Leave any messages for the pup/mun here.

Thank you.

Vietnam was not a particularly friendly climate. And what could really be said? It was a country in the middle of a war. Or rather, now at the end of one.
---

crimebusters: neslon blah blah blah

n: why "the crimbusters"? well, as you know, this country hasn't had an organization of masked adventurers since the minutemen disbanded in '49. specialized law enforcement is standing still. crime isn't. new social evils emerge every day: promiscuity, drugs, campus subversion, you name it! now, by banding together as the crimebusters, we ...

e: bullshit.

n: what?

e: i said bullshit. this whole idea, this crimebusters schtick, it stinks. what it is, nelly, is that you're gettin' old and you wanna go on playin' cowboys and indians!

n: th-that isn't true ...

d: uh, listen, let's not throw the idea out right away. me and rorschach have made headway into the gang problem by pooling our efforts ...

r: obviously, i agree -- but a group this size seems more like a publicity exercise somehow. it's too big and unwieldy ...

v: surely, that's just an organizational problem? with the right person coordinating the group, i think ...

e: [gets up] oh, an' i wonder who that would be? got any ideas, ozzy? i mean, you are the smartest guy in the world, right?

v: it doesn't require genius to see that america has problems that need tackling ...

e: damn straight. an' it takes moron to think they're small enough for clowns like you guys to handle. believe me.

v: i think i'm as well-informed as anyone. given correct handling, none of the world's problems are insurmountable. all it takes is a little intelligence.

e: which you got in spades, right? you people are a joke. you hear moloch's back in down, you think "oh, boy! let's gang up and bust him!" you think that matters? you think that solves anything?

r: well, of course it matters. if ...

e: it don't matter squat. here -- lemme show ya why it don't matter ... [lights diagram on fire]

n: hey! wh-what are you doing?

e: it don't matter squat because inside thirty years the nukes are gonna be flyin' like maybugs ...

n: my display ...

e: ... and then ozzy here is gonna be the smartest man on the cinder. now, pardon me, but i got an appointment. see you in the funny papers.

j: jon, i think i'd like to go home now, please.

d: listen, uh, nelson ... this isn't working out. maybe ...

n: please! don't all leave ... somebody has to do it, don't you see? somebody has to save the world ...

---

goddamn fireworks! you'da thought this country had enough of goddamn fireworks.

i suppose v.n. night must mean something to them.

nah. average vietnamese don't give a damn who won. it means something to the dinks an' it means plenty to us ... i mean, if we'd lost this war ... i dunno, i think it might have driven us a little crazy, y'know? as a country. but thanks to you, we didn't, right? downa hatch.

you sound bitter. you're a strange man, blake. you have strange attitudes to life and war.

strange? listen ... once you figure out what a joke everything is, being the comedian's the only thing that makes sense.

the charred villages, the boys with necklaces of human ears ... these are part of the joke?

hey ... i never said it was a good joke! i'm just playin' along with the gag ... ha! lookit that! there he is. first press helicopter into saigon since the ceasefire. he's got the election in the bag for sure. me, i'm takin' the first chopper out!

you're anxious to leave?

doc, are you kidding? i hate this place. i hate the temperature, i hate the smell, i hate this rotten cheap bourbon. first chopper out, man, i'm gone.

mr. eddie?

oh, great. oh, thank you, god. that's just what i needed ...

now war is over, mr. eddie. now i must talk with you.

listen, we got nothin' to talk about. i'm leavin'. saigon number ten, new york number one, okay?

you ... walk away ... from this?

sure.

but me, i cannot walk away from what grows in my belly. i cannot forget!

well, that's unfortunate, because that's just what i'm gonna do ... forget you, forget your cruddy little country, all of it.

i do not think so. i think you remember me and my country. i think you remember us as long as you live.

huh? what's ... my face ... ghuuhuhh. what did you do, you bitch, you hurt my face, you whore, you ... filthy, stinking, worthless ...

blake?

... lousy piece of ...

blake, don't ... do it.

medic. gotta find the goddamn medic. owww. that bitch ...

blake, she was pregnant. you gunned her down.

yeah. yeah, that's right. pregnant woman. gunned her down. bang. and y'know what? you watched me. you coulda changed the gun into steam of the bullets into mercury of the bottle into snowflakes! you coulda teleported either of us to goddamn australia ... but you didn't lift a finger! you don't really give a damn about human beings. i've watched you. you never cared about whatsername, janey slater, even before you ditched her. soon you won't be interested in sally jupiter's little gal, either. you're driftin' outta touch, doc. you're turnin' into a flake. god help us all.

---

please ... if everybody will just clear the streets ...

lissen, you little punks, you better get back in ya rat holes! i got riot gas, i got rubber bullets ...

there's no need for panic. the police strike is being negotiated right now ...

aak! [hit by empty can] okay. that does it.

you pig! you call yourself a comedian? you're a pig anna rapist! / we don't want vigilantes! we want reg-lar cops! / my son is a police officer, you faggots!

... two potato, three potato ... four potato! heads up!

god, look, i'm sorry. you haven't left us any choice. this stuff is dangerous. please clear the streets. [climbing down] comedian, this is a nightmare! the whole city is erupting. how long can we keep this up?

ha! look at 'em. run, you suckers!

comedian? i said ...

i heard what you said. my government contacts tell me some new act is being herded through. until then, we're society's only protection. we keep it up as long as we have to.

protection? [empty streets] who are we protecting them from?

from themselves. whatsamatter? don't you feel comfortable unless you're up against some schmuck in a halloween suit? speakin' o' which, where the hell are rorschach an' the others?

jon and laurie are handling the riots in washington. rorschach's across town, trying to hold the lower east side. he, uh, he works mostly on his own these days ...

rorschach's nuts. he's been nuts ever since that kidnapping he handled three years back. him, byron lewis, jon goddamn walking h-bomb osterman ... all nuts.

but not you?

no. not me. i keep things in proportion an' try ta see the funny side. drop that can, you little freak! [bang] ha! you see this? [who watches the watchmen] i seen that written up all over durin' this last two weeks! they don't like us an' they don't -- CONTINUE

fireworks, you gotta be kidding me. y'know, you'd think this country would've had enough of goddamn fireworks. you know, if we lost here in vietnam, i think it might've driven us crazy. y'know, as a country. but we didn't. thanks to you.

you sound bitter.

me, bitter? fuck no. i think it's hilarious.

[vm girl enters]

aw, jesus christ.

mister eddie?

's what i fuckin' needed.

war is over now. we must talk. about this baby.

there's nothin' to talk about. see, i'm leavin'. i'm gonna forget about you, and your horrible, sweaty little piece-o'-shit country. get the fuck outta here.

no.

get the fuck outta here!

you will remember!

[eddie smiling, turns away, snorts.]

you will remember me, and my country [shatters bottle] forever! [cuts eddie]

my face! [pulls a gun]

blake. don't. blake!

[bang]

she was pregnant ... and you gunned her down.

that's right. and you know what, you watched me. you coulda turned the gun into steam, the bullets into mercury, the bottle into goddamn snowflakes, but you didn't, did you? you really don't give a damn about human beings. you're driftin' outta touch, doc. god help us all. medic!

---

veidt: welcome to the first ever meeting

eddie: this is all bullshit.

veidt: you know, for a guy who calls himself the comedian? i can never tell when you're joking.

"Well, firstly, let me say I'm pleased to see so many of your here. Very pleased."

A blond-haired man stood at the front of the room, dressed mostly in red with a blue cape draped over his back. Since the days of the Minutemen, it was obvious he'd gained some weight.

"Secondly, for those who only know me as Captain Metropolis, the name's Nelson Gardner. Call me Nelson."

His manner was ingratiating; a little awkward and almost too genial to be addressing the current crowd (Dr. Manhattan and his girlfriend Janey Slater, Silk Spectre II, Nite Owl II, Rorschach, Ozymandias, and the Comedian).

"Third, uh, I guess I should welcome everybody to the first ever meeting of the Crimebusters!

"Why "The Crimebusters"?" he continued, hardly flagging in enthusiasm, "Well, as you know, this country hasn't had an organization of masked adventurers since the Minutemen disbamded in '49. Specialized law enforcement is standing still. Crime isn't. New social evils emerge every day: promiscuity, drugs, campus subversion, you name it! Now, by banding together as the Crimebusters, we --"

"Bullshit."

For all appearances, the Comedian hadn't been listening. He'd just been smoking his cigar, feet propped up on a nearby table, eyes on a newspaper (DR. MANHATTAN "AN IMPERIALIST WEAPON" SAY RUSSIANS) rather than on Gardner. Apparently, however, he'd been listening intently enough to offer a one-word opinion.

"What?"

"I said bullshit. This whole idea, this Crimebusters schtick, it stinks. What it is, Nelly, is that you're gettin' old and you wanna go on playin' Cowboys and Indians."

"Th-that isn't true ...," Garder stammered, glancing around the room for some support.

The day of Edward Morgan Blake's funeral, it rained.

The sky was a murky grey, the relative quiet of the cemetery only broken by the slowing of car tires on wet concrete. The only colors seemed to be black and white and the grey shades in between, broken only by one bunch of red roses and the blue of Dr. Manhattan. There was a small crowd standing outside the gates, watching and falling silent as the casket was borne from the hearse, covered in an American flag.

Silently, a few lines of people followed the casket into the cemetery, the gates closing behind them and locking out only a few individuals who had not come to attend the funeral. Umbrellas peppered the sky, and all eyes seemed to be fixed somewhere besides the hole in the ground. The pit-pat of the rain was amplified as the flag was taken from the casket, leaving the wood and gold nameplate (EDWARD MORGAN BLAKE 1924-1985) exposed to the elements.

"Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live,
and is full of miseries," read the priest, "He cometh up,
and is cut down, like a flower. He fleeth as it were a shadow,
and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life, we
are in death. Of whom may we seek succor but of thee, o Lord,
who for our sins art justly displeased.

"... O Lord most might, o holy and most merciful savior, deliver
us not into the bitter pains of eternal death. Thou knowest Lord,
the secrets of out hearts; shut not thy merciful ears to our
prayers, but spare us, Lord most holy, o God most mighty, o holy
and merciful savior ... Thou most worthy judge eternal, suffer us
not, at our last hour ... for any pains of death, to fall from thee.

"... For as much as it hath pleased almighty God of His great mercy
to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother here departed,
we therefore commit his body to the ground ... earth to earth ...
ashes to ashes ... dust to dust.

"... Who shall change our vile body that it may be like unto his
glorious body, according to the mighty working ... whereby he is able
to subdue all things unto himself. I heard a voice from Heaven, saying
unto me, write ... from henceforth, blessed are the dead which die in
the Lord, even so saith the spirit, for they rest from their labors.
Lord have mercy upon us. Christ have mercy upon us. Lord have mercy
upon us. Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name ...
Thy kingdom com, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give
us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses ... as we
forgive those that trespass against us ... and lead us not into
temptation ... but deliver us from evil.

"Amen."

As the service ended, Dan Dreiberg stood by the edge of the grave, pulling the smiley face badge from his pocket. (On it was still the stain of blood.)

Looking down at the yellow circle in his palm, he ran his thumb over the copper streak, which smudged in the rain. Drops of water ran down his glasses, and as he felt an indescribable heaviness settle on his shoulders, he flicked the badge down into the grave with its owner.

He didn't notice the man with his collar turned up leave a bunch of roses by the tombstone as he left.

He didn't noticed the redheaded doomsayer standing around the gates.

Thoughts fought for control of his head as he made his way home, and it was only uneasily that he would sleep that night.

forgive us our trespasses
as we forgive those that trespass against us
and lead us not into temptation
but deliver us from evil.

The camera flashed.

As Hollis' voice rang out ("Okay, that's it! Nice picture, folks!"), the seventeen-year-old Edward Morgan Blake rose from a kneeling position on the floor, a (mean) grin on his face.

"We can move? I can finally scratch my armpit?"

He hadn't really minded the photo session. So fine, his knees had started hurting after a while, but it was another chance to flirt with Sally Jupiter. She was about three years older than he was, but that didn't change the fact that she was damn sexy (hell, half of Earth's population was in love with her), or the fact that her outfit made it impossible to look away from her.

Anyway, even if it had been a possibility, Eddie wouldn't have been particularly interested.

Straightening up, he took stock of the group of masked vigilantes behind him.

(The final photo will become something of a valuable. 'MINUTEMEN 1940' reads the banner behind the group. From left to right, the Silhouette, Mothman, Dollar Bill, Nite Owl, Captain Metropolis, the Comedian, Silk Spectre, and Hooded Justice.

All happy, smiling.

He almost can't stand it.)

(He won't have to, for much longer.)

"Hmm. That's quite a drop."

Looking down from the 30th floor of the Promethea building (at a splatter of blood on the concrete below, blood being tracked a little farther by a redheaded man carrying a sign reading 'THE END IS NIGH') through a window of broken glass, Detective Joe Bourquin (average height, dark hair balding, paunchy) felt a little queasy. He'd spent years on the job, sure, but the sight wasn't pleasant. At least the body had been taken away. Behind him, his partner Steven Fine (tall, slim, blonde) was fiddling with a broken door lock, voice carrying over the minimal noise.

"Yeah. Poor guy. Y'know, I always wonder ... do you think you black out before you hit the sidewalk, or what?"

"Frankly, I don't need to know that bad. What do you think happened here?"

"Well, looks like someone broke in by bustin' this door down. That would either take two guys or one guy on serious drugs, because the door had a chain fastened on the inside."

"... Which means means that the occupant was home when it happened."

Stepping away from the window, Joe came back into the center of the room, making a beeline towards Steven.

"Hmm. I saw the body, an' he looked beefy enough to protect himself. For a guy his age, he was in terrific shape."

Letting the lock go, Steven chuckled, "What, you mean apart from being dead?"

"No ... I mean this guy, this Blake guy, the occupant ... he had muscles like a weightlifter. He woulda put up some kind'a fight, I'm certain."

"Yeah, well, looks like he lost. Maybe it was a couple of guys and they just overpowered him."

"Maybe. The data we have suggests he's been doing some sort of overseas diplomatic work for years."

"Lotta classy expense-account living," Steven noted, starting around to look at a broken mirror, "Maybe he just got soft."

"He don't look too soft in this photograph," came the retort, as Joe picked up one of the many photos lying around the apartment, "Wonder how he got that scar? It looks ... Hey! The guy he's shakin' hands with in this picture ... it's Vice-President Ford!"

Almost immediately, Steven was by his side, grabbing one edge of the frame.

"Hey, so it is! Well, listen, between you and me, I think we can rule him out as a suspect. A job like this just isn't his style."

Putting the photograph back, Joe shook his head.

"That'd be real funny if we had any better leads to go on. I mean, what is this? A little money got stolen, but no way is this a straight burglary ...

"Somebody really had it in for this guy."

Slowly, the two detectives made their way from the trashed apartment, muttering between themselves. Both had their hands thrust in their pockets. There were policemen stationed around the building, none of whom caught Joe's attention as he asked, "I mean, how did he go outta the window?"

"Maybe he tripped against it."

"Forget it. That's strong glass, man. You trip against it, even a big guy like that, it don't break. I think you'd have to be thrown."

"Well, if this Edward Blake was as big as you say he was, then one guy would never lift him, so we're talking two assailants here," Steven said, note of frustration creeping into his voice as the two of them reached the elevator, and were greeted by a loud, "Which floor ya want?"

"Oh, uh, ground floor, please," Joe managed, stepping into the elevator.

"Ground floor comin' up."

As the elevators doors slid open on the ground floor, Joe was still talking.

"So look, you haven't answered my question ... is this a burglary, or do we look for some other motive?"

"Listen, it could just have been a burglary ... maybe a bunch'a knot-tops on KT-28s or 'Luudes ... you know how it is ... a lot of crazy things happen in a city this size. They don't all need motives."

Coming out of the building, Joe couldn't help frowning.

"So, what you're saying is ..."

"I'm saying let's not raise too much dust over this one. We don't need any masked avengers getting interested and cutting in. Follow it up discreetly, sure. But in public ... Well, what say we let this one drop out of sight?"

Shaking his head, Joe kept his eyes fixed firmly on the street ahead as they passed the Gunga Diner.

"I dunno. I think you take this vigilante stuff too seriously. Since the Keene Act was passed in '77, only the government-sponsored weirdos are active. They don't interfere."

"Screw them. What about Rorschach? Rorschach never retired, even after him and his buddies fell outta grace. Rorschach's still out there somewhere. He's crazier than a snake's armpit and wanted on two counts murder one. We got a cozy little homicide here. If he gets involved, we'll be up to out butts in corpses ... What's the matter?"

Pulling up his collar, Joe shook his head as Steven lit up a cigarette, just brushing by the doomsayer he'd seen from the thirtieth floor of the Promethea.

"Uh, nothing ... just a shiver. Must be gettin' a cold."

He doesn't need the lights on.

Just half an hour or so to midnight as it may be, the apartment is far from pitch black. One of the perks of living in New York, he supposes: it's never completely dark. Practically the entire city seems to have its lights on, so (as he figures it, anyway) there's little point to turning on his own.

Besides.

It's quieter lonelier in the dark.

The only thing to break the silence that all-too-often settles over the apartment is the whistling of a kettle (oddly reminiscent of a person's scream), something he quickly takes care of. Turning the stove off, he picks up the kettle and pours out the boiling water into a mug before tearing open a small pack of instant coffee and emptying it into the mug as well. As he stirs the coffee, the spoon clinks against the sides of the mug, making only a little more noise when it is finally discarded in the sink of the kitchenette.

Making his way across the apartment, he seats himself on a couch across from a color television, picking up the remote from the coffee table in front of him (on which rest a copy of Hustler and a pistol, decorated with a smiley face decal) and turning the TV on. The first thing to come up is a news report. On screen, President Richard Nixon, now serving his fifth term as President of the United States.

"Let it be clear," Nixon buzzes, "we maintain our strength in order to maintain peace, so any adversary should ask themselves: do the consequences of attacking America outweigh the potential benefits?"

The image cuts to host John McLaughlin, seated between Pat Buchanan and Eleanor Clift.

"As a result of the Soviet activity, the watchdog group of nuclear scientists --" (a quick cut to a group of scientists gathered around a giant clock face -- the hour hand is on the 12, and one scientist is moving the minute hand) "-- move the Doomsday Clock up to five minutes until midnight: destruction by nuclear war. Question: on a scale of zero to ten - zero meaning impossibility, ten meaning complete metaphysical certitude - what are the chances the Russians will actually attack the United States? Pat Buchanan."

The Senator, looking as smarmy as ever, is quick to respond, fingers forming the appropriate number: "Zero. The Soviets would never risk going to war when we have a walking nuclear deterrent on our side!"

McLaughlin's look is skeptical, but most have learned not to expect any other facial expressions from the man.

"You're referring, of course, to Dr. Manhattan, but does Dr. Manhattan's existence guarantee world peace? Eleanor Clift."

"Well, it hasn't stopped the Soviet Union from stockpiling record amounts of nuclear weapons!"

"You don't think it's all just posturing?"

"Maybe the reason why the Soviets are doing these, ah, bomb tests, is because they feel threatened by Dr. Manhattan - cornered! Maybe the whole world feels like that!"

Snorting around his cigar, he changes the channel. The first image to come up is an astronaut on the moon, accompanied by electric guitar chords, and partially obscured by a flag reading: MTV MUSIC CHANNEL.

The next channel proves a little more informative. On the screen is a woman dressed in red - Felicity Williams, if the bottom crawl is anything to go by.

"Soviet ships have violated the territorial waters --"

And he changes the channel again.

This time, it's a perfume ad. A shot of a woman's head reclining (long, brown hair giving way to porcelain skin) cuts to the image of a huge mansion, backed up by an incredibly blue sky. In the middle of the lawn is installed a court, by the side of which the woman is sunbathing. A plane flies overhead, and piano chords fade smoothly into the incomparable voice of Nat King Cole.


As the plane flies by again, it casts a shadow that sweeps across the whole landscape. As he places the remote back on the coffee table, he chuckles just under his breath, leaning back against the couch, throwing one leg over the other, and crossing his arms.

One more character comes into view: a tall, and nothing-if-not-well-built man, dressed only in a pair of white briefs. As he approaches the woman, the camera pulls out to focus on the entire mansion once more.

He knows what's coming before it happens. Out of his corner of his eye, he can see shadows forming in the light creeping through the bottom of the door to the apartment.


The figure standing in his doorway pauses, and he --

-- he can only stare.


He pulls the cigar from his mouth, letting out a quiet, almost resigned sigh as he keeps his eyes on the intruder.

"Just a matter of time, I suppose."


He can hear the squeak of leather as the stranger, dressed all in black, tightens his gloves.


Looking back down at the coffee table, his eyes fall on the pistol. Placing his cigar back between his lips, he tilts his other hand, letting his coffee spill from the mug and onto the floor.


In one swift move, he throws the mug as hard as he can at the figure in the doorway,


using the moment to grab his pistol and dive over the table.


Almost immediately, he has the pistol ready, but the moment he raises it up, the intruder is already by his side, grabbing his wrists and twisting. The pistol goes off, bullet piercing the TV screen (Nostalgia by Veidt, the screen reads, before going completely black).


Using his grip, the stranger tosses him against the wall. He can feel glass crack behind his back (it's a poster done by Vargas - a beautiful woman dressed in a provocative outfit colored yellow and black, with lovely, dark brown hair, pulling a single, long black glove from one hand), but still manages to land on his feet, just in time to see his attacker discard the pistol.


As soon as he can, he's throwing punches, and is blocked each time. The third time, his arm goes sailing into thin air before he feels a hand close around it. He isn't given time to react, as the first thing he registers is a fist connecting with his face several times.


Staggering backwards from the impact, he raises both fists up, something that proves to be futile, as


he's caught by a particularly hard blow to the cheek. Bounding back from the recoil, he throws himself at his attacker,

managing to get one hit in, but not without receiving another in return. Kicked in the stomach, he goes further backwards before feeling a pair of hands grab his hair, and a knee connect with his face shortly afterwards. Falling straight to the floor, he manages to raise himself up on his hands and knees, raising a hand to his face and gingerly touching at his wounds (and bringing away blood) before, with an utterly animal scream, he throws himself at his soon-to-be murderer. The sheer force of his attack drives the intruder into a wall. Drawing his fist back, he throws two punches - the first hits away a chunk of a nearby wall, and the next goes straight through. His third punch is blocked - his fist is grabbed and his arm twisted around, another hand soon in his hair as he's thrown into the coffee table, which promptly breaks.

He's still partially in a daze when he feels a pull on the front of his robes, and he's tossed across the room and into a small table and a set of chair surrounding it. Only just managing to recover, his first action is to grab a knife from a nearby rack, throwing it as hard as he can in the direction of his attacker (it strikes the Vargas painting). A cleaver is next, and just as he is about to swing it, the hand holding the cleaver is caught, and it lands in the floor. Drawing another knife, he thrusts it at his opponent, the blade whistling through the air with each move. Each thrust is dodged, and it isn't too long before his right hand is in his attacker's grip. Following a fist to the arm and face, he stumbles, and shoved onto the kitchenette. This done, the intruder brings a fist down hard on his wrist, provoking a pained yell.


He doesn't resist when he feels himself whirled around and back upright. In fact, he's laughing, even as blood streams down his face.

"It's a joke," he manages, voice hoarse.


"It's all a joke. Mother forgive me."

(a single drop of blood trails down his face and neck, finally dropping onto his smiley face badge)


And he's slammed into the kitchenette, which shatters as he slides to the floor.


Just trying to get up again is a struggle


and when he feels himself being picked up, as much as he'd like to struggle, he can't.


He closes his eyes as he feels his carrier start to run, feeling tears (or is it blood?) burn his cheeks as he's thrown


through the window of his apartment. The glass shatters, the noise deafening to his ears, and he falls,


arms and legs cycling wildly as he tries to find some sort of purchase in the empty air. But he keeps falling, falling, falling, and ----


Shards of glass come down like rain upon the figure of Edward Morgan Blake, face up on the concrete, limbs bent at every angle, blood forming a pool around him.

Just next to him lands his smiley face pin, which is soon swallowed up by

dark