Los Angeles: 1947

Okay, im gonna try this since the other one is slower than two senile turtles fucking in maple syrup.
Los Angeles, 1947, anything you want to be, feel free. Only rules are this, keep it SFW, no uber characters, no killing another character outright, and starting out, there's no point. This is an experiment, you make your own adventures which can interweave, say for example your a detective, you can question other players and they can lie, tell you a truth that they create from what ever they wish. Or your player is a WWII veteran, you can talk to another and make up war stories, essentially its going to be like everyone writing their own short story about a character and letting the stories mingle. Things about history can also be changed, 1947 is a divergance point like in fallout. Killing another character is okay as long as there is suspense and build up, thwarting said.killing is acceptable, surviving it is acceptable. Now, let's see how this goes.

Character Sheet
Name:
D.O.B.:
Gender:
Species:
Specifics: (eye color, hair, reference pic)
Occupation:
Background Information: (leave it like an outline so you can build later)

Good Luck!

Name: Salem Sinclair
D.O.B.: 23 October 1925
Gender: Male
Species: Paint Horse
Specifics: (ill post a link in a while)
Occupation: United States Army Air Forces, Bomber Pilot/Captain
Background: Born in 1925 in Brooklyn, enlisted with his older brothers birth certificate in 1941 a few days after Pearl Harbor for the USAAF. Served in Africa/Europe from 1942 to 1945. Shot down twice, second time captured and escaped in late 1944. Living well in an upper L.A. neighborhood apartment, not known how he can afford it, SECRET.

The clock read 7:52, it was a wonderful sunset occuring as I viewed it outside my large open window while sipping on a glass of brandy. My tie, blazer, and hat sat on the coat rack with my shoes on the floor below it. I closed my eyes for a moment as I kicked my legs up on an ottoman and tuned the radio to a Chicago Cubs game. I took a sip of my brandy as I slowly opened my eyes, stopping at a glare.

Name: Stella Lusk
D.O.B.: 1 October 1926
Gender: Female
Species: Otter
Specifics: Blue eyes, medium length brown hair, 5'5, 110 lbs. Wears a white shirt, black tie, brown overcoat, black work pants and black shoes, carries a .44 Revolver.
Occupation: Detective
Background Information: After WWII, America passed an act which granted women all the rights that men have. The first female detective in the U.S, Stella has a lot to prove, and all eyes are on her.

Life as a detective was a lot less glamorous than Stella had expected, with a lot more paper work and very little action, but there something in the air today... Something which caused her great anxiety as her pen glided over her paperwork. She had a feeling that today would be more than investigating appealed speeding tickets, and it excited her.

Character Sheet
Name: Kela Ganiel
D.O.B.: 7 November 1922
Gender: Female
Species: Cow
Specifics: No reference picture yet. Chocolate brown fur with dark brown splotches, pink-ish muzzle. Fingertips, hooves, and hair are a rich dark brown. Eyes are a brilliant green. Often wears gold bangles on her wrists and a handful of charms and jewels around her neck, some of which are for protection. Has a somewhat thick Barbadian/Caribbean accent.
Occupation: a "witch doctor" of sorts
Background Information: Kela was born in Barbados on the 7th of November, 1922, into a family of magic practitioners. They were well-liked on the island, but were shunned, jeered at, and even attacked for practicing witchcraft when they moved to New Orleans in 1931. Kela's parents taught her about spells, potions, hexes of both good and bad nature in secret, in hopes of carrying on their family's traditions. She moved to LA in 1942, where the hype of warfare paid little mind to things such as hoodoo or witchcraft, and opened a shop, which was getting surprisingly good business. There were even new practitioners who were interested in using magic to help their relatives at war, coming to her for advice.

The early morning chill dusted the trees in Leimert Park with a thin layer of fine snow and ice shavings. Kela smiled as she beheld the for-now-untouched beauty; she thought herself lucky to have landed a shop location across the street from the park. One of the talismans at her neck began to itch and burn just a tiny bit. Strange... that didn't happen often. The last time it had done this was on December 7th six years ago. She began brewing a strong tea to keep her alert.

I closed my eyes for what seemed like a mere second, and in a moment, an hour and a hallf had passed and my near empty brandy glass lay on the floor surprisinly not spilled. I looked up at the clock above my fireplace, 9:06. I took my hand and moved it down from my forehead to my chin and rubbed my eyes with my thumb and index finger.
"Goddamn im hungr-" I was cut off by a my telephone ringing, almost like a whip my head shot to the rotary dial ringing. I relaxed a bit more and picked up the reciever.
"Hello?"
"Cap'n, its me, Polansky, I have some news about Stienmann. He was killed in a car accident in Frisco on the Golden Gate last weekend. Were meeting tomorrow at 10:00 am at 1682 Andale Avenue office 6. Its regarding July 18th in 1944. Ill see you then."
I heard the reciver click on his end. "Fuck."

Stella was deep in thought, making idle scribblings on the back of some unimportant sheet of paper when her phone rang. Startled out of her daze, she held the receiver to her ear. "Detective Lusk speaking," she answered. "Lusk, it's Sgt. Bent. There was an incident on the Golden Gate Bridge yesterday." Stella straightened up in her chair, eyes wide with interest. "Let me guess, suicide right?"

"Probably not. One killed in a car accident. We need you to interview friends, family and the co-workers of the vic just to rule suicide out. He was going very fast."

Stella gulped. It sounded like routine stuff, but today felt funny.

I sat the reciver back on the telephone and stood up. I walked towards the wall, running my hand across the keys of the baby grand piano. I took down a picture of our B-25 with our crew standing infront of it, there was Stienmann, his arm over my shoulder and mine over his. I looked down in all our hands, black German briefcases. I looked at it for a minute, the placed it down on the piano. I walked over to the coat rack and slid my shoes on and laced them. Iu then stood up and pulled my double breasted blazer and put my tie on. I grabbed my wallet and keys as I left putting my hat on and locking the door. I walked down the stairs to my new blue Lincoln Continental. I got in and turned the engine on, the radio flashed on and I tuned the transistor radio to a big band station and shifted into gear. Glenn Millier"s Moonlight Serenade filled the blue Continental as I rolled the window down letting the warm air flow through the automobile. I figured it would be a good 10 minutes before I reached the resturant though.

Kela walked past the huge case at least a dozen times as she tidied up the little shop. There it had sat for all the while she'd been in LA, waiting for it. The gem that could bring the dead back to life, and the most powerful good-luck-attracting charm in the world. How she dreamed of owning it... Her mother would tell her stories of it when she was a young heifer-calf. She fantasized about the day she would find it. But, alas, daydreams are daydreams.

I arrived at a little resturant in a fairly calm and unimportant part of town. I backed into a parking space on the side of the place and shut my headlamps and engine off. I sat there for a momentand looked forward out the windshield. I knew what I needed here. I slid my hand into my inside breast pocket in my blazer and made sure I had my cigarette case and old lighter. I breathed a sigh of stress and shoved my keys in my pocket and stepped out of my car and slammed the door shut as I walked toward the resturant. I walked into the place, it was a warm place, nice theme they had there, reminded me of a pub in England I went to a few times. I slipped into a booth in the back and looked through the menu as a thin collie walked to my table. She asked me,
"What would you like?"
I took my hat off and placed it on the table,
"Yeah, ill take a coffee, a club sandwich, and a shot of Jim Beam."
"All right hun, ill be right out with that coffee and whiskey."

After a quick cigarette and background check of the victim, Stella marked down the address of one Salem Sinclair. A quick look through the department files revealed that they'd been coworkers, and the immediate family was in some other town quite a drive away.

"Alright, let's check it out,"

The otter weaved through morning L.A traffic on her way to Mr. Sinclair's place of residence. The car was gone from the driveway, so she pulled in, expecting the soldier to be at work. "Officer leaving the vehicle," she told the radio and strolled up the house. She rapped twice, but no answer. With a sigh, she left her card and went to find the nearest coffee shop.

I sat in the booth and sipped on my coffee and stared at the small glass with the amber liquid in it. The sound of a plate hitting the table infront of me knocked me back to reality. The waitress walked away before I could even thank her. I set my coffee down and took a half of the sandwich and took a bite out of it. It was okay, not particularly good but it was okay, the turkey was good and the bread had a pretzel taste to it. I devoured one half and started to eat the cole slaw and crackers that came with it.
"Goddamn man," I whispered to myself, "always living life too fast. Makes sense I guess."

I finished my meal and checked the bill I had been left. I left a $1.75 fo her, a buck fifty for the meal and a quarter tip. The shot of whiskey stared at me from across the table. I pulled a small picture out of my breast pocket along with my cigarette case. I saw me and Stienmann in our USAAF dress uniforms. It was in Times Square up in New York, the party and parade going on behind us, our expressions were happy, but I could still look past that, there was the fear, the guilt, the envy, all behind our eyes.
"That your friend?"
"Uh, yeah" the waitress had slowly walked behind me and seen it, I shoved it back in my breast pocket along with my cigarette case. "Yeah, he was my co-pilot over Africa and Europe. He died this past weekend. Saved me more than once, and I did to him too."
"Im sorry hun, be happy though, he did see the end of the war, s'more than a great deal of fine young American boys could say."
"Yeah, I guess. Thank ya for the meal."
"Your welcome hun, and stay as long as you like, veterans are welcome here, all the time."
She walked away with my empty plate as I sat there, my coffee was almost gone and what was still there was cold. I snatched the shot of whiskey and knocked it back, but didn't swallow it, I let it burn there for a minute until I tasted it again, the cold whiskey we drank in our B-25 to keep us awake during a night raid. Then slowly swallowed it, milliliter by millileter. I reopened my eyes to the resturant, a little kid looked at me like I was nuts, so before he could say somethin to me, I grabbed my fedora and slipped out the front. I walked back to my Lincoln and pulled a cigarette from the case and lit it as I unlocked my car and got in. The traffic had disapated mostly by the time I was on the road. So instead of a 10 minute drive it was 5 minutes, and by the time I pulled into my parking lot spot at the apartment my cigarette was only a quarter way to being finished. While I finished it up and locked the car down, I saw someone I didn't know walk from the building. I walked toward the front door where she was walking out, an otter, kinda short and wearing a trench coat, a bit shady looking, but not a bad shady like a spy or dope slinger. I walked by and tipped my fedora to her. "Hallo Miss."

Stella was busy lighting a cigarette and fumbled it a little at the surprise of being greeted. "Good morning, sir," she replied with a smile, walking past him and then suddenly realized who it was. The otter wheeled around. "Excuse me, sir. Do you know a Mr. Salem Sinclair? Lives at number 43?" she asked, perking up her ears.

It was just a casual hello, but when she not only knew my name, but my apartment and adress. "Well I hope I know him, since that's me. How can I help you Miss...?" I rolled my hand toward her, waiting for a reply. While I waited I wondered how she knew me, and where I lived.

The little jewel around Kela's neck was burning and itching furiously now. Obviously something was up. The necklace wasn't that uncomfortable for no reason. Her stomach somersaulting in hunger, she pulled her long dark hair back with a loose ribbon and headed down the street to look for a bite to eat. She was so focused on the necklace that she stumbled over a fault in the sidewalk, nearly colliding with a tall horse and his otter conversation partner.

"Ms. Stella Lusk, L.A.P.D," she responded, showing her badge. "Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?" Stella said, indicating invitingly towards the horse's apartment.

"Pleasure to meet you Detective. Is this conce-" I had my hand extended for a hand shake, but instead of reciving another hand, I recived a person tripping into my arms. "Whoa," I barely caught her as she fell forward but stopped her from hurting herself. I started helping her up, "and a pleasure to meet you too Miss?" I paused waiting for her response, then I saw the medallion on her neck, id only seen one like it before, in Egypt. "Where did you get that?"

Stella's nose began to twitch, and she clenched her fists. "Hey, buddy! This ain't the time for admiring jewelry. Plus, I'm pretty sure I smell alcohol on your breath, so get your ASS into your apartment or I'll have you sent down for drink driving," she snarled, impatient.

"Fine, someones impatient. Here take this." I slipped a paper note with KL5-7817 on it. "Call me later." I walked into the apartment building with the Detective and got into an elevator. "You mind telling me what this is about?" I asked with a slightly ticked off attitude.

Stella leaned on the elevator, not making eye contact and just gazing absentmindedly. "Your buddy Steinmann was killed in a fatal car accident yesterday. I just need to ask you a few basic questions."

"Well it will have to be quick, I have to change and go across town for a hearing in less than an hour." the elevator arrived on the top floor and opened. I turned right and walked down the hall to my apartment on the left. I opened the front door and led the otter in. "Would you kindly take a seat, ill only be a moment. Id offer you a cup of coffee but the pot I made earlier is long cold." I walked down the hall to my bedroom closing the door, leaving the detective in my living room neglecting to return the picture from earlier to the wall, it merely sat a top the baby grand piano.

Stella sat uncomfortably in the horse's living room. She was always careful to never accept hospitality from those she dealt with; life expectancy was much longer that way. Her eyes drifted around the room. For such a cheap apartment and convenient, low-rent living space, Salem had done quite a good job on making it look classy. Her jaw started grating again. The sooner she got this over with, the sooner her next hit of coke would come.

I stood in my room with the suit I had been wearing on hangers and now wearing my USAAF dress shirt, pants shoes and tie. I picked up my Officers crush cap with the big brass emblem on it along with my dress jacket which was adorned with rows of ribbions above the left breast pocket and Captain's bars on the epaulets. I opened the door and walked out to the living room to where the detective was. I put my jacket on and buttoned the front four buttons and placed my crush cap on the table. "So, what questions did you need to ask me, because I don't have very much time, I have to be at a hearing in half an hour."

Taking out her notebook, she indicated to the seat opposite her. When they were both seated, she began. "I just need to know what kind of person he was so I can rule suicide out. He was going very fast, faster than just typical speeding." She put on an understanding face and leaned forward. "Was Mr. Steinmann depressed or possibly suicidal?"

"Was he suicidal, heh. After what we went through together, if niether of us were suicidal then we were crazy. I take it you read in Life magazine about the camps they found in Germany? The concentration camps?" I looked the detective straight in the eyes, just thinking about it made me go pale and the bags under my eyes deepen.