I'm in.

Long as it's a movie concerning the topical issue of tax inflation in the Soviet Union.

Or we could just do the zombie thing

:)

Ian

Kick it off, heretic.  I'm right beside you the whole way.

The only problem is when say I'm writing a scene and I post it, than someone else has posted at the same time. It confuses the plot and ruins it right there

So maybe you should order who goes and when they should go, if they don't post anything within a day well they lose there turn this time around the order

If people just jump in wherever they want it wont work as good as you want it

So I walk, but I'm shuffling like, imitating these other cats so I don't call too much attention to myself ahead of time.  These henchmen can smell the law a mile away and I know it because I've seen the results of it, and let me tell you, it ain't pretty.  See, the only guys bad guys ever want to know are other bad guys, and then only if the ain’t the competition.  Call it an unofficial rule.  Anyone else not up to snuff...well, these guys snuff 'em out and fast.  And I’m not meaning to become one of the snuffed.  

And when is it time?  When I say I'm ready.  Never before.

I’d been down by the docks having a drink when a dame let it slip, and she was drunker ‘en a skunk and loose in the lips before a coupl’a hired hands came out from the back to clear up the mess.  I gathered she was one of Sonny’s girls;  I recognized the fur around her neck and the snake flicker of her tongue.  She’d been wronged and she was looking for revenge.  She starts going off about his affairs and meetings – stuff you wouldn’t think a dame would know – talking about the Hungry Wolf and if anyone’s man enough to take him on, they should go listen for the whistle and blow his brains out first clear shot they get.

I didn’t look like I was paying her mind, but at the end of my well deserved whiskey, I was out the door like a light.              

The mistress to the night, the cratered bosom lover of the stars, was glaring at me with some cycloptic prophesy.  But I'm not an astrologer, so her words fell on deaf ears.  Maybe it was the whiskey, or maybe it was the just as effective adrenaline, but every shadow seemed to hide that inscrutable foe.

But aside from being slightly ossified on Collin's giggle juice, everthing else was lucid.  The mark that I was being paid 50 greenbacks an hour to spy on finished off his coffee, and I finished waiting.  Now I was the "Hungry Wolf", and I felt like a fool playing into the whims of some drunken broad.

I trailed him outside where the rain began to shower me in its icy spittle, an effervescent fog of deception and mystery.  He risked sparking a lighter, and his cigarette glittered through the moist air, a ghostly substance completely oblivious to the barrage that Heaven was spilling down.

The Colt at my kidney was cold, and matched with the rain, was enough to freeze Hell over.  And I reflected on my early Bible studies, before I had known better.  Vanity, definitely my favourite sin.  I get a coupla pics of his hobnob, slap 'em on a sheaf of paper, and I get paid.  Pretty low for a private eye, but I figured I owed Shanti a favour or two.