: The Revenge of Mister Mitchell
PostPosted: Sat Jul 14, 2012 2:15 am 
Crucible King
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Joined: Sat Aug 14, 2010 1:20 pm
Posts: 3622
Location: In your basement, under the floor boards... O.O
Ladies and gentlefops, I present the first parte of an ongoing episodic serial, set in the fantastic world of American King II:

The Revenge of Mister Mitchell



My name is Michael Mitchell, veteran of the Second Seven Years' War. During the Battle of Wehrley Ridge (October 4th, 1808), in Upper Canada, I was taken prisoner by a British regiment even though the Union of Royal American States won the battle. The disgusting dastards beat me up and threw me in a filthy wagon. Before I knew it, I was behind prison bars in Quebec City, in the middle of the harsh, freezing Canadian winter.

For five God-forsaken months I wrote to my beloved, Sarah Glasner, the beautiful flame-haired daughter of a wealthy Bostonian shipping baron. I thought she was the love of my life. Oh, how I was mistaken. During my time away in the army and subsequent imprisonment, she abandoned me. You can imagine my shock as an old friend from Boston, my hometown, told me about her when he was also captured. Our regimental commander, Major Desmond Battenfield--curse his name--had become her fiance, set to marry her in Christmas of 1809.

Battenfield was a sorry foppish wretch who had abandoned me at Wehrley Ridge. He could have traded me for one or two of our English prisoners like any decent commander would, but he hadn't. I realized that he didn't want to. Like King David setting up Uriah the Hittite to be killed so he could wed himself to Bathsheba, Battenfield wanted me out of the way.

It was time to take revenge. I was released when the war ended, October, 1809. One year of imprisonment. I was given some cash, some clothing, and told to hit the road. This was only the beginning.


Michael Mitchell stepped out of a carriage. He breathed Boston air for the first time in over two years. Normally, a man would be happy to go back to his hometown after fighting in a war. Michael was not. One thought consumed his mind like the fires of Hell consume a soul: Desmond Battenfield and all his cohorts must die. Desmond walked through the streets, Christmastime snow covering the cobbles like powder on a Turkish delight. The buckled shoes that he had been given upon his release, formerly belonging to a British soldier, crunched over the icy winter frosting. The cold stung the lungs of most of the Bostonians out going about their business, but thanks to an obscene amount of time shivering in a Canadian prison, Michael hardly noticed it.

"Penny for an apple, sir?" bellowed a seller. Michael tossed him a coin and the man tossed the round, red fruit to Michael. Michael took a bite out of it an import from the Bahamas, most likely. Several children ran about the street, throwing snowballs at each other. Shouts of "Merry Christmas" greeted Michael, to which he only nodded. For him, Christmas would be anything but merry. All the local girls eyed him and the men stepped out of his way, for even his time in prison did not damage his masculine features. But he payed no attention to any of them. He just kept walking. Down, down, down the street. Citizen after citizen he passed, along with not a few green-clad URAS Marines. When he finally headed into Taft's Tavern he saw a nicely carved oaken sign which read: "No weapons allowed in or around Taft's Tavern, except swords." Michael felt the side of his jacket, which concealed a flintlock pistol. He planned on keeping it.

The former prisoner opened the doors to Taft's Tavern and stood there silently for a moment. An intimidating sight at 6 feet 2 inches tall, the other drinkers turned to look at him. Normally Oliver Taft, the tavern owner, would have one of his Cravat thugs (the Cravats were a local street gang and offshoot of the Sons of Liberty whose name referred to their wearing of light red cravats to identify themselves) search new customers for weapons, but they all backed off. Michael nodded mentally in satisfaction at their fear and went and sat down at the bar after grabbing a sandwich at the free-lunch counter. The sandwich was better than normal, as Taft was trying to get in the Christmas spirit.

The jovial, double-chinned man with a bushy beard walked over, which took a while since he had lost one of his legs in the war. His peg make creaking noises, almost as if his lard was going to snap it in two. Or maybe it was just the floorboards creaking. Either way, something sounded as if it was about to break because of his obesity. He waved a chubby hand and said, "Merry Christmas, gent, fine winter day, eh? Can I get you something?"

Michael looked up at him under the rim of his stovepipe hat. A look of recognition appeared on Taft's fat face, and his eyes grew wide. "Hello, Sergeant Taft," Mitchell said dryly to his old non-com.

Taft patted Michael on the back. "Bless me, by t'under! I never thought we'd see you again! It's good to see you, lad!"

"Go to Hell, backstabber," croaked Michael.

"Wha-what? Now why would ye wanta talk that way to me, yer old friend?" Taft understood why, whether he admitted it or not.

"You know why, Taftie. You were given orders by Major Battenfield to abandon me to the British so he could marry my fiance. You executed the orders that left me to rot for an entire stinking, miserable year in a damp, rat-infested Canadian misery box! You! You! And I've returned, and you shall pay for what you have done, backstabber!"

Taft's goons made ready to pull out pistols and swords, but Michael waved them down. "No," he said calmly, "I'm not going to kill him... right now." Then he turned his attention back to Taft, and enlightened him on the fate he had in store for the old sergeant. "Look, Taftie, I'm going to make you wish you were never born. I'm going to make you lose this business. I'm going to take away your family. I'll make you a penniless wretch. And then, I'll give you a gun. You know what you'll do with that gun, Taftie?"

"Taftie" shook his head very slowly, sweat pouring off it.

Michael told him: "You'll take that gun, and you'll load one single bullet in it. And then, you'll kill yourself. I won't kill you. I'll let you do it. You shall pay for your transgressions. You shall pay, backstabber."

Michael turned and walked out of the tavern, Taft shaking like a shell-shock victim.

LEGO Builder, Writer, Video-Gamer, Greaser, History Professor, Swordsman, and Military Collector. I am the Most Interesting Man in the World. :p

 Post subject: Re: The Revenge of Mister Mitchell
PostPosted: Sun Jul 15, 2012 7:14 am 
Chisel Hand
Chisel Hand

Joined: Tue Dec 14, 2010 10:53 am
Posts: 250
Great reading as usual, I'm already looking forwards for the next parts!

 Post subject: Re: The Revenge of Mister Mitchell
PostPosted: Sun Jul 15, 2012 11:46 am 
Crucible King
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Joined: Sat Aug 14, 2010 1:20 pm
Posts: 3622
Location: In your basement, under the floor boards... O.O
Thanks, Alby! :D



Michael crossed his arms behind his back as he stood in front of the window in his room at the Chapman Inn. Raindrops slowly cascaded from the sky and pelted the yellowed glass. The smell of tobacco smoke was heavy, not only from everyone who had the room before, but also from the two dapper-looking guests sitting at the table, both with pipes sticking out of the corners of their mouths.

"And so, gentlemen, I suppose you both know why I called you here?" he said, and turned around to face them.

One Mister Rutherford, a short, stocky, man with prominent black sideburns, poured a glass of brandy. "Why, yes, I do. Word of your little... episode... is all the rage on the streets. You've got Ollie Taft and his Cravats in quite a knot. They've 'put a hit,' as they say, on you for over 500 Royal Dollars." He took a sip from his glass, "And they have assassins likely looking at you through that window right now."

The other man, Jacob Hochstedler, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed German immigrant wearing a tailored suit like Rutherford's, blew a smoke ring and also started pouring a glass of alcohol. He added in a nasally accent, "Ja, Ollie is sveating his heart out. Ha-ha! His stranglehuld on tis neighborhood ist coming to an end. Und you, Herr Mitchell, can help us help you bring it to tat end, no?"

Michael smiled for what seemed like the first time in two years. "Yes, I can. The first step in my vengeance is to take away Taft's Cravat support, or take away the Cravats themselves, literally. Without them, I'm free to wreck his life. He won't dare report me to the authorities, for he is a criminal himself, and the police would surely find out. Yes, without the Cravats, I am free to do as I please. What say you, gentlemen?"

Rutherford stared at him thoughtfully for a moment. Then, he spoke: "All right, Mister Mitchell, the Toppers will help you. We've been fighting those uncultured Cravat swine for five years over control of this neighborhood. It's time to strike. We shall supply you with whatever you need."

Michael smiled again, pointed to his worn-out clothing, and said, "I'm going to need a suit..."


Mitchell walked down the lamp-lit street. His new cloak gave him a slightly devilish appearance, and his silver-handled cane made him look extremely wealthy. He removed his strovepipe hat and walked into the opera house. After all, he thought, nothing like taking in some music while you kill an old enemy. A few dozen other aristocrats were filing in to take their seats with the few hundred inside. Marcus Augustus Dickens and his entourage were in attendance, and while he occupied most people's attention, Michael hardly noticed. Instead, Mitchell was focused on one man, Corporal Anthony Belman.

Belman had been in on Michael's "Uriahism," and was a major player in the Cravats, and for that he was selected for assassination.

Handel's Messiah Chorus was blaring from the stage as a wild-haired conductor waved his baton around, seeming possessed by Handel's soul. Loud noise filled the auditorium and even shouting was hard to hear. Sure enough, just as Michael's Topper informants had reported, Belman was sitting in the front row, surrounded by adoring women.

Belman had always been known in the ranks as a ladies' man. Michael was going to use it against him. The vengeful former prisoner approached the nearest attractive woman, a blond-haired, cheerful-looking girl. He bowed and kissed her hand.

"Why, who are you?" she asked, wondering if she had met the courteous man before.

"I am... the Count of Princeton. It is a pleasure to meet you, madam," he made up a title to go with his luxurious clothes. "I wondered if you would like to sit with me, up in that box up there."

The girl already looked infatuated with him. "Of course! It would be an honor, Your Excellency!" she curtsied.

"Uh, but would you do me a favor and call over my old friend over there, Anthony Belman? We had some good old times in the past, and I would very much like to see him again, however briefly."

The young woman walked down to the front row and said what she was supposed to in Belman's ear. Curious as to what old friend it was, he followed, all the way up to Michael's box, which he had no idea had been paid for by the Toppers.

Belman felt an eerie sense of dread as he drew closer to the cloaked, hat-wearing figure sitting in a velvet chair. The fellow did not turn to greet him. He just sat there. The girl took a seat beside the "old friend."

Belman removed his top hat and stammered, "Um, hello? You said you were an old friend?"

Slowly, Michael rose and turned around, until he looked Belman straight in the eyes.

"My word, it's Mitchell!" exclaimed Belman. "It is so good to see you alive, comrade!"

Anthony outstretched his hand for Michael to shake. Instead, though, Michael lashed out and started crushing it in his hand. "Good evening, Corporal Belman! Long time no back-stab, eh?"

"Agghhh! What are you doing! Cut it out, Mitchell!" grunted Belman, his voice straining in the pain of his hand being crushed.

"Poor choice of words, Corporal!" responded Michael viciously. He raised his cane and brought it down on Anthony's hand. One side of the cane was bladed, and it cut clean through his wrist. Blood spouted out and Belman couldn't even manage to scream. He fell to his knees, sobbing furiously. Michael took no pity. He kicked the handless man in the gut and then grabbed him by the collar. "Well, Corporal, every man's day must come. Yours just came a lot sooner than you'd have liked! Farewell!" Michael, in front of the girl, then also grabbed Belman's belt and flung him over the balcony railing. Screaming even over the music, he smashed onto the marble floor, instantly killing him. The concert immediately stopped and Topper goons quickly showed up to get rid of the body.

The girl, whose name Michael still did not know, had fainted and toppled from her chair. He sighed, and started smacking her cheek to get her to wake up. After a few moments, she awoke and just lied there in wide-eyed horror as she realized she had just seen a murder.

"And don't scream, for pity's sake," warned Michael, already seeing what was coming.

"Why? Why? Why did you do that? Why?" she said, barely audible.

"It's a complicated matter, my dear. I wish I hadn't needed to involve you in this, but, eh, that's the way it goes. Of course, I can't let you just walk away now. You'd start talking about Belman's death, and all sorts of nasty things might happen. So, you'll be coming with me." Michael put his hat on the handle of his can and spinned it absent-mindedly.

"And if I don't want to come?" she asked acidly.

"Oh, simple: you're coming. Now, get up and follow me."

He made sure he had his arm nonchalantly around her waist as they exited the theatre, fearing she would make a run for it. As soon as they stepped onto the street, however, a bullet smacked into the ground just inches from his feet. He looked up: up in a church tower on the opposite side of the street were two snipers taking aim at him. Coming up the avenue was a battalion of Cravats.

"Fun! Get ready, my darling, we're about to fight these nasty buggers off," Michael acted as if he were describing a child's birthday party.

"Are you mad?! They're going to kill us!" she shouted, smacking his jaw as hard as she could.

"Oh, I don't know about that, miss!" came a voice from behind. It was Rutherford, followed by Hochstedler and a ridiculous amount of Toppers. The Great Boston Christmas Riot was about to begin.

LEGO Builder, Writer, Video-Gamer, Greaser, History Professor, Swordsman, and Military Collector. I am the Most Interesting Man in the World. :p

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