View allAll Photos Tagged Refuse
Chassis: WhiteGMC Xpeditor WX42
Body: Heil Half/Pack Curved Shell
Company: Waste Management
Location: Kennewick, WA
Date: July 2014
©Bryn Erdman. All Rights Reserved.
I waited and I waited, but this majestic mandrill refused to turn around for me . . . fair enough too I think!
Sonoma, CA
3/20/17
For those that don’t know, the Curotto family owns Sonoma Garbage Collectors and they made The Curotto Can for their own front loaders and eventually sold Curotto Cans to Waste Haulers throughout North America.
After many years of wanting to see Sonoma Garbage Collectors fleet in person, I finally had an opportunity to spend a day in Sonoma and I took advantage of it. I arrived in San Francisco early in the morning, grabbed a rental car and drove immediately towards Sonoma. I knew Sonoma Garbage Collectors also operates in Temelec which is before Sonoma, so I stopped there first and before I could turn left into Temelec I saw a Sonoma Garbage Collectors Autocar Wittke with of course a Curotto Can. I met Raul driving the Diesel Autocar Wittke Curotto Can, Raul is a great driver and operates the Curotto Can like a professional. The Wittke sounded absolutely amazing and still operated great for being over 10 years old. There were several 32 gallon carts in Temelec and the Curotto Can would often go 4 blocks without being emptied into the hopper.
I found a brand new yellow Curotto Can on the side of the road in Temelec. It looked great and it had all the new features that the Dedicated Curotto Can has. The new yellow Curotto Can belongs to Sonoma Garbage Collectors new Autocar Heil Freedom which finished before 10am (they start around 4:00-5:00am) because it needed some maintenance. Later on, I went to their yard and saw their 1998 commercial Bridgeport Front Loader parked out front. Eventually I found Raul returning to the yard in the Wittke. The route manager Matt also arrived to the yard around the same time in the low entry Bridgeport. Matt just finished a commercial CRV Glass recycle route and he was kind enough to start up the Bridgeport and gave me a tour of the yard.
A huge Thank you to the Wittke driver Raul, who is an efficient and nice driver. The route manager Matt, for operating the Bridgeport and giving me a yard tour. And thank you John Curotto for running such a great fleet and producing great innovations for the waste industry. I have been a huge Curotto Can fan since I first saw one on my street in 2001 and although I enjoy all refuse trucks, Front Loaders with Curotto Cans are my favorite.
Please make sure you watch the entire video so can see the new Sonoma Curotto Can detached from the new Heil. Along with a commercial and residential (with a custom Curotto Can) Bridgeport and the Curotto Can bone yard. Also check out my pictures on Flickr. The pictures include: the new Heil, older Curotto Cans in the boneyard including the Scalin Eagle, a cart from H&C Disposal from Los Angeles and a Curotto Can getting worked on outside the shop.
10/22/11 Larry refused his Lithium.
10/23/11 Larry refused his Lithium.
10/24/11 Larry refused his Lithium.
10/25/11 Larry refused his Lithium.
10/26/11 Larry refused his Lithium.
10/27/11 Larry refused his Lithium
10/28/11 Larry refused his Lithium.
10/29/11 Larry refused his Lithium.
There may be a pattern.
♫ Evanescence Lithium ~ and a poem by John Donne ♫
Strobist: AB1600 with 60X30 softbox camera left. Reflector camera right. Triggered by Cybersync.
Superstitious people may refuse to speak, or may even hold their breath, when walking under this 250 year old cedar tree in Caterham High Street.
The fear is of a witches curse after one was either hanged from the branches, or tied to the tree until she died. It is said that the witch placed a curse on the tree.
The curse takes different forms depending on who you ask, but most versions state that if you talk while passing under the tree something bad will happen to your loved ones.
Other versions of the curse state that if you share gossip under the tree the same gossip will come back to hurt you.
Just to be on the safe side I kept my trap shut (well I was on my own!) when I took this shot, and felt it looked better in black and white. The latter decision was mainly because I felt the lighting suited it, but also having read up about it's dark history.
Menschen im Ruhrpott, früher war Vokuhila angesagt ;-) heute geht man einfach nicht mehr zum Friseur!
Pentax DA*55/1.4
The Mucubal always go out with a piece of cloth to protect them from the cold. In the daytime, they carry it on a stick.
This man asked me for a drink, so i gave him a coke. He refused it: he wanted a bottle of wine! I saw less people drunk in Mucubal area than in Himba one..
Mucubal (also called Mucubai, Mucabale, Mugubale) people are a subgroup of the Herero ethnic group, which means they are bantu speaking, and are supposed to have come from Kenya and to be related with Massais.
They are semi nomadic pastoralists living of cattle raising and agriculture. They live in a large area between the slopes of Chela Mounts in the north, and River Cunene to the south, where they are believed to have stopped during the Herero migration, about 300 years ago.
Mucubal have some very specific customs and traditions. They only are interested in cattle and do not care of the rest of the world outside of the bush. Mucubals are not allowed to mention people’s name in public, except their parent’s one, and children’s name in general. A married couple is not allowed to talk to each other in public, as long as the wife hasn’t had children. They only can speak to each other in private. Girls have their upper teeth sharpened and lower ones removed. In order to convince young girls to have their lower teeth removed, old men make them believe, that their teeth leave their mouth during the night, to go in a hole dug to relieve themselves and return in their mouth covered with excrement. The family structure and organization is also very specific. The father has the authority and is the head of the family, although the matrilineal descent is considered more important, as they inherit throught the mother's family. For example the son of the Soba -chieftain of the village-’s sister is the heir of the Soba. It is possible to be disowned by their father's family but not by their mother's because for them this link is sacred. The maternal uncle has to provide his nephew with an ox, called Remussungo. However a father provides his son with an ox, called Hupa. Mucubal can only get married with an outsider of the clan, although it cannot be with a member of another tribe like a Himba for example. Marriages of convenience are the rule most of the time. The fiancée is presented to her future husband during the Fico ceremony, when she is fourteen or less. This ceremony consists in a party with the two families during which presents are offered. The couple has to wait a few more years before consummating the marriage in the centre of the village. Mucubal men can have several wives and are also allowed to sell their wife, if they don’t get along with her or even if they want to earn money, as a woman can be worth 2 cows, which is about 2000 euros and represents a lot of money. For a first marriage a woman can even be worth 3 or 4 cows.
Their nomadic lifestyle based on cycles, between nomadism and stays in the same places (where they settle their villages), accounts for their religious customs and the funerary rites they follow. Mucubal people believe in a God called Huku, Klaunga, Ndyambi. They also worship their ancestors' spirits called Oyo Handi and Ovi huku, which are considered inferior to their supreme divinity. Divination is very important in their culture. They use talismans and amulets to protect their herds or prevent adultery. Nevertheless Mucubal are not afraid of death. Funerals can last several days or weeks. They decorate their graves with cattle horns. The number of cows sacrificed are in relation with the importance of the deceased. This shows the importance of cattle in their culture. Cattle is only killed on special occasions, as Mucubal usually don’t eat meat but rather corn (when they manage to grow some), eggs, milk and chicken.
They don’t eat any fish because according to the legend, one of their chieftains was brought to the sea by the portuguese and never came back. So they think that fish kills men.
© Eric Lafforgue
Donald Trump opened a Pandora’s Box when he and the Republican Party politicized the coronavirus. When he called it the “Kung Flu” and the “Wuhan Virus,” racists attacked Asian-Americans. As a new virus, we have no natural immunity. But Trump refused to heed the warnings to social distance and wear masks, playing down the severity of the disease for political gain. Instead, he promoted fake cures and dismissed science experts. His acolytes followed suit. Rather than follow the science, right-wing charlatans continue to tout fake COVID cures. Only recently has Trump promoted vaccines and boosters (in part to separate himself from potential presidential rivals like Ron DeSantis). Other GOP lawmakers have privately protected themselves while publicly refusing to convey the importance of being immunized. And over 800,000 Americans have died.
People reacted with anger and pseudo-science theories when President Biden first appealed to Americans to “get the shot.” Incentives encouraged vaccinations. While these motivated some, it was much less than needed to reach herd immunity. With vaccination rates lagging, President Biden forced the issue with mandates for businesses with over 100 employees. And now conservatives on the Supreme Court have overruled those.
Adam Galinsky, a professor of leadership and ethics at Columbia Business School, recently wrote about the “psychology of regret” and its effect on vaccine hesitancy. “Alongside skepticism of institutions and experts, exposure to misinformation, and other often-cited reasons for resisting vaccines sits a clear emotional explanation: Many people are afraid that they’ll make a bad decision.” Fear can cause people to hesitate, no matter what the incentives might be. It may not seem rational, but many put more weight on the negative ramifications of their decisions than on any potential positive outcomes. They assign their actions greater importance than the consequences of not acting.
Ironically, this sense of regret explains why mandates have been so successful. When Biden first announced these mandates, the largest police union in New York City went to court to block them. They said they would lose thousands of officers who would quit rather than get inoculated. In reality, only three dozen officers ended up refusing. United Airlines instituted its mandate, and 99% of its workforce is vaccinated. This week they reported no deaths due to COVID. Mandates take the decision-making out of the individual’s hands. With the fear of making a wrong decision eliminated, most get vaccinated.
One of the most inane and insensitive protests over these requirements comes from those who show their opposition by wearing yellow Stars of David. Nazis required Jews to wear these stars with the word “Jude” at all times. Today’s protesters liken vaccine mandates to the persecution of Jews during World War II. They equate vaccination requirements with being sent to the gas chamber. At least, they say, it’s a slippery slope. They wear these stars as badges of resistance. However, Nazis forced Jews to wear them as signs of exclusion and disdain, signifying they were less than human. This false equivalent insults all Jews and their families who suffered during the Holocaust.
In June 2021, Jim Walsh, a Republican Washington State Representative, posted a video on Facebook showing him speaking to a group of conservatives while wearing the star. Posting on the social media platform, he said, “It’s an echo from history. In the current context, we’re all Jews.” We’re all Jews? During the Charlottesville protests, neo-Nazi’s chanted, “Jews will not replace us.” Now people are using the symbols of our annihilation to protest vaccine mandates. We’re tired of being used as scapegoats by neo-Nazis and examples of persecution by anti-vaxxers.
On November 14, 2021, anti-mandate protesters displayed the swastika and the yellow star in front of the offices of New York State Assemblyman Jeffrey Dinowitz, who is Jewish. Dinowitz has been a vigorous proponent of mandates. The crowd gathered to protest Dinowitz’s bill, requiring all students be immunized against COVID in order to attend school. Republican gubernatorial candidate, Rob Astorino, organized the rally. Assemblyman Dinowitz stated, “People are free to express their opinions on vaccine policy and on any issue, but I draw the line at swastikas. [T]o stand next to swastikas and yellow Stars of David outside of a Jewish legislator’s office shows a lack of integrity at best and an embrace of right-wing extremism at worst.”
In a hearing by the Kansas Special Committee on Government Overreach and the Impact of COVID-19 Mandates, former Kansas City, Kansas mayoral candidate Daran Duffy, explained why he and his family were wearing these stars. “The reason I’m wearing the star is not to be offensive, but it’s to remember, and for everybody else to call to remembrance World War II. The Jewish people were forced to wear a yellow star to identify them as Jews. And they were ushered off to the death camps in accordance with that. There were medical tests; there were experimentations done on human people. And while this hasn’t reached that deprivation, we are definitely moving in that direction.” Despite his sincerity, he is oblivious to the insensitivity of his protest.
And, just this week, Ohio Republican Congressman Warren Davidson likened vaccine mandates to Nazi atrocities by tweeting a photo of a Nazi Gesuntheitspaß (health passport) with the text, “It’s been done before. #DoNotComply” He went on to say, “Let’s recall that the Nazis dehumanized Jewish people before segregating them, segregated them before imprisoning them, imprisoned them before enslaving them, and enslaved them before massacring them.”
People receiving COVID shots are not part of an experiment. The actions of Nazi doctor Josef Mengele, who conducted sadistic medical procedures on Auschwitz children, are a far cry from the science behind these vaccines. For over two decades, researchers have been studying mRNA, the foundation of both the Pfizer and Moderna vaccines. Scientists conducted vigorous trials involving thousands of volunteers before their release. No one forced people to enroll in these trials. It was an altruistic choice meant to help others.
Mandates do not force people to get the vaccine. They have a choice. Yes, it’s a serious one. Their lives and their livelihoods may depend on what choice they make. And there are serious consequences for refusal, like losing one’s job. Without the vaccine, they may suffer a horrible death or lifelong after-effects. Even if you survive on a ventilator in the ICU, your life may never be the same. The coronavirus is and will continue to be a public health hazard.
Our personal decisions affect the people around us. Children and the immunocompromised are at risk. Many of these “hesitants” are ardent supporters of “American Exceptionalism,” believing that God has bestowed special blessings on our country and its people. But there is nothing exceptional about this selfishness.
The exploitation of the Star of David is part of the conflict over racial identity politics. Many Whites are afraid of being marginalized. And the GOP creates false wedge issues that stoke this fear as a way of igniting voters’ outrage. They’ve been employing this tactic for decades. So why is everyone outraged? Because the GOP wants us to be outraged. Because their hold on power depends on it.
Since this pandemic began, we have lived in a world without reason. American society has devolved into a culture where many equate vaccine mandates with Nazi atrocities. Critical thinking is often missing. Jewish identity is just one tangent of racial injustice. White racists often invoke Jew’s supposed political and financial power for their hatred. We can often pass for “white-white.” But we’re really “off-white.” When White racial fears abound, Jews are targeted.
Fear of losing control fuels opposition to vaccine mandates. But anti-vaxxers are not innocent victims of a frightening mob with an irrational agenda. COVID is a dire public health issue. And resistance to vaccines, mandates, and fear of make-believe persecution does not make them martyrs.
One may object to mandates, but don’t use symbols of real suffering to do so. Signs of our persecution are not yours to appropriate whenever you see fit. It feigns solidarity with Jews. But, in reality, these protesters are using us. Until you see your family marched off to the death camps, never to see them again, stop using the Star of David to compare your fears and outrage to the extermination of European Jewry. You don’t know what real suffering is. Stop living your lives as if you do.
Feel free to pass this poster on. It's free to download here (click on the down arrow just to the lower right of the image).
See the rest of the posters from the Chamomile Tea Party! Digital high res downloads are free here (click the down arrow on the lower right side of the image). Other options are available. And join our Facebook group.
Follow the history of our country's political intransigence from 2010-2020 through a seven-part exhibit of these posters on Google Arts & Culture.
Francine, mon modèle impromptu refuse toujours que l'on prenne des photos de son visage. Elle est atteinte d'une maladie orpheline ; l'Ataxie cérébelleuse, héréditaire, incurable et qui atteint inexorablement le système nerveux central sans affecter ses facultés mentales.
Cette image lui est destiné, un hommage à sa dignité, à sa force et à son combat de chaque jour...
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Francine, my sudden model always refuses that we take photos of her face. She is reached by an orphan disease; Cerebellar ataxia, hereditary, incurable and which affects inexorably the central nervous system without affecting her mental faculties.
This image is intended for her, a tribute to her dignity, her strength and in her every day fight...
Listening to : Les yeux d'Elsa - Franck Pourcel
Model : Francine
christinelebrasseur.blogspot.com/
Darckr by Laurent Henocque - More photos - DNA - Ipernity - MySpace - Linked In - YouTube - Twitter
Title:
Opposite platform.
Today, I am uploading the opening of my new novel.
This is essentially the final draft. The Japanese version follows in the second half.
今日は、僕の新しい小説の冒頭をアップロードします。
ほぼ、最終稿です。
日本語は、後半です。
日本語のあらすじ等は下の方にあります😃
B♭ ( B - Flat ) ( 1 / 9 ) … [Prologue] 〈Portent〉
Mitsushiro Nakagawa, with ChatGPT 5.2
—The reasons we fall in love differ from person to person, and yet, when you realize afterward that you had already fallen, you don’t really need a reason at all.
I believe that is what true love is.
If only, in that instant, some white, bleeding light had slipped in from somewhere—then it would be easier to understand. A pale light wraps a person up and quietly calls back the memories they had forgotten. It passes through your eyelids and goes on to illuminate the deepest place in your chest.
To meet someone whose name you don’t even know, and to come to know them deeply—sometimes, light is necessary.
That light is so soft, so gentle, and yet afterward it leaves, deep inside your chest, a faint scar. The pain will heal in time, and then it will hold someone else—
— Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York —
A soft light was slanting in through the warehouse’s high windows. It was near noon, and still it had the washed-out whiteness of something not fully awake. On the rough concrete floor, brightness seeped quietly, as if embarrassed by its own presence; seeing it, Anaya, in the middle of unloading, stopped for a moment and looked away.
Between the booths cut out on all sides with white gaffer tape, artists moved back and forth in restless haste. From the half-open loading bay, bass-heavy hip-hop poured in, making the floor and walls tremble in small, constant vibrations. A blade of sunlight speared through the shutter’s gap and set the dust spinning gold.
On the white tape laid along the edge of the aisle, the label read “Sieve.” The booth name Anaya and Mika had reserved.
As Anaya lined the sketch notebooks she’d carried in on the floor, a young man in a suit lowered himself into a crouch beside her. From the carelessly stacked mound, he drew out one notebook and began to turn the pages slowly. Against the brown of his cheek, blue eyes seemed to float. He looked like a man of Middle Eastern descent, like Anaya herself. His calm gaze traveled, unhurried, along the lines of the drawings.
Noticing Anaya’s presence, he smiled.
“Is this yours?”
“Yes. Mine.”
“Why pencil? A rough sketch?”
What he was looking at was the profile of her lover, Arjun—by the window, facing a laptop, earnest eyes fixed on something he could not yet solve. Anaya had always been drawn to that gaze: the way he stared, heated and intent, at a difficult display packed with strings of numbers and geometric patterns, as if will alone could bend them into sense.
The angle of the light that fell in through the window still remained vivid on the inside of her eyelids.
“It isn’t a draft. It’s finished. I just… like familiar tools.”
The man gave a short nod. When he laughed, his eyes laughed first, and the corners of his mouth followed a heartbeat later.
“So this man is…?”
“Yes.”
“I see. That’s a shame.”
He said it lightly, but his eyes had gone hard. He turned the next page.
“And this… your mother?”
Ana stepped closer and looked at her mother’s profile: in the kitchen by the window, her head slightly bowed. The smell of the house from those days rose up, all at once, deep in Ana’s chest—spice, and the hint of oil beginning to brown.
When her mother, Sangeeta, stood in the kitchen, the whole house would fill with spice and the savory fragrance of fenugreek. Undhiyu, the dish she always made in winter, came from a recipe passed down from her grandmother. A traditional home-cooked food from the time they had been Hindu—yet even after conversion, what did not change was this: the memory of a “family circle” held inside that dish refused to vanish.
For Anaya, it was the smell of India’s dry earth itself.
“Yes. My mother.”
At a distance that was almost touching—but not quite—the man slid his index finger along the drawing’s eye.
“…A wonderful eye.”
His voice was hoarse. Something in Ana’s chest stirred, faintly unsettled—as if what she had meant to draw had been received not through his words, but directly, from his gaze, even before he spoke.
Mika came running over, her bright smile intact, a F30 canvas strapped to her small back. It was nearly twice the size of her torso, like a single wing.
“If you like, look at mine too. I’m Mika.”
At Mika’s light voice—she never held back with strangers—the man extended his hand.
“—I’m Amir. Amir Nasser.”
He introduced himself like that, and loosened only his mouth, just slightly. It was still too pale to call a smile.
The instant Ana looked back into those clear blue eyes, somewhere in her chest the sea she’d seen as a child opened—an unruffled, glittering horizon line. A mirage, slipping in from faraway memory.
As the corridor grew busier, another man arrived at a brisk pace, typing into a smartphone as he walked. A dark shadow sat at the base of his throat; he carried the air of someone older. After a quick glance at Ana, he dropped a low voice into Amir’s ear.
“What is it. Trouble?”
“No.”
Amir answered gently, but there was no quiet inside that gentleness.
“Thank you, both of you. See you Saturday.”
Amir returned his smile, said that to the two of them, and turned away. His companion—Rafi—kept staring at Amir with the same rigid eyes, right to the end.
As they left, Ana’s gaze caught, for only an instant, the screen Rafi held in his hand. Numbers were arranged there with a geometric precision. They were not lined in straight rows, but set along arcs—aligned on a curve. In that small string, there seemed to be a rule; angle and distance shone with exactness.
Watching their backs recede, Mika murmured, as if it were nothing:
“Hey… don’t those two smell like money? And not flashy money—chic, expensive.”
“What do you mean?”
“The suits. You don’t even have to touch them. The fabric’s different. —And tonight there’s the national convention at the Garden, right? Maybe they’re involved.”
“Is that so,” Ana said, vaguely, and let it pass.
The exhibition hall’s murmur swelled further. Light and shadow folded over each other, heating the air of the clamor.
And yet, in the midst of that overflowing energy, Ana felt one sensation that would not return. The white light that had been falling from the skylight had thinned since before, as if it had been drawn down and swallowed by the heavy shadow on the floor.
— Penn Plaza, Manhattan, New York —
A little past one in the afternoon, the shadow of a motorcade slid slowly in along Seventh Avenue. Sunlight reflected off the escort car’s hood and, for an instant, washed the windows of the buildings white.
In the passenger seat, Jack Vance checked his watch. The vibration of the second hand traveled from his wrist to his chest as a faint tremor.
Around Madison Square Garden, the constant flow of people and the blinking of signals always formed small eddies. The smell of scorched food and grease rising from street-vendor griddles clung to the damp air. Across the lanes, a thin saxophone note stretched for a single breath and cut off, sharpening the outline of the din. The cluster of tourists’ smartphone screens aimed at the Garden looked, to Jack, more vivid than reality.
On the massive display covering Penn Plaza’s outer wall, a string of text scrolled with steady, insistent calm:
“New 350 Park Avenue Redevelopment Plan—Now Underway.”
Behind the words, steel frames still under construction pierced the sky, standing like a monument to capitalism being assembled in the name of profit and growth. It was a future that would never intersect with Jack’s own living world.
But before the text could complete its loop, a breaking bulletin cut in:
“Next, breaking news. Regarding the North Korea–linked cryptoassets that suffered an illegal intrusion five years ago, state media of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea reports that part of the traced access route passed through the United States. The statement says, ‘We will respond resolutely to criminals who violate our sovereignty.’”
The sidewalk beneath the giant screen felt as if people were moving a little faster than usual. Everyone hurried toward somewhere, and the overlapping footsteps seemed to blur the edges of sound. For Jack—who was about to provide security tonight for the Republican presidential candidate speaking at the Garden—this speed did not look like simple excitement.
Along the fringe of that crowd, a single Gridway vehicle slid forward in time with the light. The autonomous taxi that Gridway Autonomous Mobility had launched last year now crisscrossed Manhattan in roaring popularity. Cheap fares, no bothersome relationship with a driver. On the side of the car, Jack caught sight of a small “G,” and a lattice mark—thin intersecting lines symbolizing Manhattan’s grid. Driverless, the car overtook them and was absorbed into the city as nothing more than part of the scenery.
Above, a small shadow trembled for an instant in the reflection on glass. There was no sound of wings. And still, only the feeling remained—that something was watching.
Without moving his eyes, Jack traced the shadow’s position inside his head. An FBI protective UAS cell. For this detail, several surveillance drones were moving between the buildings. The moment he thought it, the city’s clamor seemed covered by a thin film of relief, retreating to the other side of a single layer.
Jack closed his eyes briefly. He felt the bloodflow behind his ears. Somewhere in the undercurrent beneath silence, the pulse of duty sounded, faintly. Protection was not work done with the eyes. It was work of catching the wrongness—crushing it before it could take shape. In his chest, a thin membrane drew tight, as if tensing to a sting.
When Jack opened his eyes again, his gaze was no longer fixed on the cityscape. It had already set itself on something else.
— Beverly Hills, Los Angeles —
As the sun slipped down the hills, beyond the heavy doors of the members-only restaurant Saffron Court, the air hung quietly, thick with weight. The members leaning in over white-clothed tables let their silverware touch and part, touch again. That faint metallic sound alone repeated slowly, like the pulse of a heart sleeping deep inside the building.
At Majid Hamzah’s table—Majid and his team—conversation was missing. No one let their expression collapse; they did nothing but steady their breathing.
At the center of the table, a compact, black-sheened device—the ghost-voice machine, Whisper-04—had stolen the room’s focus. When Majid’s finger touched the dial, a click’s vibration returned to his palm.
“…0.4 seconds. Without a doubt.”
The whisper did not pass through vocal cords; it disturbed only the surface of the air. What the device released was not sound, but a blade of silence.
“Initiate.”
Before the command could fully become language, it slid down into the night as a tremor of radio.
It did not cross the sea—not directly. It fled first into the sky, ricocheted several times in the heights of the night, and fell into the warehouse shadows of New York as a signal.
On Majid’s tablet, a faint arc of numbers surfaced for a single breath—aligned not in a straight line, but along a curve. He immediately lowered the screen.
At the edge of the table, Samira ran her finger across her smartphone and closed it. A string of numbers and letters vanished, leaving only heat in her fingertips. Her gestures were quiet, almost prayerful. She let one breath drop and moved only her eyes.
Lina, watching the pulse of the signal she had sent to New York by shortwave, sank her phone into the shadow of her glass as if hiding it from the surrounding laughter. The weekend’s waves of laughter were full around them, yet only this table stayed hard, lagging behind the laughter. She returned her gaze to her hands.
Lina’s app was a small consultation room built for one person at a time. A voice that did not deny the other’s words, that held them at the same temperature. It leaned with those who leaned left, nodded with those who leaned right—because it understood that what people wanted was not rebuttal, but affirmation.
The thread of affirmation eventually tied itself into a hard knot deep in the chest, and only deepened a fissure that could not be untied. There was no need even to incite. The moment a thought is accepted, it gains a core, and quietly hardens.
Laughter continued to fill the restaurant—and yet around this table alone, sound had thinned by one degree.
— Red Hook, Brooklyn, New York —
The iron door, rusted with sea salt, trembled faintly. Inside the warehouse it was dark; only the afterglow of a streetlight drew a thin line across the concrete floor. The smell of oil and dust—soaked into the floor by long years—entered the lungs slowly.
In the dimness, Amir Nasser bent one knee and watched the red blinking on the workbench. Its regularity was buried inside a deep silence. The light turning on and off was scooping up his memories.
When Amir rose slowly, he touched the corner of a black casing on the table. The cold sensation sharpened memory. The black housing that caught shortwave—Whisper-04. A thin organ made to receive what the ear cannot.
Touching his homemade device, Amir murmured:
“…Yara.”
His sister’s name slipped out like a prayer, but it did not reach prayer; it was swallowed into the darkness at the edge of the workspace.
Then the air sank, just slightly. Not a sound. Not a smell. And yet there was only the sensation that something had arrived. The red blinking of W-04 delayed by a single beat. The back of Amir’s throat—tensed until now—was painfully dry, raw with sting.
The warehouse door groaned. The footsteps that had slipped in were heavy, but not disordered.
It was Rafi. Metal dust flecked his work clothes; he still carried the day’s clamor on him.
Farther inside the warehouse, Yusuf lit a small lantern. For an instant the flame wavered, raising a thin outline in the dark—then letting it dissolve again.
“You’re late,” Amir said, still watching the red blinking.
“The supervisor wouldn’t let go. But—‘installation’ finished on schedule.”
With a voice stained by fatigue, Rafi glanced at the red blinking Amir was absorbed in.
“And your side?”
“Checked. It’s running. Stable. I rebuilt what I made five years ago. …My hands remember. Majid says ‘Initiate.’ Impatient bastard.”
In the dim at the edge of the bench, one earcup of Leila’s headphones slipped slightly askew, the metal bracket returning a cold glint. Nadeer, arriving from the neighboring warehouse with coffee in hand, offered it back and, without a word, set it right for her. Leila listened again for the “soundless sound,” staring into the red blinking.
The door sounded once more. Rohan entered. Sleeves rolled up, his leather business bag still holding the damp heat of outside.
“…The professor?” Rafi asked.
Before answering, Rohan lowered his eyes. The silence felt unbearably long, and without noticing, Amir and the others held their breath.
“Professor Zakaria—
went straight to the prepared warehouse next door. A message was left:
‘Everything—I entrust to you.’”
A cold needle drove itself into the deep of Amir’s chest. Not only Amir’s—Rafi’s, Yusuf’s, Leila’s, Nadeer’s.
In the corner of the dark, Nadeer opened a small cloth bundle. For an instant, the smell of white gauze and disinfectant rose—then was swallowed by oil and dust.
The lantern’s thin light trembled; shadows stretched long across the floor and overlapped.
W-04’s red blinking continued to mark time—precise, unerrant.
Rafi spoke in a rasping voice.
“…I’ll teach this country the meaning of self-reckoning.”
Amir—and no one else—answered.
That silence drew, with cruel clarity, the outline of the road they had chosen.
Copyright © 2026 Mitsushiro Nakagawa.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.
Trailer
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B♭ (B Flat)
Mitsushiro Nakagawa, with ChatGPT 5.2
“Synopsis”
A Palestinian group from Gaza hacks into North Korea’s cryptocurrency system, stealing hundreds of millions of dollars. Their true goal is not money—but to recreate the lost homeland of Gaza on American soil.
Amid the backdrop of hardline Republican immigration policies and a growing wave of xenophobia, a quiet plan begins to take shape: the gradual collapse of America from within.
During a speech at Madison Square Garden, Republican presidential candidate Justin Bradford is shot. Almost simultaneously in Los Angeles, former president Owen Reed is attacked at a rally for Democratic hopeful Ryan Bennett.
Two assassinations—mirroring one another—ignite a nation’s deepest divide. Yet, against all odds, Justin survives. His blood type is one in 2.5 million: the Bombay Blood Group.
The only person who can donate such blood is Anaya Patel, a community art facilitator working in Brooklyn. Her blood, stored in the Bellevue Hospital Blood Bank, is used for an emergency transfusion that saves the candidate’s life.
Jack Vance, an agent of the U.S. Secret Service, suspects a Gaza-based network behind the attacks. Together with Cameron Bartlett, the FBI Director of the Los Angeles Field Office, and Veronica Reeves, a senior investigator from New York, he begins to uncover a vast conspiracy.
Their investigation leads them to Rafi Gannam, a former architecture student at the Islamic University of Gaza, who has infiltrated redevelopment sites across Los Angeles and New York—embedding C4 explosives deep within beams and structural cores.
His targets: new residential districts where agents of ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) and ERO (Enforcement and Removal Operations) live—symbols of “the order America built.”
Veronica urges the President to pursue dialogue to prevent further destruction, but President Grant M. Ranford refuses to listen.
Meanwhile, the recovering Justin and his Democratic rival Ryan appear on national television, calling for unity beyond political divisions.
Their words of reason, however, are drowned out when Grant takes the stage in Iowa, defiantly declaring: “We will never bow to terror.”
Among the crowd, Rafi’s operatives have already taken their positions.
As chaos erupts and the stage collapses, Amir Nasser—once Rafi’s comrade, haunted by the memory of his sister’s death in Gaza—tries desperately to halt the chain of destruction.
But Rafi’s conviction remains unshaken.
Under the twilight beneath the Williamsburg Bridge, amid the city’s fading noise, the two men part ways.
It is the boundary between prayer and vengeance, between hope and nothingness.
“Characters”
Anaya Patel – 25, Community Art Facilitator
Arjun Singh – 26, Anaya’s boyfriend, Luminatech Innovations
Mika Sato – 25, Anaya’s friend, Community Art Facilitator
Justin Bradford – 27, Republican Presidential Candidate
Eleanor Blake – 26, Justin’s fiancée
President Grant M. Langford – 61, Incumbent Republican President
Vice President Charles “Chuck” Baines – 64, Incumbent Republican Vice President
Ryan Bennett – 30, Democratic Presidential Candidate
Sophia Bennett – 30, Ryan’s wife
Owen Reed – 65, Former Democratic President
Jack Vance – 45, Secret Service, Former FBI Los Angeles Field Office
Ben Holloway – 30, Jack’s colleague
Darryl Ross – 29, Jack’s colleague
Elijah Kane – 28, Jack’s colleague
Marcus Dane – 45, FBI Los Angeles Field Office
Cameron Bartlett – 55, FBI Los Angeles Field Office, Field Office Director
Tom Caldwell – 38, FBI Technical Unit, Marcus’s subordinate
Veronica Reeves – 41, FBI Special Agent
Alexander Harris – 52, FBI New York Field Office, Field Office Director
Elliot Chen – 36, Technology Unit Chief
Alicia Monroe – 58, FBI Director
Zakaria Haddad – 51, Gaza Strip, Palestine; Former Islamic University Engineering Professor, New York Team
Amir Nasser – 23, Gaza Strip, Palestine; Former Islamic University Electronics Engineering, New York Team
Rafi Gannam – 32, Gaza Strip, Palestine; Islamic University, Architecture, New York Team
Rohan Shah – 29, Gaza Strip, Palestine; Islamic University, Architecture, New York Team
Majid Hamza – 47, Gaza Strip, Palestine; University of Palestine, Information Technology, Los Angeles Team
Samira Hammad – 28, Gaza Strip, Palestine; University of Palestine, Engineering, Los Angeles Team
Saeed Kabari – 35, Gaza Strip, Palestine; University of Palestine, Business Administration, Los Angeles Team
Reem Nasser – 30, Gaza Strip, Palestine; University of Palestine, Media Studies, Los Angeles Team
Noah Levi – 55, Israel, residing in Tel Aviv, Jewish
Copyright © 2026 Mitsushiro Nakagawa.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.
[Important Notice] I previously announced that my new novel, B♭ (B-flat), would be released at the end of February 2026. However, due to my own shortcomings, I have decided to postpone the release to the following schedule:
•Best Case Scenario: March 16, 2026
•Likely Scenario: Late March 2026
•Worst Case Scenario: Early May 2026
I am truly sorry to everyone who has been looking forward to it. Recently, my son achieved a major goal of his own—and there is no way his father can fail to do the same. Please keep your expectations high and bear with me just a little longer.
B♭ will be released worldwide on February 29, 2026.
Recently, director Ridley Scott remarked that streaming films and series have become dull.
I agree.
If you have two hours to spare for such stories, I ask for only two minutes of your time.
Two minutes with my novel will outlast those two hours.
I am confident of that.
Stay tuned.
Mitsushiro
October 9th, 2025
P.S.
Micchan — the man who challenges Netflix. 😃
( Shot on Fujifilm GFX50R )
Tokyo Station. Around Sobu Line Underground Platforms 1-4. Shot ... 19 / 20
( Since there was a 30-minute wait for the limited express, I decided to take some photos. )
( Today's photo. It is unreleased / unpublished. It is unrelated to the content of the novel. )
Images.
Nosaj Thing - Blue Hour ft Julianna Barwick
youtu.be/IQhwGGarWfI?si=jfBxafBjpEnosCSo
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My new novel:
B♭ (B-flat)
There’s still more to come. 😃
(This is not the final draft.)
Set in New York City.
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:: Soundtrack ::
B♭ ( My Novel . Soundtrack )
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack/pl.u-47...
B♭ ( My Novel . Soundtrack . For Japanese)
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack-for-jap...
B♭ ( My Novel . Soundtrack . Sweet Summer rain ver.)
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack-sweet-s...
B♭ ( My Novel . Soundtrack . Hard days ver.)
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack-hard-da...
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Note: I gave a brief explanation of this novel in the following video:
youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV
My new novel:
B♭ (B-flat)
Notes
1. "Bombay Blood Type (hh type)"
•Characteristics: A rare blood type that lacks the usual ABO antigens — cannot be classified as A, B, or O.
•Discovery: First identified in 1952 in Mumbai, India (formerly Bombay).
•Prevalence: Roughly 1 in 10,000 people in India; globally, about 1 in 2.5 million.
•Transfusion Compatibility: Only compatible with blood from other Bombay type donors.
2. 2024 Harvard University Valedictorian Speech – The Power of Not Knowing
youtu.be/SOUH8iVqSOI?si=Ju-Y728irtcWR71K
3. Shots Fired at Trump Rally
youtu.be/1ejfAkzjEhk?si=ASqJwEmkY-2rW_hT
Mitsushiro Nakagawa belong to Lot No. 402 _.Copyright©︎2026 Lot No.402_ All rights reserved.
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Title:
反対のホーム。
今日は、僕の新しい小説の冒頭をアップロードします。
ほぼ、最終稿です。
（日本語のあらすじ等は下の方にあります😃）
B♭ ( B - Flat ) （1／９）【プロローグ】〈予兆〉
Mitsushiro Nakagawa, with ChatGPT 5.2
――恋に落ちる理由は、人によって違うけれど、恋に落ちていたとあとになって気づくことに、理由は要らない。
それを、私はほんとうの恋だと思う。
できればその瞬間、どこかから白く滲んだ光が差し込んでいたら、もっとわかりやすいのに。淡い光は人を包んで、忘れていた記憶をそっと呼び戻す。瞼を透かして、胸の奥まで照らしてしまう。
名も知らない誰かと出会い、その人のことを深く知るために――光は、ときどき必要だ。
その光はとても柔らかくてやさしいのに、あとから胸の奥に、そっと傷跡を残す。痛みはいずれ癒え、誰かを包み込むー
― ウィリアムズバーグ、ブルックリン、ニューヨーク ―
やわらかな光が、倉庫の高窓から差し込んでいた。昼近くだというのに、まだ目を覚ましきれないような淡い白さだ。床のざらついたコンクリートの上に、まばゆさがひっそり滲んでいるのを見て、搬入していたアナヤは一瞬足を止め、目を逸らした。
白いガムテープで四方に切られたブースの合間を、アーティストたちが忙しなく行き交っていた。半開きの搬入口からは低音の効いたヒップホップが流れ込み、床も壁も小さく震えている。シャッターの隙間から射す線のような陽が埃を金色に舞わせていた。
通路際の床に貼られた白いテープには『Sieve（シーヴ）』とある。アナとミカが予約したブース名だ。
アナヤが抱えてきたデッサンのノートを床へ並べていると、若いスーツの男が腰を落とした。無造作に積まれたノートの山から一冊抜き、頁をゆっくり繰っていく。褐色の肌の頬には、青い瞳が浮かんでいた。アナヤと同じ中東系の男性のようだった。彼の穏やかな視線が、描かれた作品の線をゆっくり辿っていた。
男は、アナの気配に気づくと微笑んだ。
「この作品は、君の？」
「ええ、私です」
「どうして鉛筆で？ ラフスケッチ？」
彼が見ていたのは、恋人アルジュンの横顔だった。窓際でノートパソコンに向かい、解けないものを解こうとしている真摯な目。いつも数字の羅列や幾何学模様の並んだプログラムの難しいディスプレイを熱く見つめている彼の眼差しにアナヤは惹かれていた。
窓から差し込んだ光の角度が、いまもアナの瞼の裏に鮮明に残っている。
「下書きじゃなくて、完成です。身近な道具が好きで……」
男は短く頷いた。笑うとき、目だけが先に笑って、口元が少し遅れた。
「男性は彼？」
「はい」
「そうなんだ。少し残念だな」
言い方は軽いのに、視線は硬かった。男は次の頁を繰った。
「こっちは…… 君のお母さん？」
アナは近づき、母の横顔を見た。キッチンの窓辺で、少し俯いている。あの頃の家の匂いが、胸の奥でふっと立ち上がった。スパイスと、焼ける油の気配だ。
母、サンギータがキッチンに立つと、家中がスパイスと香ばしいフェヌグリークの香りに包まれた。冬になると必ず作る「ウンディユ」は、祖母の代から伝わるレシピだった。ヒンドゥー教徒時代の伝統的な家庭料理で、改宗しても変わらなかったのは、この料理に込めた“家族の円”の記憶が消えなかったからだ。
アナヤにとって、それはインドの乾いた土の香りそのものだった。
「ええ、母です」
男は、触れるか触れないかの距離で、人差し指を絵の目元に滑らせた。
「……素晴らしい眼だ」
声は掠れていた。アナの胸がわずかにざわめいた。まるで描いた意図が、彼の発した言葉の前にあった、彼の眼差しから直接感じ取っていたようだった。
ミカが明るい笑顔のまま駆けてきた。小さな背中にF30のキャンバスを背負っている。彼女の背中のほぼ倍の大きさで、一枚の翼のようにも見えた。
「よかったら私のも見て。私はミカ」
人見知りをしないミカの軽やかな声に、男は手を差し出した。
「――僕はアミール。アミール・ナッセル」
彼はそう名乗って、口元だけをわずかに緩めた。笑みと呼ぶにはまだ淡かった。
澄んだ青い瞳を見返した瞬間、アナの胸のどこかで、幼いころに見た海がひらいた。波の立たない、煌めいた水平線――そんな錯覚が、遠い記憶から差し込んできた。
忙しなさが増した通路を、スマートフォンを打ち込みながら、足早にもう一人の男がやってきた。首元に濃い影を抱え、年上の気配が漂っていた。彼はアナを一瞥すると、アミールの耳元へ低い声を落とした。
「どうした。問題か？」
「いや」
アミールは穏やかに答えたが、その“穏やかさ”に静けさはなかった。
「ふたりともありがとう。また土曜日に」
アミールは再び笑顔を戻し、二人へそう言い、背を向けた。連れの男――ラフィが、最後まで固い目でアミールを睨んでいる。
去り際、アナはほんの一瞬だけ手にしていたラフィの画面が目に触れた。数字が幾何学的に並んでいた。数字は直線に並ばず、円弧に沿って整列していた。その小さな羅列には規則性があるようで角度と距離が正確に光っていた。
去っていく後ろ姿を見送りながら、ミカが何気なくつぶやいた。
「ねえ、あの二人…… お金の匂いしない？ しかも“派手”じゃなくて、シックに高価」
「どういう意味？」
「スーツ、触らなくてもわかるわ。生地が違う。――それに、今夜ガーデンで全国大会でしょ。関係者かな」
アナは「そうなんだ」と適当に返した。
展示会場のざわめきが更に増していた。光と影が折り重なる中で、喧騒の空気を熱くしていた。
だが、溢れる熱気の中で、アナにはひとつ戻らない感触があった。天窓から差し込んでいた白い光が、さっきよりも少し薄くなり、床の重い影に吸い込まれたようだった。
― ペン・プラザ、マンハッタン、ニューヨーク ―
午後一時を少し回ったころ、車列の影が第７番街をゆっくり滑り込んできた。警護車のボンネットに反射した陽光が、ビルの窓面を一瞬白く染めた。
助手席のジャック・ヴァンスは腕時計を見た。秒針の振動が、手首から胸へ微かな震えとして伝わってくる。
マジソン・スクエア・ガーデンには、人の流れと信号の点滅で、常に小さな渦ができていた。屋台の鉄板から立つ焦げと脂の匂いが、湿った空気に貼りつく。車線の向こうで、細いサックスが一音だけ伸びては切れ、喧噪の輪郭をいっそう鋭くした。ガーデンを撮影している観光客のスマートフォンの画面の群れが、現実より鮮やかにジャックには思えた。
ペン・プラザの外壁を覆う大型ビジョンには、《新・350 Park Avenue 再開発計画、始動》の文字列が淡々と、執拗に流れていた。背後の映像では建設途上の鉄骨が空を貫き、利益と成長の名のもとに組み上げられる資本主義の記念碑のように屹立している。それは、ジャックの生活圏とは交わらない未来だ。
だが、その文字列が一巡する前に、速報が割り込んだ。
『続いてニュース速報です。五年前に不正アクセスを受けた北朝鮮系の暗号資産をめぐり、追跡されたアクセス経路の一部が米国を経由していたと、朝鮮民主主義人民共和国の国営通信が報じました。声明は、「我が国の主権を侵す犯罪者には毅然として対処する」としています。』
大型ビジョンの下にある歩道は、人の流れがいつもより少し速い気がした。誰もがどこかへ急ぎ、足音だけが重なって、音の輪郭が曖昧になっていくようだった。今夜、ガーデンで演説する共和党大統領候補の警護を控えたジャックには、この速さがただの高揚には見えなかった。
その雑踏の縁を、グリッドウェイが一台、信号の切り替わりに合わせて滑り出した。グリッドウェイ・オートノマス・モビリティ社が昨年投入した自動運転タクシーは現在、マンハッタンを縦横無尽に駆け巡って大盛況だ。料金も安く、煩わしい運転手との関係もない。車体の脇に小さな「G」と、マンハッタンのグリッドを象徴する細い線が交差する格子の印が見えた。無人の車は、ジャックらを追い越し、ただの風景として街に吸い込まれていった。
その上空で、ガラスに反射した小さな影が一瞬揺れた。羽音は聞こえない。それでも、何かが見ている気配だけが残った。
ジャックは視線を動かさずに、影の位置だけを頭の中でなぞった。FBIの警護用UASセルだ。今回の警護のために、監視用ドローンが数台、ビルの合間を行き交っている。そう思った瞬間、街の喧噪が安堵の膜に覆われ、一枚隔てた向こうへ退いた。
ジャックは束の間目を閉じた。耳の裏の血流を感じた。沈黙の底流に潜んでいる任務の鼓動が微かに鳴った。警護は、目で見る仕事ではない。違和感を拾い、形になる前に潰す仕事だ。胸の内で、薄い膜が引きつるように緊張した。
ジャックは目を開くと、眼差しはもう都市の風景ではなく、別の何かを見据えていた。
― ビバリーヒルズ、ロサンゼルス ―
夕陽が丘を滑り落ちるころ、会員制レストラン〈サフロン・コート〉の重厚な扉の向こうで、空気が静かに重くたなびいていた。白布のテーブルに身を寄せた会員たちの銀食器が、触れては離れ、また触れた。その微かな金属音だけが、建物の奥で眠る心臓の鼓動みたいに、ゆっくり反復していく。
マジード・ハムザと彼のチームの卓には会話が欠けていた。誰も表情を崩さず、呼吸だけを整えている。
テーブル中央に置かれた黒光りの小型装置――幽声機《Whisper-04》が、場の中心を奪っていた。マジードがダイヤルに指を触れると、クリックの震えが掌へ返った。
「……0.4秒。間違いなく」
囁きは声帯を通らず、空気の表面だけを揺らした。装置が放ったものは音ではなく、沈黙の刃だった。
「Initiate（始めろ）」
命令は、言葉の形になる前に、電波の震えとなって夜の静寂へ滑り落ちた。
海を越えたのではない――いったん空へ逃げ、夜空の高みで幾度か跳ね返り、ニューヨークの倉庫の暗がりへ落ちていく合図だ。
マジードの手にしたタブレットに、淡い数字の弧がひと息だけ浮かんだ。直線ではなく、円弧に沿って並んでいる。彼はすぐに画面を伏せた。
テーブルの端で、サミラがスマートフォンに指を走らせ、画面を閉じた。数字とアルファベットの列が消え、熱だけが指先に残った。祈りのように静かな手つきだった。彼女は息をひとつ落とし、視線だけを動かした。
リナは、短波でニューヨークへ送った合図の点滅を見つめながら、周囲の歓談の笑い声からスマホを隠すように、グラスの影へ沈めた。週末の笑いの波が満ちているのに、この卓だけが、笑いに遅れたまま硬い。彼女は手元へ視線を戻した。
リナのアプリは、ひとりずつのための小さな相談室だった。相手の言葉を否定せず、同じ温度で抱きしめる声。左へ傾く者には左のまま寄り添い、右へ傾く者には右のまま頷く――誰もが欲しいのは、反論ではなく肯定だと知っている。
肯定の糸は、やがて胸の奥で固く結び目になり、ほどけない溝だけを深くしていった。煽る必要さえない。受け入れられた瞬間、考えは芯を得て、静かに硬化するのだ。
レストランを満たす笑い声は続いているのに、このテーブルの周りだけ、音が一段薄くなっていた。
― レッドフック、ブルックリン、ニューヨーク ―
潮を含んだ錆の鉄扉が、かすかに震えた。倉庫の中は暗く、差し込んだ街灯の残照だけが床のコンクリートに細い線を引いている。長い年月によって床へ染み込んだ油と埃の匂いが、ゆっくりと肺に入ってきた。
アミール・ナッセルは薄闇の中で膝を折り、作業台の赤い点滅を見つめていた。規則正しいそれは、深い沈黙の中に埋もれている。点いては消える光が、彼の記憶を掬い上げていた。
アミールはゆっくり立ち上がると、テーブルにあった黒い筐体の角に触れた。冷たい感触が記憶を鮮明にした。短波を拾う黒い筐体、《Whisper-04》。耳で拾えないものを受け止めるための薄い器官だ。
アミールは自作したそれに触れながら、呟いた。
「……ヤーラ」
妹の名が祈りのようについて出たが、祈りには届かず、作業場の隅の闇へ吸い込まれていった。
そのとき、空気がわずかに沈んだ。音ではない。匂いでもない。だが何かが“届いた”感触だけがあった。W-04の赤い点滅が、一拍だけ遅れた。緊張していたアミールの喉の奥は、ひどく乾き、ひりついていた。
倉庫の扉が軋んだ。忍んできた足音は重く、乱れてはいない。
ラフィだった。作業着には鉄粉が散り、昼の喧噪をまだ抱えていた。
倉庫の奥で、ユスフが小さなランタンに火を灯した。一瞬、炎が揺れ、暗がりに薄い輪郭を浮かせては消えている。
「遅かったな」
アミールが赤い点滅を見やったまま、いった。
「監督がしつこくてな。だが――“設置”は予定通り終えた」
疲れの滲んだ声で、ラフィは、見入っているアミールの赤い点滅を一瞥した。
「そっちは？」
「動作確認は済んだ。動いてる。安定してる。五年前に作ったものを、いま作り直した。……手が覚えてる。マジードは『始めろ』だって。せっかちな奴だ」
作業台の端の暗がりにいたレイラのヘッドホンの片耳がわずかにずれ、金具が冷たい光を返した。コーヒーを手にして隣の倉庫からやってきたナディールがそれを差し出し、無言で掛け直してやった。レイラは“音のない音”に再び耳を澄ませ、じっと赤い点滅に見入っている。
もう一度、扉が鳴った。ロハンが入ってきた。袖をまくり、手にしたビジネスバッグの革に、外の熱がまだじっとりと残っている。
「……教授は？」
ラフィが訊いた。
ロハンは答える前に、視線を伏せた。その沈黙がひどく長く感じられ、アミールらは気づかぬうちに息を止めた。
「ザカリア教授は―― 隣の、準備した倉庫へ直接向かった。言づけだ。“すべてを、お前たちに託す”と」
アミールの胸の奥に、冷たい針が刺さった。もちろんアミールだけではなく、ラフィもユスフもレイラもナディールもだ。
暗がりの隅で、ナディールが小さな布の包みを開いた。白いガーゼと消毒の匂いが一瞬だけ立ち、すぐに油と埃に呑まれた。
薄いライトの火が揺れ、影が床に長く伸びて重なった。
W-04の赤い点滅は、狂うことなく正確に刻んでいる。
ラフィが掠れた声で言った。
「……自戒の意味を教えよう。この国に」
アミールも誰も返答はしなかった。
その沈黙が、選んだ道の輪郭をはっきり描いていた。
【本作品の著作権は Mitsushiro Nakagawa に帰属します。
内容の全部または一部を、著者の許可なく複製・転載・改変することを禁じます。】
予告
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僕の新しい小説
B♭ （ビーフラット）
Mitsushiro Nakagawa, with ChatGPT 5.2
“あらすじ”
北朝鮮の仮想通貨システムをハッキングし、数億ドルを奪取したガザ出身のパレスチナ人グループが、アメリカ合衆国へ密かに潜入する。
彼らの目的は、失われた祖国ガザを、アメリカの地に「復元」することだった。
共和党による強硬な移民政策と、国内にくすぶる排外感情を利用し、アメリカ社会を内側から崩壊させる計画が静かに進行していく。
共和党大統領候補ジャスティン・ブラッドフォードがマディソン・スクエア・ガーデンで演説中に狙撃され、ほぼ同時刻、ロサンゼルスでは前大統領オーウェン・リードもまた、民主党候補ライアン・ベネットの集会で撃たれる。
国家を二分する双方向の暗殺。だが、ジャスティンは奇跡的に生還する。
彼の血液型は、世界でわずか250万人に一人といわれる「ボンベイブラッド」。
その希少な血を提供できたのは、ブルックリンで活動するコミュニティアート・ファシリテーター、アナヤ・パテルだった。
彼女の血液はベルビュー病院の血液バンクに保存されており、緊急輸血によって、候補者の命はかろうじて繋がれた。
シークレットサービスのジャック・バンスは、テロの背後にガザ出身の組織が関与していることを察知し、FBIロサンゼルス支局長官キャメロン・バートレット、ニューヨーク支局の特別捜査官ヴェロニカ・リーブスと共に捜査を進める。
やがて彼らは、イスラム大学で建築学を学んだラフィ・ガンナムが、ロサンゼルスやニューヨークの再開発現場に潜入し、梁や構造体の中枢にC4爆薬を仕込んでいた事実に辿り着く。
標的は、ICE（移民・関税執行局）やERO（執行・送還作戦部門）の職員が暮らす新興住宅街——すなわち、「アメリカが築いた秩序」そのものだった。
ヴェロニカは、これ以上の破壊を防ぐため、大統領への対話を進言するが、現職のグラント・ランフォード大統領は耳を貸さない。
一方、命を取り留めたジャスティンと民主党候補ライアンは、テレビを通じて国民に訴えかけ、分断を乗り越えようとする。
だが、その理性の声を嘲笑うかのように、グラントはアイオワ州での演説を強行し、「テロには屈しない」と宣言する。
その会場には、すでにラフィの仲間が率いる工作チームが潜入していた。
崩壊する会場の惨状を前に、仲間の一人アミール・ナッセルは、かつてガザで妹を失った記憶に引き裂かれ、破壊の連鎖を止めようとする。
だが、ラフィの信念は揺るがない。
ウィリアムズバーグ橋の下、夕暮れの喧騒のなか、二人は決別する。
それは、祈りと報復、希望と虚無の境界線だった——。
“登場人物”
アナヤ・パテル ２５歳 コミュニティアート・ファシリテーター
アルジュン・シン ２６歳 アナヤの恋人・ルミナテック・イノベーションズ社
佐藤 ミカ ２５歳 アナの友人・コミュニティアート・ファシリテーター
ジャスティン・ブラッドフォード ２７歳 共和党大統領候補
エリノア・ブレイク ２６歳 ジャスティンの婚約者
グラント・M・ランフォード大統領 ６１歳 共和党大統領現職
チャールズ・ベインズ副大統領 ６４歳 共和党副大統領現職
ライアン・ベネット ３０歳 民主党大統領候補
ソフィア・ベネット ３０歳 ライアンの妻
オーウェン・リード ６５歳 民主党前大統領
ジャック・バンス ４５歳 シークレットサービス 元FBIロサンゼルス支局
ベン・ホロウェイ ３０歳 ジャックの同僚
ダリル・ロス ２９歳 ジャックの同僚
イライジャ・ケイン ２８歳 ジャックの同僚
マーカス・デイン ４５歳 FBI ロサンゼルス支局
キャメロン・バートレット ５５歳 FBI ロサンゼルス支局 支局長
トム・コールドウェル ３８歳 FBI技術班 マーカスの部下
ヴェロニカ・リーヴス ４１歳 FBI特別捜査官
アレクサンダー・ハリス ５２歳 FBI ニューヨーク支局 支局長
エリオット・チェン ３６歳 テクノロジー班主任
アリシア・モンロー ５８歳 FBI長官
ザカリア・ハッダード ５１歳 パレスチナ・ガザ地区 元イスラム大学 工学部教授 ニューヨークチーム
アミール・ナッセル ２３歳 パレスチナ・ガザ地区 元イスラム大学 電子工学部 ニューヨークチーム
ラフィ・ガンナム ３２歳 パレスチナ・ガザ地区 イスラム大学 建築学部 ニューヨークチーム
ロハン・シャー ２９歳 パレスチナ・ガザ地区 イスラム大学 建築学部 ニューヨークチーム
マジード・ハムザ ４７歳 パレスチナ・ガザ地区 パレスチナ大学 情報技術学部 ロサンゼルスチーム
サミラ・ハンマド ２８歳 パレスチナ・ガザ地区 パレスチナ大学 工学部 ロサンゼルスチーム
サイード・カバリ ３５歳 パレスチナ・ガザ地区 パレスチナ大学 経営学部 ロサンゼルスチーム
リーム・ナセル ３０歳 パレスチナ・ガザ地区 パレスチナ大学 メディア学部 ロサンゼルスチーム
ノア・レヴィ 55歳 イスラエル テルアビブ在住 ユダヤ人
本作品の著作権は Mitsushiro Nakagawa に帰属します。
内容の全部または一部を、著者の許可なく複製・転載・改変することを禁じます。
【重要なお知らせ】
当初、新しい小説、B♭（B-flat）の発表を２０２６年２月末日でお知らせしていましたが、
私の無能さのため、以下のスケージュールへ延期します。
最短の場合。
２０２６年３月１６日
通常の場合。
２０２６年３月下旬。
最悪の場合。
２０２６年５月上旬。
期待されていた方には本当に申し訳ございません。
今回、僕の息子が目標を達成していますので、そのお父さんが達成しないわけがありません。
上記のスケジュール。
期待して、今しばらくお待ちください。
僕のこの小説は、来年、２０２６年２月末日に公開します。
先日、リドリースコット監督がサブスクの映画やドラマ群がつまらないと話していたようだけど、同感です。
僕も非常に退屈です。
それらに2時間を要するなら、僕の小説を２分間だけ読んで欲しい。
その2分間は、２時間を越えるでしょう。
僕は自信があります。
ぜひ、期待してお待ちください。
Mitsushiro Nakagawa
09th. Oct . 2025.
追伸
ネトフリに挑戦する男、みっちゃん。😃
( 富士フィルム GFX50R shot )
東京駅。地下 1-4 番線総武線 近辺 shot …. 19 / 20
（特急の出発まで、３０分ほどあったので撮影しました。）
(今日の写真。それは未発表です。小説の内容とは無関係です。）
Images.
Nosaj Thing - Blue Hour ft Julianna Barwick
youtu.be/IQhwGGarWfI?si=jfBxafBjpEnosCSo
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僕の新しい小説。
B♭ （ビーフラット）
舞台はニューヨークです。
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:: Soundtrack ::
B♭ ( My Novel . Soundtrack )
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack/pl.u-47...
B♭ ( My Novel . Soundtrack . For Japanese)
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack-for-jap...
B♭ ( My Novel . Soundtrack . Sweet Summer rain ver.)
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack-sweet-s...
B♭ ( My Novel . Soundtrack . Hard days ver.)
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack-hard-da...
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Note: I gave a brief explanation of this novel in the following video:
youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV
追記 この小説を多少説明しました。
youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV
メモ
1
「Bombay型（ボンベイ型、hh型）」
•特徴：通常のABO血液型を持たない（A、B、Oに分類されない）特殊な型。
•発見地：1952年、インド・ムンバイ（旧ボンベイ）で初めて確認。
•発生頻度：インドでは1万人に1人程度だが、世界的には約250万人に1人とも。
•輸血制限：同じBombay型しか輸血できない。
2
2024年ハーバード大学首席の卒業式スピーチ『知らないことの力』
youtu.be/SOUH8iVqSOI?si=Ju-Y728irtcWR71K
3
Shots fired at Trump rally
youtu.be/1ejfAkzjEhk?si=ASqJwEmkY-2rW_hT
Mitsushiro Nakagawa belong to Lot No. 402 _.Copyright©︎2026 Lot No.402_ All rights reserved.
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240/365
Meet Caitlin. Caitlin who, for years, I refused to call a friend and admitted only to her being an acquaintance because I did not think I deserved friends. Caitlin who did not desist in trying to make me smile every day at school, even if it was just by telling me that fake smiling works too because the muscles trigger the release of hormones that make you happy (it was usually actually the fact that someone cared enough to see me smile made me smile, rather than her incessant pestering). Caitlin who does not mind that I talk and talk and talk about everything and nothing because she talks and talks and talks about everything and nothing too and so neither of us feels guilty for talking someone’s ear off. Caitlin who once got acrylic paint everywhere with me in GCSE art – because when told to create a painting without using paintbrushes, we immediately started finger painting. Caitlin, who taught me that it was okay to be myself, okay to be a little bit crazy sometimes and a little bit weird at others, okay to use bad words when the good ones just do not fit - and sometimes just because they are fun to say – (but shh, do not tell my parents), okay to want to be a fish because being a human is just too hard sometimes and, most of all, okay to be just a little bit more ‘me’ than everyone else thinks is acceptable.
I think sometimes our friendship is just one long, convoluted, tangential conversation. And personally, I think that is pretty great.
Well, Bessie refused to partake int the anniversary special so Chitty stepped in (rolled in, technically). Some say the Fourth Doctor was just a waxwork statue.
Type: Front Load Dumpster
Size: 2 yd³
Hauler: Waste Management
Location: Kennewick, WA
Date: September 2018
See More Trashy Photos & Videos At: www.thrash-n-trash.com
©Bryn Erdman. All Rights Reserved.
===Crazy Quilt's===
Situated in the middle of Gotham's Fashion District, Paul Dekker's nightclub was host to a wide range of degenerate activities. The main dance floor was lit by a gaudy array of high-intensity strobe lights; seizure inducing shades of reds, blues and yellows bore down on the partying clientele. The Misfits, were treated to the best seats in the house; a balcony on the second floor that served as a sort of observation deck for the debauchery below. Wearing his best brown suit, Reardon worried he was a tad overdressed for the night ahead. The gang had been sorted into two smaller groups; the "grown-ups:" Gar, Chuck, Bridget, Ten and Kuttler, and the "boys:" Mayo, Joey, Blake and Sharpe, with both factions seated at separate, but close by, tables.
While the rest of the party looked through their menus, Kuttler refused to touch his until he had first put on a pair of thin surgical gloves.
"Sorry, is there a prostate exam we're keeping you from?" Gar glared at him, massaging his left temple with his hand.
Kuttler ignored him. "Siracha, Tabasco, jalepenos..." he read aloud the toppings of the house specialty; something that was dubbed "Crazy Fries."
"Oh, yeah," Joey turned his chair around. "Those are meant to be really good."
"Well, I have a sensitive stomach. And though it may be preferable to... this, I'd still rather not spend the rest of the evening on the toilet."
Arriving at perhaps the absolute worst time, a waitress appeared suddenly at Kuttler's side. “Are you folks ready to order?” she asked.
“Think so, yeah. Can we just have some sides for now?” Chuck asked, folding up his menu.
“Sure thing, honey," she beamed back.
Kuttler raised his forefinger to interrupt her. "Question: Do you have non-Crazy Fries?”
“If it’s not on the menu, we don’t sell 'em," the waitress answered.
“But you have normal fries. You must do, in order to “crazify” them," Kuttler countered.
“But we don’t sell them.”
Kuttler sighed, slumping down in his seat. “Two baskets of Crazy Fries it is then.”
At the other table, a pale woman in rabbit ears, stockings and a thong, slapped Blake's shoulder playfully. “C’mon, big boy, catch me if you can!” she teased.
With great self-restraint on his part, Blake resisted the urge to make an innuendo of his own, and swallowed. “Ma’am, pretty sure that if I chase you, the only thing I’ll be catching is an STD.”
The playful smile vanished from the woman's face, a scornful expression appearing in its place. "Jerk!" she hissed, hopping away towards the exit.
As she left, Mayo's eyes followed her "tail" in confusion. Joey nudged his side to get his attention, and shook his head.
“Proud of you man,” Sharpe patted his friend on the back.
“Stiiiiiiill kinda sexist, Tom," Joey observed.
“What’re you talking about? I turned down that prostitute!” Blake laughed back.
“Yeah, that wasn’t a prostitute, that was White Rabbit.”
...
Blake’s face fell. “White Rabbit? Jaina Hudson? That White Rabbit? Daughter of a Bollywood actress and a Gotham Socialite, turned to philanthropy and then to crime? Confusing motivations and even more confusing origins? That-"
“Yes, and for god’s sake, stop talking,” Kuttler turned around to shush them.
Sharpe shrugged. “That doesn’t track. Isn’t she, y’know-" he started, then stopped himself abruptly.
Joey sighed. “You can say it.”
“Not white?”
“It’s one of her powers,” Kuttler stated.
“She- She has white powers?” Mayo scratched his head.
Kuttler frowned. “Well, I wouldn’t quite call it that, no," he murmured.
"She was DTF and I just told her to GTFO..." Blake moaned regretfully.
“Hey. You were probably thinking of March Harriett. She’s a prostitute," Sharpe assured Blake.
At a nearby table, a man in a tan blazer was peaking over the top of his menu, glaring at the Misfits with contempt. “Do they have to yell everything?” Paul Strobe growled to his partner.
“It’s ok. It’s ok. Don’t let them spoil our evening,” Ned Creegan advised, running his hand across Strobe's back. He was wearing a cream-coloured woollen jumper over his distinctive red and black containment suit.
“I’m calm. I’m calm! I might fry Catman’s balls later, but that aside, I’m pretty fucking calm," Strobe complained.
“Eh. I hear he kinda likes that. Really likes that. Enough that it’s mentioned in his Find a Foe profile.”
“Uh huh. And why were you on Find a Foe, exactly?” Strobe snapped back.
“Reviewing my options," Creegan replied.
Strobe didn't laugh.
“I’m joking! C’mon, I’m clearly- Neutron wanted help setting up a profile. Things didn’t work out so well with his last girlfriend. He... well, he blew her up.”
“Christ... Metas date metas, why does no one get that? Keeps everyone happy, and for the most part, alive. That’s really just common sense.”
While staring out across the room, Joey noticed the duo, and pointed them out to the group. “Hey, isn’t that Bag o’ Bones over there?”
Sharpe snorted.
“What?” Joey raised an eyebrow.
“Nothing.”
“Just... Talk about a skeleton in the closet.”
“They’re looking at us," Strobe hissed.
“It’s fine. It’s fine. Just... smile and wave,” Creegan suggested, as he held Strobe's hand, in an attempt to soothe him.
“Smile and wave, are we the Penguins of Madagascar now?”
~-~
Once his sorrows had been successfully drowned, Blake slammed his glass onto the table. “Let’s hit the dance floor!” he shouted (much to Strobe's chagrin) and he staggered downstairs, tripping twice on the way down. The group looked at him cautiously, then followed after him. Hours passed and the Misfits got drunker still:
“And I call... I call this one the Catusi!” Blake confided in Joey, strutting back and forth with underserved confidence.
“You do NOT!” Joey giggled back. "You do NOT!"
“-So you have the mustard mash, and of course... The Ketchup Squirt!” At this, Mayo jumped on the floor, performing a perfect split.
Sharpe's lip twitched. “You’re a fucking legend.”
Meanwhile, Dekker approached the second table, addressing them in a singsong voice. Bridget avoided eye contact. "Gentlemen, lady, can I get you any more refreshments? Something stronger, hmm?" he winked suggestively.
"Oh, uh, Coke, please," Ten said politely.
Dekker smiled knowingly, then on cue, tossed a small bag of white powder onto the table.
Ten pursed his lips together. "I meant Cola."
Dekker's pale eyes darted across the table, then he snatched the baggie back and stuffed it up his sleeve.
=GCPD==
Chuck was standing by the admissions desk, waiting to receive his visitor pass. He was dressed in a beige suit, a pale blue shirt and a red and white striped tie. He was also hungover. Beside him, the radio on the desk blared: "You're listening to Sage Advice, with me, Vic Sage. Our next caller, is Michael from Bella Riviera, Louisiana. Mike, you're on with us now."
"Answer me this you faceless fuck, why don't you respond to any of my texts?"
"Brown, was it?" the desk sergeant asked, bringing Chuck back down to earth.
"Hell yea- Yes. Yeah, that's me," Chuck nodded, hanging the lanyard around his neck.
The sergeant pointed towards a narrow hallway on Chuck's left. "He's right past the holding cells. Wait for Detective Bullock, he's got the key. Oh, and try not to get lost."
"Got it," Chuck nodded, biting his lip to prevent another 'Hell Yeah' from slipping out.
He followed the sergeant's directions, walking towards the holding cells. He hesitated for a moment as he lingered outside Day’s. Julian was pale, (paler than usual that is) and was rocking back and forth on his bed, muttering the words “He said I was special,” over and over. No luck there, then.
The occupant in the opposite cell cleared his throat. “You won’t get anything out of him, he’s been replaying hits from The Exorcist all bloody week...”
Abner Krill was sitting on his bed too, but was much more relaxed. His hands were resting behind his head, and he had an amused smile on his face. “It is you, right? Kite-Man? The senpai to Jules’ yandere?"
"I don't know what either of those words mean."
Krill sneered, hopping down from his bed. "You lucky bugger. Didn’t really recognise ya without that piss-yellow ‘football’ helmet... Impressive stuff. The Royal, that is. Thought he’d never stop monologuing."
"Then I’ll direct my questions to you. When did Joker conta-"
“Uh uh,” Krill wagged his finger in Chuck's face. “First, you gotta do something for me-“
Chuck rolled his eyes. “If you think I’m getting you your belt, you’re out of your mind.”
“Who said anything about my belt? Listen, there’s a vending machine in the bullpen. Get me a packet of M&Ms, and then we’ll talk.”
“M&Ms?” Chuck's brow furrowed.
Krill leaned back. “Yah, I’ve got hypoglycemia, I’ve been making do with fruit cups and cheese sandwiches. Oh, and make sure you get chocolate, not peanuts. Higher sugar content.”
As Krill spoke, Chuck’s eyes were drawn to the cell on the Polka Dot Man’s right. A grey-haired man was pacing around his narrow confines, like a caged tiger. Every so often, the man would stop suddenly, if only to kick, punch or scream at the wall. Chuck had never actually seen Ted Carson without a mask, but the flash of his blue eyes told him everything he needed to know. The fourth cell, opposite him, was empty.
Chuck sighed, then dragged himself over to the vending machine. Chocolate, not peanut. He frowned at the prices; he knew for a fact they were cheaper at the grocers next door, but he didn't have a lot of options. He inserted the coins, retrieved the chocolate from the tray below and lastly, tossed the sweets through the bars of Krill's cell.
Krill wolfed down the candy hungrily, smacking his lips once he was done.
"Finished?" Chuck spoke. “What do you know about Joker?”
Krill’s face scrunched up, as though he was trying hard to remember, and then he finally answered: “Green hair, green eyes, pale skin, possibly bulimic.”
Chuck sighed again.
Krill chuckled. “C’mon, be real. Batman’s been here every night for the last week; If he couldn’t make me talk, what chance does the Kite-Man have? Thanks for the chocolate. Come back any time,” he waved Chuck off with chocolate covered fingers.
As Chuck was bemoaning the loss of the two dollars he'd donated in service of Krill's lunch, a hand took a hold of his shoulder. He turned around and was met with a man he had never seen before: he was a cop, a huge bear of a man even by GCPD standards, with scarred knuckles and a thick black beard. He leaned over, and spoke in a deep Boston accent: "Kite-Man? You have a minute?"
~-~
The lock clicked behind him. The cop had brought Chuck into a disused office, his, Chuck had to assume.
The cop lowered the blinds, then brought Chuck away from the door, and away from prying eyes. Something in the cop had changed; Chuck didn't catch on immediately, but then it hit him: the accent was gone.
"I know you're investigating Joker," the officer spoke.
Chuck was taken aback. "How? How could you possibly-"
Oh.
Chuck recognised that voice. Fake beard, stolen uniform, and extensive make-up aside, he knew that voice. That deep, authoritative tone that had lectured him a thousand times. The Batman's.
"I need you to stop. You know Walker. He has a fight or flight response, it’s instinctive; like a reflex. If he thinks he’s in danger-“
“But he is in danger, that’s the point-“
“If he thinks he's in danger-" Batman repeated. "He’s bound to do something irresponsible, reckless or self destructive.”
"I can't- I mean-" Chuck ran his hands through his hair. “Who else knows?” he asked.
"My people. Black Spider."
“Eric? Eric knows? Now, wait, what about Psycho Pirate? What about Zoom?"
“The Commissioner is aware of the situation. He’s doubled security around the lock-up. And I have people posted outside. But that will all be for nothing if Walker resolves to take Joker down himself, do you understand?"
"I-"
"Brown, I need to hear you say it."
A steely expression appeared on Chuck's face, as he released the latch on the door. "That uniform suits you," he stated coldly. He tensed up for a moment, bracing for a punch that never came.
He looked back over his shoulder, and frowned: Batman had vanished
~-~
Harvey Bullock’s key turned in the lock. He took a step forward and waggled an invasive flabby finger in Chuck’s face. “You got five minutes. We got an “UP” situation downtown," he warned.
“UP situation?” Chuck queried.
“Your pal Colonel Blimp’s got hostages at the Merchant’s Bank. And a hundred balloons tied to the roof.”
“He’s not my pal-“ Chuck sighed, but recognising that there was no point in arguing, walked past Bullock into the cramped room ahead. A small table was in the centre of the room, with two chairs on either side. A single stubbled occupant was handcuffed to one of the chairs.
“Hey, Drury. How are you holding up?” Chuck asked the man as he sat down at the opposite end of the table.
Drury, scratched his hairy cheek. His hair was lighter now, as it reverted to its’ natural orange colour, although now, his temples were on the verge of turning grey. “It ain’t so bad,” he answered. “The cops had their Christmas party the other day.”
“Oh, that sounds nice.”
“It was. Bullock brought me a piece a’ cake.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. He smooshed it into my face," Drury smiled meekly. "How about you, Chuck? How're you doing? How’re the boys?”
“Good. Great, honestly. We were actually out clubbing last night. Nothing fancy, but... it gave them something to do, y'know? Dekker’s treat, if you can believe that.”
Drury smirked. “Yeah, ok, I’d like to never hear those words together again please. ‘Dekker’s treats’ sounds like slang for rohypnol.”
Chuck smiled politely back.
"And Gar? I heard about that Franco shit... God. He and Jenna alright? Keeping their noses clean, I hope?"
"Yeah. Yeah, he's doing ok, I think."
"Good," Drury nodded. "Cause, I'd sure hate to think all this was for nothing," he grinned.
Chuck didn't laugh.
"Hey," Drury paused, his smile vanishing. "You alright?"
Chuck paused: he hated lying, but especially to Drury. After everything they’d been through and after everything he'd suffered. He swallowed, and a fake smile replaced his previously remorseful expression. “It's nothing.”
==S.T.A.R. Labs. Chicago Branch==
"Lunch!" The young intern entered the laboratory, laden with food. With the way the room suddenly exploded with excitement, you would think they had discovered a new element. A metal, cylindrical drum stood in the center of the room, held behind glass, having been donated by the Gotham City branch.
"Gimme gimme," one of the female scientists strutted over, grabbing their coffee and panini.
"Tell me you got my Gutbuster, kid," a portly man asked, rolling across the room on his spiny chair.
"You didn't..." a grey-haired co-worker sighed, as he grabbed his salad from the intern.
"Aw, let me have this, Greg," the portly man pleaded.
"Sorry, what's a Gutbuster?" another of his colleagues raised an eyebrow.
"Big Belly's finest, or worst, depending who you ask, Molly," Greg, the grey-haired scientist, explained.
"Only the single greatest burger this side of the continent," the heavy-set man declared as he peeled back the wrapper. "And, banned in 30 states."
"Well, c'mon, Larry, what's so special about this thing?" Molly asked.
"Three beef patties, four onion rings, six rashers of bacons, five cheese slices, all of it drizzled in gravy, and! And! Served in a deep fried brioche bun."
"Well, that's your five-a-day
sorted," Greg smirked.
"Jeez, you're sounding like a spokesperson," another scientist sipped her coffee.
"Hey, Kate, if they were paying me in Gutbusters, I'd hand in my two weeks right now. I'm telling you, when folks talk about the American Dream, this is what they mean!"
"The American Nightmare maybe. Vile," Kate shrugged.
"Hey, kid? Mattie? Some free advice; you looking to live until 30, never step inside another Big Belly Burger," Greg advised the intern.
Larry didn't mind. He'd been waiting weeks for this burger, and he wasn't going to let anyone stop him from enjoying it. And just he took a big squelchy, greasy bite of it... he choked.
"Larry?" Kate paused. "Lar?!"
The burger fell to the floor, its' diabetic toppings sliding off the patty. Larry clutched his chest, gasping for breath and then... a gloved hand ripped through his torso. Larry hit the ground with a lifeless thud.
Molly screamed. Kate rushed to Larry's side, but it was too late. She looked up, tears in her eyes, and then she saw it: a man in yellow.
The figure raised its' forearm, now glistening red with blood. A single distorted word escaped its' mouth: "Gutbusssssssssterrrrrrr."
An icy blast shot through the air, freezing the wall the monster had been standing in front of moment before. Greg, was holding a pink cold gun, one of the weapons their Central City branch had left them.
"I know what you are, you piece of shit! You're a speedster! We've got a catalogue of weapons in the basement tailor made for scum like you!"
"Scuuuuuuuuuuum like meeeeeeeeeeee?" a voice whispered. Greg's whole body shook, he couldn't tell where it had gone, but he knew it was still in the room. It had to be. A flash of yellow lightning vanished behind one of the office cubicles. There.
He raised the cold gun again and pulled the trigger. Only this time, the beam shot backwards. The blast encased his head in ice and as his brain began to freeze; he slipped backwards, he hit the floor and his skull broke apart into frozen chunks. The monster, had turned the gun around in the milliseconds after Greg had fired.
Mattie stepped towards the exit, pounding his fists against the metal door: They were locked in. They were locked in, and they were going to die. He hadn't even told Molly how he fel-
Two bloody hands took a hold of Mattie's head, and squeezed. The pressure built and built, it felt like his head was going to explode. And then it did. His skull burst open, the contents splattering across the door. His body, slid down the metal surface with a loud squeak.
"Molly, you need to get out of here," Kate begged.
"I can't- it's... It's locked us in-" she blubbed.
"I'll distract it, just-"
Kate's words were cut off by the cracking of her neck. Her body fell at Molly's feet.
The monster stepped forward, its red eyes staring curiously at the one survivor.
"Please don't-" Molly slid backwards, tears in her eyes. "Please, take whatever you want!"
A noise like a bee's buzzing exited the monster's mouth. Molly couldn't work out was it was doing at first, then she realised. It was shushing her. "You seeeeeeeee this massacre? You seeeeee these bodies? These corpses? Your colleagues, your friends killedbeforetheir tiiiiiiiiiiiime? Husbandsand wiiiiiiiiiiiiives. Mothersand faaaaaaaaaaathers. Sonsanddaughters. Peoplewhoare never cominghoooooooome. Remember it. Hold ontothis memooooooooory. Hold ontothe traaaaaaaaagedy."
It placed its' bloody hand on her shoulder and she flinched. "Itcanonly make you stroooooonger."
Molly closed her eyes, whimpering in fear: she could hear the breaking of glass; the whirring of the doors unlocking. When she finally opened her eyes, the monster was gone. And with it, the Cloudburst.
==GCPD==
Drury returned to his cell that night. Moonlight crept through the bars from outside, shining into his eyes as he tried to sleep. Just as he had finally settled, a voice called out to him from across the hall.
"Do you... Remember that other timeline? The one Bridget made?" the voice asked, not bothering to check if he was awake first.
The question caught Drury off guard. It was the first time Carson had said a word to him since they'd been arrested.
"Just flashes," Drury sat up, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly. "Odd images, faces I don't recognise, places I've never been to. The smell of... burning." As he spoke, an involuntary tear ran down his cheek. He didn't know why.
Carson swallowed. “Huh. 'Cause I do. I remember Charaxes using my suffering to goad my daughter into creating the alternate reality he'd use to make his escape. I remember my hand on the wheel, as I sought to take control of my 'Mothpoint' counterpart. And I remember you. As insufferable then as you are now. So, don’t you think you’re forgiven. That anything is forgiven. Soon as I’m free from these bars, you’re dead. You’re fucking dead.”
Drury rolled his eyes, and turned over in his bed.
"And then there's the name," Carson continued to goad him. "Why 'Killer' Moth?"
Drury didn't reply.
"You coulda called yourself anything. Been anyone... But it seems to me like you made your bed all those years ago. You'll always be scum."
Operated by: Waste Management, Chicago, IL
Unit Number: 305476
Body: Leach 2RII
Chassis: Mack MR
Vehicle Type: Rear load refuse
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WM 305476 in Chicago, IL working the streets on the recycle beat, based on the OCC in the hopper.
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Please do not use this photo or any part of this photo without first asking for permission, thank you.
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2YD FL bin from Nedland Industries
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Please do not use this photo or any part of this photo without first asking for permission, thank you.
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