In Which Stuff Happens

by Catfishing

Summary:

Many things happen throughout New Yark City. Tragically beautiful.

 

Chapter One

 

   It is a sultry Summer evening in New Yark City. A breeze flows through the valley created by the altitudinous skyscrapers, providing a slight relief to the pedestrians. The sun is beginning to set over the horizon, and shadows become elongated. It is truly a magnificent evening.
   People are everywhere. Many are returning home after the long work day. Traffic races on in a continuous circuit, only stopping when necessary. A man leans against a wall next to a newspaper stand. He casually browses a copy of the Prospecting New Yarker, the city-planet's most renowned newspaper. It always delivers the latest news. The first few pages are regularly the newest crimes, of which the city-planet has plenty. It is usually a depressing read.
  The boy working at the newspaper stand looks toward the man. He's displeased with how people just snatch up a paper, leaf through it, and leave without making a purchase. He doesn't get the dollars rolling in when this happens, and he adores making money.
 "DANG! Are you gonna buy that or not?!" he exclaims rudely to the man, who looks flustered by the harshness of his tone. The man hands the boy a couple dollars and absconds. Cory pockets the money. He is sick of this disgraceful job. Ever since he and his (now ex-) wife, the house, had a falling out, he's been devastated. He now lives in a ratty, run-down apartment, living off the low income which he earns selling newspapers. Someday, he thinks, I'll earn all kinds of cash. I'll be rich and marry Beyonce! I'm gonna have a lot of money!
   Cory looks up from his fantasies to see a man in a suit. He's not very tall, and Cory remembers seeing him before. He was working as a manager of the ritziest hotels in this district of New Yark City, the Prndl.
 "I'd like to pick up a newspaper." says the man to Cory. "Actually, the bellboy at the Prndl quit recently. My name's Mr. Marion Moseby and I'd like to offer you a job."
  Cory looks up at Moseby in pure shock. He'd finally have a shot at a better life.

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    An Olive Garden restaurant stands at the corner of 413rd street and 82nd avenue. Pedestrians flow in a steady stream on the sidewalks, a neverending parade. New Yark City had so many people living there, and the streets were always busy as they progressed through the day. The odors of pasta waft into their nostrils as they pass by.
   A blue police box appears in front of the restaurant. Doctor Who steps out, accompanied by his companion, Spongebob Squarepants. They traipse through the entrance, encompassed by the aroma of cheap Italian food. They examine the tables. Suddenly, Spongebob notices something. He looks, baffled, at his best friend, Doctor Who, who was preoccupied with finding a table. Spongebob feels distraught. No, more than that, feelings of betrayal swarm within his spongy heart.
    His offended gaze points toward a booth at the back of the Olive Garden. A couple are ordering some food. Spongebob quickly recognizes Betty Crocker, on a date with Lord English. He bounds over on squishy yellow legs, his shiny black shoes gleaming in the fluorescent lighting. He can feel his heart breaking in a plethora of ways. This was too much for him.
   "BETTY CROCKER!! I THOUGHT WE HAD SOMETHING SPECIAL!!" he shouts, as limpid tears of sorrow leak from his glistening cerulean orbs. "I'VE ALWAYS LOVED YOU!!! I'VE ALWAYS BOUGHT YOUR BRAND OF CAKES!!!!"
   "I have no idea who you are." replies Crocker, sweeping her immense mass of hair out of her face. Spongebob Squarepants, having come from the ocean, was not surprised at all by her facial fins. People being fish was completely normal to him. He had never actually met Betty Crocker, but he idolized her and her cake mixes. In his mind, they were a couple, they were canon.
   The Batterwitch sighs. This date was going all wrong. Why couldn't a married couple have a relaxing date at the Olive Garden feeding chambers while their son, Jake, is at Boy Scouts Day Camp? Was that really so wrong? She considers culling the spongy chap, but that would likely make things much more awkward than they need to be. Instead she sits in the booth, perturbed, while Lord English cuddles her monstrous hair.
   Squarepants, dejected and despondent, looks toward Doctor Who. They hug, the palest of pals, as Doctor Who attempts to console the young sponge. They walk out together, in search of an ice-cream parlor.
 

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   Trip tidies up his incommodious apartment, its oppressive grey walls enclosing the space like a prison. He carefully dusts the loathsome sculptures which sit on the shelves. He refuses to take them down, despite Grace having left him. He tells himself he leaves them up to spite her. He isn't sure how much of that is really true, and how much is just laziness on his part. He walks to the window softly, careful not to make a noise. He peers at the city below, deep in thought. When Grace left him, she had taken all the money. He couldn't stand being left in poverty. It was too much like his childhood. At this point, Trip just itched to flee the country, start a new life elsewhere filled with riches. When it came to luxury, he was quite avaricious.
   He had formulated a plan. A devious one. He was going to earn a substantial amount of money, if everything went according to plan. If things didn't work out, however, the city-planet's massive police force would be on him like flies on garbage. This was an unfavorable outcome. He would be sure to prevent this. If the police found out anything, there would be no escaping the forsaken confines of prison. Once they investigated his house, they would find what is hidden behind the locked door in the hallway, and then... He couldn't think about that now. There's no turning back.
   Trip paces back and forth, ideas buzzing in his brain. How would he put this plan in action? There were many risks he'd have to take, but he would definitely take them. He wanted to maintain his classy lifestyle, and nothing would take that away from him. If he wanted to make fancy drink concoctions, he would do that, and Grace wouldn't be able to stop him. He has no intentions of going back to the poverty he was raised in, and he would do whatever it takes to avoid it.
   I just need to kidnap the children of rich citizens, he schemed, they'll pay a lot of money to get them back. Then I can skip the country and start up a new life in Italy.
   Today, he would put his plan in motion. He would go to Central Park and pluck the children of people he knew to be wealthy. He would hold them ransom, and their parents would pay him grand sums of money in order to have their children back. His plan would be foolproof, in his mind at least.

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    A wooden door bars entrance to a shabby apartment, in an area of town usually inhabited by the impoverished. The mustard-yellow paint is chipping, and the frayed welcome mat isn't as inviting as it possibly once was. The walls are also decrepit, the once-white paint peeling. The building is clearly very neglected. A green hand taps on the ratty door, as softly as an ogre can manage to knock. It opens with a creak, revealing a man with graying hair, once with a dignified position, now wearing a dilapidated pink bathrobe and looking like he just woke up.
    "Hello Shrek!" greets ex-president George W. Bush, extending a hand to the ogre. "What brings you here today?"
    "Ey! Georgey!" Shrek replies, a slight blush creeping onto his face. George invites him in. They walk toward the tattered couch, and Bush motions for Shrek to sit down. He does, and he can feel every spring in that couch. Stuffing escapes from the confines of the fabric in several places. He notices a musty scent. Having lived in a swamp his entire life, he has no complaints as to the state of the apartment.
    "Can I get you some coffee, pal?" asks Bush. "Then we can talk about why you've visited me after all these years. We can catch up on each other's lives!"
    "Sure." answers Shrek. Bush turns toward the other side of the room, where the poor excuse for a kitchen is. His apartment consists of three rooms, from what can be seen. A bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen-living room. After several minutes of waiting for the  coffee to brew, he pours it carefully into two cups, just a tiny bit chipped, and hands one to Shrek. The ogre takes the cup, thanking the ex-president.
    "George Bush.... I love you five-ever" Shrek says suddenly in his thick Scottish accent. He sips the cheap coffee, deciding it tastes better than mud. He glances over at Bush's face, hoping for a desired reaction. The corners of his mouth lift up in a faint smile, his feelings finally having been spoken.
    "Shrek, you're a good friend and I appreciate that."  starts George. Shrek begins to feel dread, waiting for the impact of the rejection. "But I'm married to my work as a plumber. It's what makes me happy, plunging toilets and repairing pipes. Besides, I'm not a homoshreksual."
    Tears begin to well up in the ogre's mud-colored orbs. He knew this would happen, but he just had to speak what was on his mind. He retreats from the couch, turns toward the door, and makes a getaway. He is so distressed by his rejection, he begins to transform into something darker. Black hair, carefully styled, appears on his head. His lips become dark. A ring of eyeliner encircles his eyes. Piercings are visible in his ears. His wardrobe takes a complete one-eighty flip. His despondence transforms him into Emo Shrek.

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    The sounds of phones ringing reverberates throughout the building. At the New Yark City Crime Investigation Headquarters, the telephones are always busy. In such a crime-ridden cityplanet, it's no surprise. Several employees sit at desks, attempting to juggle the endless queue of calls, sending them to the Calls and Communication Room, where there are more people to answer. People recently brought in for crimes and investigation sit in the waiting chairs. Police mull about, trying to handle the busy day.
    A man opens the main doors, carelessly letting them slam closed. He saunters toward the elevator, mashing the "UP" button with a chilling, pale finger. It descends, the door creaks open, and he strides in. A woman, professionally dressed and clutching a paper coffee cup, exits the small elevator box. The doors shut, and it begins its ascent. He remembers, at the last moment, to hit the button labeling his desired floor, the 7th. The lounge is there, where police officers and detectives alike wait for their next assignment. He feels his stomach lurch, legs waver, as the elevator halts. He steps out into the short hallway, hearing the sound of his shoes hitting the floor, and enters the lounge.
    "HEY! CULLEN!" calls over Chief of Crime and Police, Karkat Vantas, accompanied by his assistant, Katniss Everdeen. "YOU HAVE A SITUATION TO CHECK OUT. SOME LADY SAYS SHE HAS REASONS TO BE SUSPICIOUS OF HER DOUCHEBAG NEIGHBOR." It's funny, Edward thinks, watching Vantas struggle with not cursing in the lounge. He shrugs.
    "What kind of situation is this? Where is it? And who are my partners in the situation?" He slides his hands into his pocket, looking aloof and unconcerned. Inside, his feelings were everywhere. HIS FIRST ACTUAL DETECTIVE CASE! OH GOLLY GOSHIES!
    "You have to go investigate some guy named Trip's apartment. You're assigned to go with Sherlock Holmes, Problem Sleuth, and America." answers Katniss, handing him a couple sheets of paper, briefing him on his mission. Edward looks around, an air of superciliousness about him. He sees them, already prepared for the task at hand. He grumbles.
    "Oh no. Not America..." He sighs, grabs his coat, and traipses over to join them, muttering under his breath. "Let's get this over with. At least it's dark out so I won't shimmer and sparkle like a disco ball." They all exit the lounge, squeeze into the elevator: vampire, detectives, and country.
     They finally reach the lobby. A man, maybe in his thirties, rushes in and slams his hands on the main desk. He's red in the face, presumably from running, muttering something about a dangerous gang and how he needs protection because he knows something. They don't think much of it. It's irrelevant to their mission, and they're already aware of New Yark's most dangerous gangs, the untouchable ones, the ones which if you know too much about, you don't live long. They know, because police get paid hush money all the time for these groups. A couple delinquents shout at each other and engage in fisticuffs. Some police come to escort them to their jail cells.
     The group marches out the front door. They spot their car instantly; stylish, elegant, a shiny black car. They hop in, the fresh scent of new car enrobing them. The GPS has their coordinates and destination locked in, and Holmes begins the drive. Problem Sleuth has shotgun. Edward is stuck with America in the back seat, who won't shut up about freedom and hamburgers. The car accelerates and joins the endless stream of traffic. They are on their way. They will investigate. They are a legendary team. Vampire, detective, sleuth, and country: the dream team of investigators.
     

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    The skyline to the west of Central Park glows with an effulgence, which emanates from the descending beacon known as the sun. The dusk sky is a peaceful sight, and the few clouds appear to have a radiant golden lining. A group of boys run around, much to the exasperation of the scout leaders, who attempt to encourage them to help set up the tents. It was the overnight camping trip, something all the young boys were looking forward to the entire summer, and it was finally here. The leaders understand the boys' excitement, as they remember when they had their overnight camping trip many years ago.
    Scout Leader Potter stands up, wiping the sweat from his brow. Setting up these tents is a strenuous task, especially with the young scouts not aiding. He runs a hand through his short brown hair, peering out through his circular glasses at the boys. One of them is leading some others away from the clearing and into the tenebrous tangle of trees, he observes. The woods, he thinks, is not the safest place for youngsters to be when it's getting dark. Or at all. He calls one of the other scout leaders to take over setting up this tent while he goes to fetch the kids straying away from the group. The other leader agrees without question, them both knowing all too well the shenanigans that one particular boy often gets up to.
    Ten-year-old Jake English, one of the youngest scouts in the troop, often divagated from the group, much to the chagrin of the scout leaders. He constantly felt the need to go hunting for adventure. This time, Harry notices, twelve-year-old twins Zack and Cody Martin were following him, as well as fourteen-year-old Naruto and twelve-year-old Justin Bieber. He dashed toward them rapidly, but they had already wandered into the forest. He sighed, slumping down on a rather large rock. He buried his face in his hands, considering what he would do next. He was certain that once he found Jake, he would promptly lecture the young boy and request to meet with his parents. They were likely sensible, friendly people, he thought, and would know just what to do about their son to stop him from misbehaving.
    Potter removes himself from the rock, knowing full well he must venture into the trees. The crepuscular sky makes it difficult for him to be aware of his surroundings, so he calls out to the boys. No answer. He isn't going to be able to find them by sight, as he is without a flashlight. He grumbles under his breath, frustrated at his lack of forethought. He continues his quest to find them, stumbling over rocks and twigs.
    Suddenly he hears a scream. It sounds like the boys, crying out for help. They must be in trouble... he thinks. He runs faster in the direction he heard the scream coming from.  
    "I'm on my way!" he shouts, in an attempt to reassure them. His feet pound on the forest ground as he races through the trees. Due to the lack of light, he trips and falls several times. Harry's cheeks become flushed, and he pauses to catch his breath. He can't stop. The boys are in trouble and it is his duty to aid them. It's against the boy scout code to abandon a fellow scout in his time of need. A scream can be heard again. It resonates throughout the forest, and Harry can feel his blood chill. The darkness around him fills his heart with dread. Going any farther would be futile with the calignosity of his surroundings, but if he didn't continue pursuing them, and something terrible occurred,  he would be conscience-strucken for the rest of his life. He was filled with dread and remorse as he returned to the camp.

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   It is two in the morning and the city is shrouded in a thick fog. The air had cooled considerably since the scorching, humid day. The streetlights illuminate all the main roads, but their light eschews the sidestreets and alleys. These remain draped in darkness. The noise of traffic and pedestrians is lulled in these areas. The silence, matched with the gloom of dark and fog, gives the area a forboding atmosphere.
    Five pairs of feet trudge through the deserted alleyway, splashing through the plashets of rain which had fallen earlier that night. Four are smaller, younger, and more apprehensive in their steps. The other pair are those of an adult, footsteps falling rapidly yet cautiously against the sodden pavement. The adult leads the youths toward a decrepit brick building, its windows barred with decaying planks. A tattered sign hangs on the entrance, bold red letters warning potential tresspassers that the building was condemned. Hands move the sign away from the aged door. They jostle the doorknob, push the flimsy door open, and usher the children inside. The sign is replaced on the door, the building is entered, the door is shut.
    The air inside the building is very dank and musty. Mildew grows on the walls, which are broken in some areas. Pieces of glass and trash are strewn across the shabby floors. Some of the floorboards are coming apart from the floor. The group carefully maneuvers their way through the dark, malodorous room until they find a staircase. They walk, single file, children first, up a rickety staircase. The boards creak with every step they take. They proceed to the seventh floor, where they come to a long hallway with walls coated in an outdated teal floral wallpaper. There are many rooms on this floor of the building. A sound emanates from behind a door at the end of the hallway. The sound of nervous children, curious but terrified by the sound of footsteps.
    The group proceeds to the end of the hallway, where the adult opens the door. He demands the four young boys enter. They listen out of fear, and he locks and closes the door. He traverses the hallway, climbing yet another flight of stairs. From his pocket he fishes out a stolen cell phone, equipped with a device to make sure it is unable to be traced. He began dialing numbers which were written on a sheet of paper. He dials the first phone number on the list. Someone answers. He greets them.
    "Hello. I have your child. If you want to see him again, you will pay me five hundred thousand dollars. I will call you again to let you know where to pay the money."