OMERSECU'S NIGHTLY LIFE
Victor Roske; May - August, 2007
Victor Roske; May 23, 2007
TRACE x ?: "What the fuck happened? Who the hell have you been talking to?!"
Ability: Lots of Intimidation and threats of bodily harm (if I don't like them much) to find out where my Contacts ran off to.
Omorescu sits patiently in the crypt, face in hand, an orange kitten perched on his legs.
"Look, motherfukhhrraaa! -- hello? ... Goddammit!"
The kitten looks up at him and meows plaintively.
"Sorry," he says. "The goddamn cell phone won't stay connected."
The kitten purrs and lays down while Omorescu furiously dials a number. A moment later, he's on his feet pacing, spilling the kitten onto the floor.
He's just realized he only has one of those shiny FN-FiveSeveN Tactical pistols with the mysteriously and incongruously designed much-larger-than-5.7mm-more-like-50 caliber rounds and the nice, easily maintained silencer.
Someone answers on the other side.
"Evening," he says, grinning. "No, I'm fine, I haven't seen either of them. Anyway, I called to ask you a favor."
Omorescu sits back down, pets the kitten gently, and places his order. His business done, he relaxes for a moment, chin in hand once more.
Then he dials the first number and gets back to calling people motherfuckers.
TRACE successful! You can easily pick out the offending network as you realize that it's composed almost entirely of people who used to be your buds. You end up yelling a bunch of crazy ass threats over the phone and holding Rocko the Pigeon out a fourth story window for a few minutes, but the truth comes out.
She's centered in Queens. She has more influence than you (currently) and she's been spending nearly the past half year paying off your people behind your back and slowly making them hers.
She also disappeared off the proverbial map about two weeks ago and people are scared as shit that someone (i.e. Omorescu) might be coming for their heads.
You may attempt to STEAL next cycle (perhaps even more than your original total).
In the meantime you are told that your remaining people can get you a pistol of some sort - although if you want something that specific it might take a while. They ask for a drop off point and ask you not to hurt them - Most of your Underworld Influence is getting the impression that you're seriously pissed.
The kitten purrs contentedly as you scream obscenities into the night at various unwholesome men. Petrov sits off in the corner, possibly content that the kitten is under control, possibly not content that his life is an unending torrent of woe.
Victor Roske; May 23, 2007
Sasha Koslov's middle name is STEALTH.
Sasha STEALTH Koslov. All caps and everything.
Somewhere in the Brooklyn office of the NYPD...
A cell phone rings! Night clerk Johnny Manson is rudely awakened, having fallen asleep on his big book of crossword puzzles.
"Hullo?" He reaches for his now-cold mug of coffee, and begins to take a sip.
"Hello Johnny. This is Sasha Koslov."
Poor Johnny Manson spits his coffee all over his big book of crossword puzzles. Karl the night janitor gives him a sad look from behind long matted bangs.
"I'm sure you know the name Throat Cutter Hernandez."
"Y-yeah I do. What about her?"
"The NYPD, ever vigilant, must have a good pile of surveillance and investigation reports lying around, yes?"
Johnny scans the room, empty but for him and Karl, who is sleepily washing the floor.
"Yeah, yeah of course we do. Why ... " Johnny pauses, dreadfully realizing what Mr. Koslov is asking him to do. "Why do you ask?"
"I'd like it very much if you could get me that file. You will be paid five hundred dollars, and you will be under my best graces."
Johnny Manson thinks about his crappy job, and he thinks about how much it fucking sucks to work from crappy paycheck to fucking shitty paycheck, and he thinks about being able to afford something better than a goddamn book of crossword puzzles to keep from going crazy. He thinks about iPods, and GBAs, and about college applications.
"How do you want it?"
"Bring it two blocks north when you get a break. I have your cash."
"Okay ... um, see you later?"
"Later." Sasha Koslov hangs up.
Johnny leans back in his chair, and stretches his arms back over his head. Karl stares at him intently for a moment.
"What are you lookin' at?"
Karl stares a moment longer, then pulls out some white earbuds from amongst his matted hair. Some jazz piano becomes audible.
"Think I'll take a break," Johnny says, grabbing his coat.
I am assuming this is your Police Action and not your Personal Action. Either way it is STEALTHed.
You contact you favorite trench coat wearing friend in the NYPD and ready *his* favorite friend, one Mr. Franklin, to have a meeting with him. Five times.
You meet in a shady alleyway in the shadiest hour of the night and you are handed another briefcase. Johnny looks about shiftily as he hands it off. He tips his hat respectfully and slinks off into the darkness, ready to return to his pathetic night shift and dream sweet dreams of and all manner of things that the $500 will glean him, and possibly of beating Karl about the face and neck.
You open the files and find the following, after sorting though a plethora of memos, reports and files:
- The NYC Hernandez cartel was originally run by Pablo Hernandez. It surfaced in the late 80s and is an extension of a larger network centered somewhere in Columbia. It deals primarily in heroin and more recently in arms.
- Pablo was a notorious misogynist and sexual sadist and earned the nickname "Throat-Cutter" due to an incident in which he allegedly (Police have no evidence) non-fatally mutilated one of his rival's wives as such that she was rendered unable to scream as her husband was "made an example of."
- Maria Hernandez, Pablo's niece, was apparently similarly injured in retaliation in an incident in 1997 when Maria was 17. Pablo was apparently un-phased.
- It is unclear when rumors began surfacing that Maria took over the cartel. But by 2003, it was known in some select circles that Pablo had met with an accident and had apparently been left in the Hudson as a result (Body still not found.) and that Maria has assumed Pablo's post and name.
- Maria Armada Hernandez is 5' 6" 160 lbs. She is noted as having a disfiguring scar across her throat which she often conceals with a bandanna. There is a tattoo of a lamb carrying a cross on her right arm with the words "Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell" underneath.
- Maria Hernandez currently cannot be directly linked to any drug related crime. Narcotics officer Michael Preston apparently attempted to infiltrate the cartel back in 2005, but eventually disappeared. Internal rumors give the impression that Hernandez either had him dealt with or simply paid him off and he is currently listed as a missing person.
- Hernandez is currently a suspect in the death of Vinnie "Thumbs" Prodi, but evidence from the case is baffling. Police are having trouble getting anywhere with it.
Victor Roske; May 23, 2007
It's hopeless. This pasty weirdo comes in here all the time and can never remember where to type a url.
"It's up here."
"Thank you Clarence."
At least there's no one else around at this time of night ... no one to see my BattleStar fanfic or self-righteously point out that my Cheetos violate the no food or drinks policy. It's nice. It's why I took this job. That and the fifty-cent Cheetos at the vending machine down the hall ...
Shit! Mouthful of Cheetos! How do I respond? Oh no I'm gurgling, that's no good, you motherfucker why do you always have to be eating Cheetos all th--
"It's embarrassing for me to come in here and not know what the hell I'm doing with these machines."
What the fuck -goddamn Cheetos!- Christ, now I've spilled my drink! I can't let the keyboard get fucked up or it's my job and I NEED like seriou-
"I'll pay you. I'll match your wages here, or better maybe. But I need someone to teach me how to use these machines."
Okay crisis over I've got it under control, no damage, no damage, just a stained t-shirt a little bit, now what is this guy saying to m-
"I'll meet you once a week, pay you $100 for an hour, just to teach me what you know."
Well let's see ... European dude is sitting at a computer, head in hands, completely oblivious tothe ocean of coke and cheese, writing somebody an email about ... that's a psychology professor. Huh.
"Yeah, sure, sounds good."
Odd that his typing is so immaculate.
"Wonderful. Now, tell me, where is the library?"
Roske will head down to the library and start researching him some psychology, Ukrainian history, and other interesting topics over the summer.
Also, he'll be taking some dots of Computer in the fall.
Sasha STEALTH Koslov STEALTHily STEALTHs himself.
You head down to the lab and Clarence agrees to teach you the art of manipulating computing machines for $100/hour + Mountain Dew. You get him four liters of the precious beverage in advance and set up a time to meet. The infusion of caffeine-filled sugar juice manages to dislodge some of the Cheetos from his throat just enough that he can thank you for the generous job offer.
In the meantime, you head to the library and start reading. You unfortunately have very little time before the library closes (It being night and all.), but manage to check out several books regarding the 20th century history of the Ukraine, the politics of the Crimmea, and other topics of interest. You also grab some introductory psych-books, and a DSM-IV. As for other interesting topics, I rule that you also pick up a Serbian slang dictionary, and a basic book on kitten care.
You spend the next several days learning about the past century of Ukrainian history and how seemingly bleak much of it is. You end up making notes regarding a lot of the bibliography to go and research more regarding the Soviet Union in general, as you read despairing tales of the Holodomor, of the massive losses in WWII, and of the Chernobyl disaster. You skim over the end part of the books regarding Yushchenko and the Orange Revolution and can't help but smirk a bit. (The book doesn't mention the recent political crisis regarding Yushchenko's dissolving of parliament as this is something that has happened over the last two months - You won't necessarily know about this turn of events unless Roske's browsing through news publications or using the Internet.)
You also look into the history of the Crimmea as a region and take careful notes on the Crimmean Tartar diaspora and on the siege of Sevastopol. You read a bit about Sevastpol as a closed city during Soviet rule, in which non residents had to get government permits to visit it. Other than that, you find little about them that seems significant to your current situation aside from what you already know.
The psychology texts are fairly thick. As you have no real focus to your inquiry, you start from the beginning and spend the next week reading up on childhood onset mental retardation and learning disorders. You find that nobody you know seems to suffer from either.
You also briefly glance over how to care for a kitten, and find that, all things considered, you're doing a pretty good job of it - even adjusting for the fact it's an un-aging supernaturally enhanced kitten. You do remind yourself that you should probably get it checked and de-wormed at some point, however, as you uneasily consider the idea of un-aging supernaturally enhanced worms and realize that you don't want to deal with them. You also find out that "Gle kurtsa ti na biciklu" translates roughly to "There goes your dick on a bicycle." in Serbian and this is apparently not to be said in polite company.
Given your selection of summer reading and activities you are perfectly justified in buying up dots of Academics, Animal Ken, Computers, or Psychology.
Victor Roske; August 4, 2007
STEALing from Natalia Zlakazov.
I will craft a message of forgiveness. Yes, they were bought out, but I understand how it goes.
So I'm going to pay them all a personal visit. Yes, every single goddamn person who Sparrow paid off. I'll call ahead, assure them I have no violent intentions, and then show up.
Omorescu forgives everyone. Come back, work for me again, and it's all forgiven. I'll forget all about it.
Unless they do it again. But why would they do such a thing? Just relax, and work for Omorescu, and everything's fine.
Money shall be provided when necessary to sweeten things up. Presuming I can secure my old contacts who are still around, I'll let everyone know that I'm not angry. I've calmed down after Sparrow disappeared. They have nothing to fear.
If I can get everyone back, I'll then try to steal those who worked for Sparrow and now have no master.
So, New York underworld, how about that pistol? Let's give it a try. After all, we do have all summer to track one down.
I'll specify some random drop point and give an extra $100 to whoever's going to drop it off. I really don't want them to be scared of me. Maybe money will subdue their fears?
Your gentle coaxing (possibly augmented by used of Awe) turns your prodigal herd of arms and drug dealing sheep back to it's fold. While you find to your chagrin that several of your associates have conveniently skipped town - and that Rocko somehow ended up in a gutter with a Columbian necktie, you manage over the next several months to pay off, passive-agressively threaten, and generally make good with your former people. You are all one happy and cuddly family of illegal trade and vice once again!
You manage to re-STEAL your two levels of Underworld Influence.
In the meantime, you begin working on Natalka's people. You find a motley assortment of Russians, Ukrainians, and a small handful of Turkish Assyrians who seem to have been part of her network. They are heavily embroiled in arms dealing and the burgeoning sempre trade - and seem to be responsible for a rather unsavory child trafficking circle.
You have a little trouble dealing with them initially as A) They are terrified of you and are utterly convinced you will kill them - moreso than your own people were B) Several of her people speak very poor English and no Serbian /Romanian, making your message of forgiveness a little choppy.
Given all these challenges, however, you are still a man of resources and cunning - and as such might throw chops to see if you can absorb an addition level of influence.
You get your pistol. It arrives, by miraculous circumstance, on the self-same night that the package slip for your ballistic vest shows up at your PO Box. It's like Christmas and your birthday rolled into one!
ST Notes: I'm allowing him to reclaim his original two levels of Underworld automatically (much as we did for Haldor). He has to throw for Natalka's. If he makes anything too lucrative off of the child pr0n ring, he gets a Conscience chop.
Victor Roske; August 29, 2007
Whatever happens, I'm gonna be careful with it.
You walk down the darkened halls of Queens College's Computing and Technology Center and approach Clarence, your ever faithful servitor. Looking at you with an expression of simultaneous wonderment and apprehension, Clarence starts to ask you what simplistic Internet-related task you wish him to instruct you on tonight... but before he can, you cut him off and in a grim thickly-accented monotone utter two words to him.
Before he can aptly respond, you leave, melding into the darkness of the moonlit campus like some sort of spectral Romanian ninja.
Two weeks later, when you show up around campus again, looking for Clarence and wondering why you did precisely what you did two weeks ago, you are greeted by a scrawny young lad who introduces himself as Roger, Clarence's roommate. He ascertains that you are Mr. Koslov, hands you a set of keys and explains that Clarence tried his best to find a surprise for you, but that due to incidents involving a run in with Tau Kappa Epsilon, a mis-scheduled midterm and a case of mono, Clarence wasn't able to make it himself.
He takes you to the library, and by-passes the lock rather handily, explaining that he's a worker in the packing and binding section. He leads you to an elevator and shows you how to unlock two panels via which other keys can be used, leading you either down to the "Secret Basement Level" where book packing and special collections are kept or to the clock tower (if you should happen to need to repair the clock or something). He jokes that the clocktower's actually pretty boring unless you're a sniper or something.
In any event, once you get to the "Secret Basement Level," you find yourself faced with assorted rows of uninteresting brown boxes, and a small dust covered area that's caged off and locked. It's all lit by a single lightbulb, swinging on a chain.
He unlocks and leads you to the caged area, sorting about piles of dusty stacked books and muttering something. Eventually he settles on one and looks at you awkwardly.
"Yeah... Clarence said you were like Russian or something. This thing's totally not supposed to get out of here, but he thought it was cool - guy taught here back in '82 or something. It's signed first edition or some shit. Surpirse... I guess. Probably worth something on eBay if you're hard up for cash."
He hands you an old copy of the translated poems of Yevgeny Yevtushenko, and looks awkwardly at the ground.
"Uh... I'm also fine with like... letting you back here if Clarence says it's cool. Just don't get us caught or anything..."
You nod and are escorted back out of the library, tucking the book into your coat. You open it later, and it falls to the end of the following poem:
"...and the bullet that passed through John kills Robert Kennedy. And the bombs charge the earth, turn brown villages blood red, fire black. Admittedly they fall on children, but generally speaking they're on the right track... Everything begins with the butterflies, later it comes round to bombs... No amount of washing purifies-- the blood on your hands will be your doom. The only murder that is fit-- is to kill the Cain inside!"
You aren't quite certain what to make of it, but you get the impression that Clarence was well intentioned. You also get the impression that you're totally a sniper with keys to a campus clocktower. Cha-ching!
ST Notes: Yevtushenko totally also wrote the poem that Lillian briefly quoted to McCoy in a previous scene. Recognition may occur if McCoy ever reads the book. Roske can retreat to the Queens library hastilly now and set up a sniper trap if he wishes... although security will show if gunfire is heard.
Victor Roske; August 5, 2007
Roske goes for a walk one evening, finds himself a payphone, inserts two quarters, and dials a number he's written down so as not to forget.
A few moments later, he is speaking to Johnny Manson.
"I have spent a few weeks gathering information from some of my sources who know Ms. Maria Hernandez. I am about to give you some very pertinent information that may help clear up the murder of one Vinnie Prodi. This is more than just off the record. I don't exist, and if I have to, my name is Anonymous Source. Do you understand?
"Ms. Hernandez hired Hawk and Sparrow to kill Thumbs. They did so, probably with great brutality and efficiency. They stashed his body in a closet. A simple hit, except that Ms Hernandez had also hired the Romanian, Omorescu, to take out Thumbs. Hawk and Sparrow set up a trap for him in the bedroom, some bullets flew, and Omorescu escaped out the window. That should explain why the body has nothing to do with the forensic puzzle in the bedroom.
Roske pauses. Fury forms in his mind, then morphs into an image of Throat Cutter falling out of a thirtieth story window. He seethes for a moment before continuing.
"I hope this helps the NYPD's case in some small way. Hm. Do I know anything else, you say? Well. Nothing really pertinent comes to mind. I'll keep my eyes open for you.
Roske hangs up the phone, turns to walk down the street, and begins pondering how best to destroy Throat Cutter Hernandez.
You leave your anonymous tip, and can hear Johnny quickly scribble down your information. He thanks you promptly and is certain NOT to ask you how you know this.
The next time you see him he slides you a note as discreetly as possible.
"Mr. Anonymous Source,
I'm not going to say that you were the ominous Eastern European man who left an anonymous tip yester-evening for Johnny, but then again I don't know many other ominous Eastern Europeans who take interest in the Hernandez case. Trust me, nobody involved will ask any further questions as to your identity.
If we can nab TCH over this one (Conspiracy to commit Murder - that's 25 years if we can pin it on the bitch and make it stick), that would bode very well for my department, and I don't have to describe how much something GOING WELL for the NYPD would make me happy in nights like these.
You said you'd keep your ears open, no?
If that holds true, find us Omerescu. If you know what you know, I have a hunch you have some contacts.
Tell him he'll get immunity. Tell him he'll get witness protection. Tell him he'll get money, plane tickets, a box of goddamn chocolates, damn near anything if he'll testify for us.
You have my thanks in advance. I hope this hunch pays off.
- Det. Diederick" (You recognize the name as being part of your network. Enclosed in the note is a crisp piece of green-inked cotton paper with a stylized portrait of Benjamin Franklin on it. For once, your influence is bribing you.)
You ponder. You realize that testifying is going to spell all manner of trouble, as you're an illegal nameless immigrant who will explode if exposed to sunlight, and that any appearance in court would attract the attention of certain Ukranian ner-do-wells.
You further realize that right now all the police have is an anonymous (albeit painfully accurate) tip that Throat-Cutter was involved in an attempt to have a man killed, and that nobody corroborates this fact.
You go home, brood, and pet your kitten. You think long on that thirtieth story window.
Victor Roske; August 10, 2007
Stuff that Roske does over the summer:
You buy 50 lbs of generic brand Silica Gel based cat litter with a fresh spring scent - which you estimate is just over one year's worth for a cat of Liz's size. You discreetly, but Potently carry it home to your secret abandoned crypt stronghold, where you are pleased to find it vaguely impacts the odor problems already inherent to living in a place made for holding dead bodies.
Liz, in spite of quite nearly dealing grievous harm to the jugular vein of the unfortunate veterinarian you get to immunize her, should now be free feline leukemia. You have the unpleasant task of attempting to feed her a series of pills to get her de-wormed. Forcing a kitten of any variety to take a pill is a difficult undertaking as is. Forcing a supernaturally enhanced kitten that can deal Lethals to take pills, well...
You heal fully a night or two after you are pretty sure the cat is de-wormed. You get the impression that Liz is very sorry for damaging your person thus, as she goes out of her way to be extra-affectionate.
You then begin to start buying all manner of high tech security-generating gizmos from the internet...You figure out that you can definitely put together something akin to what you had running at EJR's haven, but you realize that the electricity issue is going to become rapidly nightmarish... as you have no utilities in your abandoned crypt where you are squatting.
You can try rigging up a small generator but you can't guarantee it won't stop during the day, as you can't be awake then, and you'll have to find a means to power it... something less conspicuous than say covering the crypt in solar paneling and windmills. You can also try stealing power from nearby cable boxes, but have the wisdom to understand that your limited comprehension of how to do such things might lead you to horribly burn/electrocute yourself. (Figuring out how to rig things up is a logistical mess without some Bureaucracy Influence or a lot of the Repair ability. You won't be able to install any components that utilize electricity until this is dealt with.)
You briefly consider the wisdom of perhaps moving out of the abandoned crypt... now that your Ukrainian problems seem to have died down.
In the meantime, you briefly briefly fantasize how you might make the sentry guns work. The closest approximation of a plan you can come up with, unfortunately, given your resources and utilities predicament, involves duct-taping an SMG to a Roomba... after which you simply run out of planning juice and abandon the idea entirely.
You stake out the 189 Bar in Chinatown (all Obfuscate-y) and twice catch glimpse of a shady and familiar looking bandanaed woman, who has an unhelpful habit of traveling with a plentiful number of body-guards. You consider giving her a more permanent throat-cutting right then and there on each occasion, but resist as you subconsciously know you are a character in a LARP who's player doesn't want to make the long-suffering and very tired STs run an unwieldy mass-combat just yet. That and you're probably just out-gunned.
You take down the license plate numbers of the vehicle she steps into on both occasions.
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