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Unfortunately I know absolutely nothing about the characters or their backstories, so I've no idea why this fetching young lady is seat...


As the commissioner of this wonderful artwork, I'm able to put the scenario in context for those of you who may need some "backstory." ...


Revised critique: please correct me if I'm wrong, but the whole setup here says "hotel." Perhaps I'm basing this on what appears to be ...

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Greg test 03 by Bound2theTrax

Flash forward two hours.  I was seated in my office on the third floor of Headquarters pressing an antiseptic wipe to a shallow cut over my left eye, souvenir of the melee Jillian and I had driven into.  She was in the Fleet Services garage downstairs hoping to secure a loaner until they replaced our windshield.  As for my exec sergeant, she had been called out to view a corpse recovered from the West Branch.  Floaters did not generally fall within the purview of Violent Crimes, but there was an off chance this particular floater would prove to be Syd Weisensel, onetime rising star in the Briganti organization.  The Kingfish reportedly caught Weisensel with his hand deep in the till, this after being alerted by his bookkeeper to recurrent shortfalls in gambling revenues from the river wards.  According to our sources, Syd's employment and then his life were terminated within an hour.  I wonder what the exit interview with Briganti was like.
    For the moment I had the squad room to myself.  Ellie, the redoubtable overnight steno who functioned as my gatekeeper and occasional informant, had gone home early with stomach flu.  Here was an opportune time to update my journal.  (Old joke, women keep diaries, men keep journals)  I disposed of the wipe, unearthed a spiral bound notebook from my lower desk drawer, opened it to a fresh page and began to write.

Thursday, October 19th

Two days now since I've had time to myself.  I had vowed early on to make at least one journal entry a day, but between maintaining some semblance of a married life and my caseload, downtime and privacy have become precious commodities.  I'm reluctant to even be seen with the journal lest someone become curious as to why I am so protective of it.
     My sergeant did her best to discourage me from starting a journal in the first place.  Following a heated discussion we agreed that in the event I take a bullet for the company some night, she will feed the notebook into a shredder before they get around to cleaning out my desk. Should the contents ever come to light they would cause needless complications for her as well as my wife.  At a minimum, this chronicle would mystify and unsettle my brothers and sisters in blue.  I expect they would regard it as the ramblings of an unbalanced mind and ask themselves how well they really knew me.
     Maury Braverman and his girlfriend the DA are among those few outside the Department who could attest to the authenticity of this account.  Whether they would jeopardize their positions by doing so is perhaps a question better left unasked.  Maury for one has adapted to life in Saint Laurel faster than I would have thought possible.  I guess it helps that he grew up on Chicago's South Side, albeit in the academic environs of Hyde Park and the University of Chicago, and is attuned to the riffs and rhythms of the street.  Moreover, he is well-grounded in science fiction, having been exposed to the works of Philip K. Dick and Michael Moorcock as a teen, so when the time came he was actually quite receptive to the brain-bending concept of a concurrent reality.

    
Voices from down the hall, God damn it.  Radovich and Warshaw were back with their arrestee from 52nd and Payne.  Based on what we learned from the beat cops on scene before the situation went to shit, she stabbed her wayward boyfriend nine times outside some after-hours joint.  At last report the victim was FTD, "Fixin' to Die," as Washaw put it so tastefully when he phoned from the emergency room at Rusch Memorial. 
     I curled the fingers of my right hand under the notebook cover, ready to flip it closed.  Detective Warshaw entered the squad room first, natty as always in snap-brim hat and camel hair coat.  An unlit cigarette dangled from his lower lip.  No smoke-free workplaces in Saint Laurel.  He doffed the coat, which should not have been affordable on a Detective First Grade's take-home, draping it almost lovingly over the back of his desk chair.
     
Warshaw and I share an intense mutual dislike.  He has been wary of me from the start, as if he somehow intuited just how out of place I am.  For my part, I strongly suspect him of being on Briganti's payroll.  I have suggested as much to the inspector, though at present a bent cop is the least of his concerns.
     Next through the door was a black woman, handsome rather than beautiful, wearing sensible tweeds and a look of regal indifference.  Her bloodied hands were cuffed together in front.  By policy an arrested person's hands must be cuffed behind him/her, so this one must be important enough to rate special treatment.  She was escorted by Mary Clare Kiernan, a uniform working out of Garrison Street station.  Officer Kiernan steered the prisoner toward a ladder back chair positioned between Warshaw's desk and that of Detective Radovich. 
     The woman sat and crossed her legs modestly at the ankle.  She half-turned, presenting her profile to me, and only then did I recognize her as Leona Joyner--as in Councilwoman Joyner.  I now understood Warshaw and Radovich's interest in an AWI they would have ordinarily treated as table scraps for the district coppers.  As for what a class act like Leona Joyner was doing on the streets of Bricktown after midnight, I was confident that Harlan had already crafted a suitably intriguing storyline to explain it all.
    Radovich was the last to appear, impossibly broad shoulders filling the doorway.  Upon reaching his desk he struggled out of his topcoat and settled ponderously into his swivel chair.  Without Ellie to stitch his field notes into a coherent affidavit of probable cause on her IBM Selectric (Microsoft Word being one of many things we make do without in Saint Laurel), he was obliged to complete the form in pen and ink.  That would require the better part of an hour, even with coaching from Warshaw.  Secure in the knowledge that I would not be disturbed I pivoted my chair toward the window with the journal open in my lap.

     Lightning etches itself luridly against the skyline.  Curtains of rain sweep across Tierney Plaza.  My attention is drawn to a couple standing near the base of the famous statue, which affords them scant protection from the elements.  They are locked in passionate embrace, sweetly oblivious to the downpour.  I stood on the same spot my first night here, gazing up at the statue and marveling at the sculptor's ability to capture in bronze the sloe-eyed beauty that so troubled the sleep of another cop decades ago and a universe away.  After that it was no longer possible to doubt who had brought into being this place called Saint Laurel.

    
"Lieutenant Stallard?"
     My heart seized.  The pen in my right hand slashed a jagged line across the notebook page.  I spun around to find Police Officer Kiernan standing in the doorway, uniform cap tucked under one arm.  She appeared so ill at ease that I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile, even as I cursed myself for risking exposure so I could scribble a few lines no one else will ever read.  What the hell had I been thinking?
     Mary Clare took a step back.  "Sorry, didn't mean to sneak up on you like that."
     "I wasn't startled, more like embarrassed.  I was half-asleep, you want the truth."
     She relaxed visibly.  Fighting to stay awake on the Dog Watch was something she could surely relate to.  It must have consoled her to hear a detective lieutenant admit to the same human failing.
     I waved her inside.  "So, what can I do for you?" I asked a trifle too brightly.
     "Lieutenant, about the other morning--"
     "What about it?"
     "The old man--the one from the rail yard, I mean."
     "You're wondering how I wrote it up."
     She flushed prettily.  "We were wondering.  Ray and I."
     I selected a file folder from the tray on my desk.  "It's all in here.  Go ahead, read it for yourself."
     There was a second's hesitation before she accepted the folder.  Violent Crimes detectives did not, as a rule, allow mere street cops to peruse their work product.  As Mary Clare opened the case file with unsteady hands, I casually tossed my journal back in its drawer.  Another disaster averted.
     "I can give you the short version," I offered.
     Mary Clare glanced up from the face sheet.  Her wide-set eyes were hazel in color, nicely set off by an ivory complexion.  As usual when in uniform she wore her thick coppery hair in a braided ponytail.  The bright green ribbon she tied it with was decidedly non-regulation, but her superiors had yet to make an issue of it at roll call or in the field.  She was, after all, the daughter of Black Jack Kiernan.
     "All right," she said presently.  "What's the short version?"
     I cleared my throat.  "On the sixteenth of October," I recited, "Police Officers Kiernan and Cipriano were on routine patrol in sector Eleven David.  At oh-four-thirteen hours, they checked an abandoned engine shed on the perimeter of Inman Yards, acting on information that transients known to pilfer from freight cars were using it for shelter.  Once inside, they came upon the remains of a white male later identified as Joseph R. Creed, age fifty-three, no fixed address.  Body was cool to the touch.  There was some post-mortem lividity present but rigor had not set in.  No outward sign of trauma."
     "Except for the tire imprints," Mary Clare said in a stricken whisper.
     "I'm coming to that.  The officers radioed for a sergeant, who in turn called Violent Crimes.  Lieutenant Stallard responded.  He located a railroad brakeman, one Artis Mims, who recognized the decedent as a vagrant he'd found inside an empty boxcar shortly before eleven PM.  Mims admitted to feeling sorry for Creed and had concerns he would be beaten if caught by the yard detectives."  I paused.  "How'm I doing?"  
     "Go on."
     "Mims stated further he warned Creed to lay low inside the old engine house and hop the next train out if he knew what was good for him.  He last saw Creed walking toward the shed where he was later found by the officers.  An autopsy conducted by Dr. Ottinger, deputy medical examiner, determined that death resulted from a cerebral embolism--in short, a massive stroke."  I lowered my voice.  "In short, Officer Kiernan, the son of a bitch was dead by any medical or legal standard long before you backed your squad car over him."
     "And the tire tracks?"
     "Weren't you listening?  He died of a stroke.  The tracks aren't germane to the cause of death.  If it's not germane, it doesn't go in my report."
     "Is that what we tell our captain?"
     "You don't have to tell her a goddamn thing.  I've already signed off on the report.  This case won't make the papers and it sure as hell won't be lead item on McCaffrey's show tonight.  I'm sorry the man is dead; it's sad and even tragic, but we see it twenty times a day.  Learn to deal or you won't last long as a copper."
      "But we--no, I ran over him like he was road kill," she faltered.  I was alarmed to see her eyes brimming with tears.  Mad Dog Kiernan, scourge of the river wards, weeping for a dead hobo?
     "Mary Clare," I said softly, "it's not as though you planned this.  You and Ray had no way of knowing his corpse was behind your car.  All you wanted was a place to hide out and get some sleep.  We've all been there."
     "And that's supposed to make us feel better?"
     "Yes.  Yes, it should.  You're honest cops, and Christ knows this city could use more of you.  I define 'honest' as doing the right thing when no one is there watching.  'Honest' means being truthful even when it doesn't reflect well.  You and Cipriano could have motored off and never called this in, but you didn't.  You could have tap-danced in front of me at the scene, but you didn't.  I never worked with your father, but based on what I know of him he'd be very proud of you right now."
     Mary Clare's eyes dropped to the sunburst design gleaming on her left breast, the same number badge worn by her father when he walked a beat.  The commissioner personally pinned it on her at the graduation ceremony for her recruit class.  Braverman recounted the moment in a column so moving it later garnered him a Press Club award.  Never mind that Kiernan Senior stole anything that wasn't bolted down and a few items that were.
     I tugged a clean handkerchief from my pocket.  "Trade you."  She returned the file folder, took the hanky and started dabbing at her eyes.  Warshaw stared openly from the doorway.  Christ, what an asshole.
     "Where's Officer Cipriano, by the way?" I asked.
     "Downstairs in the squad.  He was afraid to come up, afraid of what you might say to us."
     I surmised they must be partners off-duty as well.  Theirs would not be the first romance to flourish in the close confines of a black and white.  "Tell him the next time I need a couple uniforms to help execute a warrant, I'll ask for the two of you by name.  Now get back to work, Officer Kiernan.  You can keep the handkerchief."
     She flashed a grateful smile.  The memory of it lingered long after she left the squad room. 
     I turned to the window again.  Four stories below the young lovers, still heedless of the rain, clung fiercely to one another in the middle of the plaza.  They were limned briefly in the headlamps of a yellow taxi splashing past.  The cab slowed, its driver doubtless eyeing the besotted couple hopefully.  He tapped his horn.
     "Musta been that time of the month for Kiernan," Warshaw drawled behind me.
     It was a tossup as to what infuriated me more, the interruption itself or his snide tone of voice.  I glared at him over my right shoulder.  He stood with hands thrust deep in pockets, wearing a smirk I would have gladly slapped off his ferret-like face had it not been a violation of General Orders.
     Warshaw arched his brows suggestively.  "Or maybe you said something that upset her."
     "Or maybe it's none of your goddamn business," I snarled.
     "Sure.  Only it surprised me seeing her go all to pieces that way.  I was there the night she shot Bonaparte Jones, y'know.  Eight months on the force, she's got the baddest pimp west of Division comin' at her with a straight razor.  Her partner Hurda, the worthless sack of shit, stayed in the squad car.  Told the trial board he wanted to see if she measured up to her old man.  Was I happy they fired his ass."
     
"I hear he was about as useful as a screen door on a submarine."  Warshaw and I agreed on that much anyway.
     "Her first shot went wild, but then she got a good sight picture and put the next four through his lungs and spleen.  Bastard had so much momentum he just kept going.  He was right on top of her when she blew his knee open with her sixth round."  Warshaw chuckled at the memory.  "He'd a been a pimp with a limp, had he lived."
     I nodded distantly.  Mary Clare's encounter with Bonaparte Jones preceded my arrival in Saint Laurel by thirty-six hours but was already enshrined in cop folklore.  A racially mixed grand jury required all of one hour and ten minutes to return a verdict of justifiable homicide--ten minutes to deliberate, the remaining sixty to enjoy a catered lunch at County expense.
     "Not like her to get all weepy," Warshaw persisted.  "Guess it's true what they say.  You can give 'em a Glock, put 'em out on the beat, but they're still broads."  
     I had never counted myself as one of those touchy-feely feminist males, but Washaw's use of the term "broads" rankled all the same.  Harlan may have been the rules so women could be prosecutors and police officers, thereby defying the conventions of the noir cinema he   and Briganti were both so enamored of, but they still had to contend with all manner of condescending bullshit.  I happen to like women, and one of my most profound culture shocks since washing up on these shores was hearing them referred to variously as dames, broads, frails and even cupcakes, for Christ's sake.
     Washaw kept probing; I kept ignoring him.  He finally muttered something unpleasant and slouched off.  Safe to say Jillian and I would not be on his Christmas card list this year.
     I looked out over Tierney Plaza one last time.  The young man, drenched but chivalrous to the last, stood at the open door of the waiting taxi.  He helped his companion inside, diving in after her.  The lighted VACANT sign on the roof winked out, and off they rode into the night.  Their entrance and exit had been too well timed to be coincidence; I sensed that Harlan would see to it their lives intersected mine again.  Foreshadowing was among his favorite plot devices.
     My telephone shrilled.  Accustomed as I was to phones that purred, it was still jarring to hear one ring.  Time to earn my keep.  I swiveled away from the window, lifted the receiver and clapped it to my ear.  "Division North, Lieutenant Stallard."
     "Yeah, Hanaway up in Dispatch," rasped the overnight radio room supervisor.  "Your floater in the river turned out to be a false alarm.  Marine Patrol checked in just now, says it's not Weisensel."
     "Has that been confirmed?"
     "Victim's female, for one thing.  Uh, let me check my notes here...white, early thirties, shabby dresser.  We're betting she's the one jumped off the Kingsgate night before last.  I was able to raise your sergeant on the air and call her off.  Figure it's something they can handle at the district level, am I right?"
     "Right," I said with some reluctance.  A despondent woman who flung herself from the center span of the Kingsgate Bridge would be of no consequence to Violent Crimes.  At most she would rate a corporal's guard of uniformed cops, a forensic photographer from Ident, and some luckless detective, all of whom would far rather be in a nice, cozy station house or police car.  After viewing the deceased with professional detachment (read: boredom), the detective would wave over the ghouls from the morgue wagon.  The vic would be bagged and tagged, filed and forgotten.  I grimaced and shook my head at the realization that I was obsessing over a dead nobody, precisely what I had counseled Mary Clare Kiernan against no more than five minutes earlier.
     I thanked Hanaway for the update and replaced the handset.  Two desks away, fedora pushed back on his balding scalp, Radovich was still scrawling away.  Councilwoman Joyner leaned over to proofread his narrative, pouncing on each misspelling and grammatical atrocity. Warshaw, his back turned pointedly toward me, was brewing a fresh pot of coffee.  Staccato voices drifted from the radio speaker on the wall.  One was that of Officer Ray Cipriano, advising Dispatch that Car Eleven David was back in service from Headquarters and returning to its assigned sector.
     There was brief lull in radio traffic.  Somewhere not far off a steam locomotive whistled, two short blasts to signal it was getting underway.  With the possible exception of a police siren, nothing mechanical sounds as mournful as a train in the night.  There were no passenger runs leaving at this hour, so it could only be a slow freight pulling out of Inman Yards.
     On impulse, I opened the Joseph Creed file and skimmed the typewritten pages until I found the passage I was looking for:
     Mims then urged Creed to hide in the engine shed until the next train departed at 12:40 AM.
     
Departed for where, pray tell?  There was in theory no exit from the recursively defined continuum that was the City of Saint Laurel.  Not for the first time, I recalled the HO gauge railroad in my Uncle Blake's basement.  The layout was so sprawling you could not see it all at once, preserving the illusion of trains bound for distant places instead of traveling in circles on a plywood sheet.  The breathtaking scope and intricate detail of this rail empire in miniature impressed even a diffident teenager like me.  But then, I was one of the few people who ever made time for Blake.
     "It's kind of a world unto itself," he mused one winter evening as I helped him lay track for a spur line.  "Only much more ordered and predictable.  And I regulate everything that happens in it.  I suppose it's rather like being God."
     
Did the freights I saw steaming daily through Saint Laurel reenact the coming and going of Blake's model trains, but on a far grander scale?  The notion of a metropolis reduced to tabletop dimensions was no more fantastic than the alternate theories I had formulated while lying sleepless in bed, Jillian nestled warm and fragrant in my arms.  No doubt Harlan could diagram the physics involved in ballpoint on the back of a cocktail napkin, assuming that is I ever got my hands on him.  For now, he was as untouchable as Damiano Briganti in his fortified manse.  Harlan Eisele did not need a phalanx of gunsels and shysters to shield himself from me, for he dwelled in a place so remote and inaccessible it could just as easily be Shangri-La--a place that had once been my home.  A place called Wisconsin.


So now you know what I've been doing the entire month of March: editing Blue Avenues so I can present it to you a chapter at a time, provided there is sufficient interest.  For some years now I'd contemplated writing a story about two honest and conscientious cops (who just happen to be newlyweds) trapped in an alternate reality--an Otherverse if you will--where the traits that made them good cops in our reality could very well get them killed.  Creating the metropolis of Saint Laurel is almost as much fun as breathing life into the characters of Detective Greg Stallard and his lady love, Police Officer Jillian "The Brit" Kensett.  I am most anxious for any input from my faithful Watchers.
 

Thank you as always to Daniel of :icondaniel-remo-art: for rendering Greg, Jillian and Mary Clare so faithfully.



    
        
     

          

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Marshal Laramie and Cowgirl Cheyenne 03 by Bound2theTrax

"Now I call this a stroke of luck," chirps Cowgirl Cheyenne.  "Turns out the feller who built this place, a retired lawyer name of Hastings, collects vintage cars.  I found this Cadillac Deville parked in his climate-controlled garage with the gas tank topped off.  He's taken such good care of it you'd never know it rolled off the line in Dee-troit close to forty years ago.  We'll be able to travel in style!" 
     "Mmmph!" wails Deputy U.S. Marshal Laramie James through her ball gag.  Trussed into an uncompromising West Texas hogtie inside the Caddy's trunk, she strains desperately at the unyielding ropes.  The textbook bow knots hold fast.  Laramie's heart seizes as her captor draws a wickedly sharp knife from a sheath on her right hip.
     "Decided I prefer you bare-ass naked," explains Cowgirl Cheyenne.  With surprising delicacy she slices apart Laramie's thong, divesting the tautly bound deputy marshal of her last article of clothing along with her last shred of dignity and modesty.  "Keepin' this as a souvenir, your badge and duty weapon too.  You won't be needin' your police toys anymore.  Or clothes, for that matter."
     "Unnngh!"
    
"Don't be gettin' no bright ideas about openin' the trunk from the inside.  Even if you untie yourself somehow, they built this bad boy years before new cars had to come with internal release levers.  Not that I worry about you gettin' loose; your ass is roped up nice and tight, Laramie Darlin'.  What do they say on Star Trek, resistance is futile?  Sooner you accept that you're now my personal sex slave the happier you'll be in the long run."
     Cowgirl Cheyenne closes the trunk lid, hearing it latch with a satisfying thump.  Sliding behind the wheel she cranks the ignition and is rewarded by the thrum of a V8 powerplant displacing 425 cubic inches.  She tugs the brim of her creased and sweat-stained Stetson down over her eyes and punches the accelerator, leaving a rooster tail of gravel and dust in her wake.  Once she reaches the highway, Cowgirl Cheyenne starts humming the Willie Nelson standard "On the Road Again," enjoying the wind on her face and the bracing scent of lodgepole pine...while behind her, bound, gagged and naked in the absolute darkness of the locked trunk, Laramie James struggles valiantly but in vain to free herself from the punishing hogtie, as yet unwilling to confront the implacable reality that she is destined for a life of sexual servitude.                     

      
Confession time: I came up with the whole "Laramie and Cheyenne" idea on the spur of the moment, so I'm gratified that it's generating positive feedback from my loyal Watchers.  None of it would be possible were it not for my equally warped collaborator on the other side of the Pond, :icondarklordmenchi:  Please Note him if you're in need of a special commission; he would very much appreciate the work.       
   

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Marshal Laramie  Cowgirl Cheyenne 02 by Bound2theTrax

"Well, goddamn, you look real pretty tied up like that," observes Cowgirl Cheyenne as she fastened the final escape-proof knot.  Stripped to her thong, Deputy U.S. Marshal Laramie James is now anchored with multiple lengths of expertly cinched rope to an upright wooden beam supporting the roof of the derelict pole barn.  Cowgirl Cheyenne has taken especial care in tying her knots well beyond reach of Laramie's scrabbling fingers.  As Laramie struggles hopelessly in her bonds, the leather-clad outlaw avails herself of the opportunity to toy with the captive marshal's 34D breasts, thumbs tracing one exquisite coral nipple then the other.
     "Bitch, keep your filthy fucking hands to yourself," seethes Laramie.
     "And what're you gonna do about it?" sneers Cowgirl Cheyenne.  Her free hand finds its way inside Laramie's thong, fingertips stroking her warm enticing cleft.  Laramie inhales raggedly.  "Shit, you're enjoying this near as much as I am.  Admit it."
     Laramie writhes at the sensation of Cowgirl Cheyenne gently yet insistently probing her tender inner folds.  "What makes you think you can get away with kidnapping a federal marshal?"
     "I already have, darlin'.  No one back at your office knows you were headed this way, and once I rip the GPS out of your car they won't have no way of tracking you.  I got me a cozy little hideaway the other side of Falcon Ridge where you won't ever be found, you can take that to the bank."
     "What do you plan on doing with me?"
     "Anything I want, sweetie.  Anything I want."  No sooner has she uttered these words than Cowgirl Cheyenne locates Laramie's oh-so-sensitive clit, eliciting an involuntary groan of pleasure from the bound and helpless marshal.  "I ain't takin' any chances on you making a break for it, so I'm keeping you chained or tied up almost every wakin' hour.  Better get used to it."
    "I'll see you fry in fucking Hell for this," vows Laramie.
    Cowgirl Cheyenne abruptly withdraws her fingers.  "I don't believe I appreciate your piss-poor attitude.  I know I don't appreciate your language.  Lucky I got a quick fix for that."  Cowgirl Cheyenne produces a black silicon ball gag, tamping it between Laramie's teeth before strapping it snugly in place.
     "Nnnnnngh!" mewls Laramie.
      "You just relax a spell while I take care of your GPS," says Cowgirl Cheyenne.  On her way out the door she adds, "I'll be back before you know it."


3D Render by my good friend :icondarklordmenchi:

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Laramie Bad Tip By Darklordmenchi-db0xqih by Bound2theTrax

An anonymous telephone call leads Deputy U.S. Marshal Laramie James to a remote cabin in the Sawtooth Hills near the Montana-Wyoming border.  Laramie's informant claims to be able to pinpoint the hideout of the flamboyant outlaw calling herself Cowgirl Cheyenne, whose crime spree has made headlines across five Western states.  Determined to bring in her quarry single-handed, Laramie disregards USMS protocol by driving to the rendezvous alone.  She arrives to find the cabin apparently deserted.  Rightly suspecting a trap, Laramie draws her duty weapon and begins prowling the grounds--only to be bushwhacked by Cowgirl Cheyenne herself.  The intrepid deputy marshal is swiftly disarmed.   
     "I hear tell you've been on my trail from Tucumcari to Bozeman," says Cowgirl Cheyenne in a folksy twang.  "Figured it was high time you and I got better acquainted.  How about you strip down for me, Marshal?"
     "Suppose I tell you to eat shit and die?" suggests Laramie.
     Cowgirl Cheyenne presses the muzzle of her authentic Colt Peacemaker deeper into Laramie's lower back.  "Suppose I blow a hole in you big enough to drive an eighteen-wheeler through?  Get out of your clothes, goddamn it.  You can keep your panties for now."
     Laramie regrets her decision to wear thong underwear today.  She disrobes in tight-lipped silence until she stands all but naked before her captor.  "Just as well you brought transportation," remarks Cowgirl Cheyenne.  "My old Jeep Wrangler lost a fan belt on the drive up here."  The leather-clad desperado produces a bundle of braided manila rope.  "March yourself into that old pole barn over yonder.  I'm gonna tie your sweet ass up nice and tight while I disable the GPS on your ride."  

     
Unlike some of my more "serious" fare, I conceived Marshal Laramie & Cowgirl Cheyenne as good, goofy fun.  Props as always to my British partner in bondage mayhem :icondarklordmenchi: for bringing the characters of Marshal Laramie and Cowgirl Cheyenne to life for me. 
    
Group - Final by Bound2theTrax

'm back to writing and posting DiD stories after a long period of inactivity.  I was down to one unreliable laptop--for the record, it was a Dell Inspiron--and it finally crashed on me for good in late January.  I saved my nickels and dimes and purchased a new Hewlett Packard the week before last.  In the interim I've been collaborating with the incomparable Daniel of :icondaniel-remo-art: who did such a wonderful job recreating Stana Katic of the late, lamented Castle for me.  Daniel was good enough to come up with Angie Harmon (Law & Order, Rizzoli & Isles) and Daniela Ruah (NCIS: Los Angeles) so Stana will have some company in captivity.  This is a teaser for a story I'm working on with the working title WILES Weekend.  The premise is that Kate Beckett, Jane Rizzoli and Kelsi Blye accept an invitation to a weekend retreat at a secluded, women-only resort sponsored by WILES (Women In Law Enforcement Society)  Little do they suspect they're walking into a trap arranged by the deliciously evil Mistress Tatiana, seen here relishing the abject helplessness of our bound and beleaguered beauties.  Stay tuned.  Thank you for your patience during my absence.          
Pageview - Final by Bound2theTrax


I regret not being more productive over the past month.  Real Life can be held at bay only so long, leaving me little time to be creative.  My hope is some issues on the home front, most related to an illness in the family, will be resolved one way or another and I'll be able to sit down at my computer again.  Until then, I wanted to express my appreciation to all those whose interest in my sordid little bondage tales bumped me over the 25,000 page view threshold sometime last week.  To that end I asked Daniel of :icondaniel-remo-art: to work up his own version of my kidnap-prone OCs Jenna Coverdale and Laurel Haines.  Here they are, along with Jillian Kensett, involuntary guests in the lair of my favorite villainess Mistress Tatiana.  Were it not for the fact all three are bound and ball-gagged, I'm confident they would join me in thanking you for your continued loyalty, encouragement and support.       

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:iconbandmachart:
BandMachArt Featured By Owner Feb 23, 2017  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Sorry I've been incommunicado for the last weeks. Insanely busy. Wanting to read the "Blue Avenue" stuff, and promise I will. Be patient with me.
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:iconbound2thetrax:
Bound2theTrax Featured By Owner Feb 23, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
I am nothing if not patient.  "Blue Avenues" may strike you as a tad self-indulgent, what with the references to everything from Prairie Home Companion to Castle to Star Trek Classic.  I'm pleased that the new artwork seems to be drawing attention.  Not that there was anything wrong with Daniel's interpretation of Greg and Jillian, but Redg did a masterful job, particularly where "J.K." is concerned.  The finished "cover art" cost me somewhere in the neighborhood of 100.00 US (Redg lives in the Philippines) but I think you'll agree it was worth every penny.

"Blue Avenues" has its genesis with an article I read in the New York Times some years ago entitled "Our Lives, Run from Some Guy's Couch."  I'm sure a Google search will bring it up for you.  There is a school of thought that what we perceive as reality is in fact a planetary scale simulation being run on quantum computers by our transhuman or post-human descendants centuries from now.  It's roughly analogous to playing World of Warcraft of tinkering with an HO scale model train layout in the basement.  In fact, Greg's late Uncle Blake was a rail buff who once remarked that running a railroad empire in miniature "is rather like being God."  I'm having fun writing it, and if I can entertain my brother and sister Deviants in the process it's a win-win.    
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:iconbandmachart:
BandMachArt Featured By Owner Feb 23, 2017  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thanks for the background. I remember the NYT article, from 8/7/2007, wirtten by Jpohn Tierney, and discussing the theories of philosopher Nick Bostrom.

You've surely considered, I hope, the "infinite regression" possibilities of the "Our Lives" concept. To wit: that the guy on the couch is simply part of another guy's simluation sitting on another couch...etc. etc.

My feeling is we've got enough to worry about as it is....   :D

I just remembered that we've been shopping for a new couch. Wonder what that implies, cosmologically?
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:iconbound2thetrax:
Bound2theTrax Featured By Owner Feb 23, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
Why am I not surprised that you not only recall the date the article first appeared, but the author's name and that of Nick Bostrom.  The latter is actually the template for a character I've named Reginald Owensby, a lecturer at East Anglia College in the UK.  He's a supporting player but plays a critical role. 

One of the points made in the story, as I recall, was that "stacking realities," i.e. creating a universe within a universe would lead to so many complications that the post-humans would abort the whole simulation, bringing down the curtain on our reality. 
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:iconcarmag34:
carmag34 Featured By Owner Nov 4, 2016
thanks for fav :) (Smile)
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:iconscifizone:
SciFiZone Featured By Owner Aug 2, 2016  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for the fave 😎
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DestroXXIV Featured By Owner Jun 3, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday friend!
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:iconbound2thetrax:
Bound2theTrax Featured By Owner Jun 4, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
How nice of you to remember.  And you are my friend, though I understand the likelihood of our ever meeting in person is remote at best. 
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the-nightposter Featured By Owner Jun 3, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy Birthday!!
Birthday cake  icon fella's Gobbler (Party) fella Gift (Party) Cheers fella (party) Happy Birthday Grin 

Enjoy your day!!
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:iconbound2thetrax:
Bound2theTrax Featured By Owner Jun 3, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Love the Emoticon card.  Thank you so much for remembering.
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