B-Town Rockin' #1
- Alexander
- Mar 15, 2023
- 27 min read
Updated: 2 days ago
A 'Brooklyn Zoo' Story x Brooklyn Especial
BrO0KLyN Z0O
Ya know what it is, Brooklyn be that borough! Call it what you will: B-Town, BuckTown—Brooklyn Zoo; the Borough of Kings, but call it correct! Brooklyn be known for that "ra-ra" and liveness! However, if we keepin' gully, there's a lot of gritty and ugly things about this borough; but it's home and be poppin'! You just gotta learn to navi yo' way around!
Think back to your first thrill ride or rollercoaster. When you were told to keep your arms and feet in the car at all times... well, this ain't that type of ride! I want you to throw yo' hands up and make some noise, 'cause you bout to experience a fairly typical Friday night in Brooklyn! Please be advised though! There will be frightening and disturbing images and moments during your riding experience where your life will be in danger; however, DO NOT YELL OR SCREAM but keep calm, lest you draw attention to yourself! Brooklyn is not responsible for any injuries, freak accidents, slips and falls, loss of limbs, or mechanical failures. If the ride suddenly breaks down, YOU ARE ON YOUR OWN! WE REPEAT, YOU ARE ON YO' OWN! Do whatever you have to do! Run as fast as you can to a friend crib (If this doesn't apply, then you @$# out, sorry!) or play dead—actin' like you don't know nuffin' will save you too! Lastly, this train is no longer going express and will be making local stops only. Enjoy!
Quite inebriated, a patron wobbles out of the Brooklyn Inn bar into the brisk night as if emerging from a wrinkle in time. The music still thumping behind him—muffled, drunk on its own bassline—but the streets quiet, just the hum of passing traffic and distant sirens weaving through the night like thread through cloth. Further up Hoyt, neon lights flicker lazily, washing the patron in red one moment and blue the next, as a cop car parades by the Brooklyn Inn. The officers hoovering down doughnuts and super-sized Slurpees. At the curb, the patron, from his jacket pocket pulls out an overstuffed dimebag and Bambú paper—nothing ceremonious, nothing fancy, but there was a strange kind of reverence in the way he handled the paraphernalia, as though preparing a tiny ritual that only he fully understood. Not a guidebook step, not a method—just a quiet moment carved out of the noise. Popping open the baggie with his thumb and index, his nose now inside the bag, he takes a whiff. A waxing gibbous moon tilts the patron's head heavenward. "Whooooooaaa!" Those enjoying cigarettes and conversations laugh. Rolled tight and swole, the patron raises the joint to his mouth, feeling his pockets for a lighter only to remember that he accidentally flushed it down the toilet earlier. "#%!@$!" Suddenly, a hand extends, igniting the joint.
"Here you go."
"What the #%!@$?! Where's the lighter? How the #%!@$ you'd do that?!" People react.
"Magic! How else could one achieve such a feat?"
"You're a wizard... holy $&#%!"
"No, a magician. Wizardry is nasty work!"
"How so... they're both the same thing!"
"A wizard does real magic, casts spells and what have you! I just entertain children and adults who haven't lost their child-like wonder or who are drunk like you—it's all for fun and games!"
"Aaaaaah, I see!"
"Now you got it! Come check me out and the other attractions out this Friday! We're running in Coney Island until Friday after next. The name's Morin, magician and scout of the traveling circus, Mishka's Sideshow Caravan: Marvels! Mystery! Untamed Wonders! "
"Nice to meet you Morin, I'm Sean; culinary blogger and food photographer... so what's a sideshow caravan scout do?—actually, wait. Would you do something cool?"
"Just did." Pointing to the lit joint in Sean's mouth. Morin's face smug.
"Oh yeah... duh Sean! That was pretty dumb of you!"
"No harm, no foul! I go on ahead to survey potential locations, check out local talent, meet new and cool folks such as yourself, and canvas traveling routes for anything which could pose a threat to my colleagues or the animals."
"What do you mean? Are you kidding me?!” another patron barked, waving her phone like a relic of doom. "The circus that you're a part of is still using live animals in its shows? In Brooklyn? It's 2016—this is insane! What is this—Victorian London?” A hush fell over the sidewalk. Even the guy playing melancholic indie riffs on his ukulele paused mid-strum. To the belligerent comment, Morin responds. "Well, looks like Mishka, the guy that signs my checks has until December 31st, 2016 to comply or the "fur freedom fighters" will come knocking down the door of his caravan." Storming off, the nosy patron flips Morin the bird. "Not cool", ukulele guy murmurs. Morin hands Sean a flyer. "We'll be in the Coney Island section of Brooklyn for the next 14 days. I really have to go, but it was a pleasure. I'll wave to you when we pass through."
Slipped around the corner with the quiet confidence of a man who owned every shadow he stepped through, Morin brings together his thumb and middle-finger. A yellow spark ignites. His jacket flickered at the edges, not from wind, but from the faint shimmer of conjured magic. A half-smile curved across his mouth.
Pausing at the mouth of the block, Morin's eyes narrow. The night air felt off—thick, humming, laden with a tension that mortal senses would miss entirely. He lifted two fingers, brushing them across the expanse as an artist would a bare canvas. The air crackled. Yes! Something otherworldly was present, the atmosphere pregnant with the supernatural. In fact, multiple unearthly beings called this neighborhood home. Releasing the spark, the air around Morin POPS. He disappeared, reappearing atop 139 Wyckoff Street.
Moonlight washed over him, etched sigils carved into Morin's arms glow, pulsing with magic. From his rooftop vantage, Morin scans the block below: Houses sleeping peacefully, window lights dimmed, curtains unmoving. But above the mundane calm, threads of arcane disturbance laced the air. Movement in the distance caught Morin's attention. He tracked the motion with predatory focus. A deep, resonant growl rumbled through treetops reaching Morin's ears.
“Would you bid us safe passage through your dominion?” Morin murmured; his voice poised. Silence. Suddenly, an answer, a gust propelling in Morin's direction coming down from high heights, winding in from Bond Street. It carried the stench of musk and blood. Not the diluted, half-awake musk that clung to sojourners or vagabonds. This was virile, maddening. Predatory. Morin freezes. His smirk evaporated, replaced by a hard, calculating stillness. His back stiffens. "Werewolves." Drawing a slow breath, he allows the scent to unravel itself across the layers of his senses. Beneath the fur and blood and feral hunger, there was something else—something familiar, grief; frustration. Morin eyes swept the rooftops, trees, peering into Nicholas Heyward Jr. Park. Quickly, his mind turns to the caravan. A vision forms before him, an ill premonition: The vagabond riding in the last wagon. Rage, terror, death! A sound like the beginnings of a thunder storm pierced Morin's ears. Crafting a sword from a sterling silver chain, Morin stepped into a defensive posture. He listens. Not a growl but wheels colliding with asphalt. "Wait... footsteps."
Outdated street lamps emanate vomit-inducing light across rows of brownstones on Wyckoff Street. A sickened tree withers in front 143 Wyckoff Street. Its coarse flesh, diseased and dehydrated, its trunk hollowed. His lap dog in tow, a nosy neighbor peers into the lifeless property on a night stroll. Scrutinizing the placement of trash bins, out of place brick and interior decorating, the neighbor's eyes rest at the fourth floor. Unsettled, Percy Princess, the neighbor's dog yelps and yaps. Ignoring Percy Princess, the neighbor continues with his disapproval of the brownstone and its owner's design choices. "She could've done such a better job! She must be hurting financially! Guess her father left her nothing but this God-awful property!" Detecting motion in one of the fourth floor windows, Percy Princess nestles further into the neighbor's armpit, barking at the middle window of the fourth floor. The neighbor investigates, raising his eyes to the window. They strain and struggle to see—darkness upon darkness. A cloaked figure looming in the window, blacker than the pitch around it casts its gaze upon Percy Princess. Leaping out of the neighbor's arm, Percy Princess takes refuge under a vintage Nissan Maxima, tucking behind a tire. His bark in full alarm mode. "O my God, Percy Princess! What's gotten into you?!" Down on his knees, the neighbor attempts to coax Percy Princess out from underneath the car. "Come on out baby, come on out. Poppa was just being silly, he didn't mean it." Sounds of whimsical music interwoven with ethereal melodies play over old PA systems and rickety wood connecting with asphalt send Percy Princess bolting down Wyckoff Street. "O my God, Percy!" yells the neighbor, taking off after his beloved animal friend. "Daddy said he was sorry! Stay, stay... PLEEEEASE! %*!#@."
A caravan of brightly painted wagons—ten to be exact illustrated with life-like renditions of a menagerie of creatures in their natural habitat: A brown bear, the thylacine, unicorns, a pack of acootnani; the doodoo, a barcuklaw and other picturesque artwork slowly rolls down Hoyt Street. Its reception swung between fanfare and queer looks. The traveling circus did in fact look absurd rolling through Cobble Hill, wedged between parked cars and rattling over potholes. In big, bold letters "tattooed" on the caravan's sides read, Mishka's Sideshow Caravan. Under it, the caravan's mantra, "An entire world squeezed onto wheels!" Each wagon housed an exotic animal enclosed in a cage or a side show attraction with lanterns between them except the tenth car—they were removed! A shackled, young vagabond occupied the last wagon. His restraints gleamed whenever a street light or building fixture hit it. He sat in straw, and his wagon was fortified with iron bars, wrapped with strange, purple flowers. The stench around this particular car was foul. A lone calf too was in the wagon. It trembled, pressed into the farthest corner. Its pupils dilated. The caravan crossed Wyckoff and Hoyt, and was the moment hell descended upon the traveling circus. Breath hitched, the vagrant's pupils widened until they swallowed the brown of his eyes. He tried to hold himself together, he failed. Snarls bubbled up before he could swallow it. The wagon jerked as he lurched forward, straw bursting around him. Chains strained, rattling like angry metal snakes.
“What the #%!@$ in there?!” exclaimed a wino from the curb.
Over the caravan's PA system, a voice bellows. "Greetings Cobble Hill! We apologize for intrusion, but let us introduce ourselves... I'm Mishka and this is Mishka's Sideshow Caravan!" Emerging from the main cabin, acrobats climb to the caravan's roof. From suspended ribbons, they performed stunts and death-defying feats. Enthralled, people watched from windows and rooftops. A distressed roar breaks the
concentration of a young acrobat, causing him to lose his footing, sending him spiraling toward the asphalt. Onlookers gasp. Taking hold of the young acrobat, a veiny hand latched on the young acrobat's slender frame, pulling him to safety. "Señor Mishka, I am so sorry! Whiskers startled me."
"It okay, son. Just get back to it."
Pacing to and fro her enclosure, Whiskers, the sideshow's tigress sporadically swiped at anything and everything which came into her view and vicinity, butting her head against the back wall of her mobile paddock. Repelling from the caravan roof, Mishka tosses an uncured cut of picnic ham to her. Protracted claws penetrate the hunk of meat, as the tigress tears into her prize. Mishka addresses his audience. "You like what you see? Good, come see Mishka's Sideshow Caravan in Coney Island! Follow the animals and laughter! Goodnight!"
Hand wrapped around his ribbon, Mishka ascends to the ribbon's pinnacle, swinging across on invisible objects, each between mounted ribbon, he somersaults into the main cabin of the caravan. THUD. The acrobats follow. "Everyone out!" Mishka barks! With urgency, he rushes over to the cabin's rotary phone. His beefy fingers attempt to fit into the dial ports. Frustrated, he cyclones through desk drawers. "Ah!" Mechanical pencil in hand, he winds the rotary's dials. RING! RING!
"This Mishka, put Dimitri on line! Bratan... I ask little questions, you know... my animals and everyone are, are uneasy... again, I no ask. I do what you ask and give boy pills before full-moon."
"Where are you?!"
"Few blocks from BQE."
"Relax Mishka, have some of vodka I sent you—you worry too much!"
Night settled heavy over Hoyt Street as a hooded cyclist pushed uphill, navigating potholes and broken glass. The streets were awfully quiet for having just had a circus come through them. Nearing the glow of the Hoyt–Schermerhorn station, the rider pulled his hood down to his brow. SCREEEECHHH! "#%!@". Parked across the street, he watches two targets go down into the train station. Feet back on the pedals, he books it, disappearing around the corner. Whirling by him, a father and son sprint to the train station, racing down the steps to catch the Brooklyn-Queens Crosstown G train. While waiting for their train, they discuss the ins and outs of the Nets game.
Further up the platform, on the Rockaway side, a middle-aged woman belts out Anita Baker. She adjusts her shades. Headlights of an oncoming express "A" train appear in the tunnel. People further back onto the platform while those with a death wish stay put as the A train rushes into the station. Exiting riders push and elbow their way through the wall of riders eager to secure a seat on the packed train—doors close.
A scuffle ensues after a hipster is molly-whopped for repeatedly yawning in the face of a man without an apology or acknowledgement. Surrounding passengers get out of dodge. The men tussle, with the offended getting the better of the hipster. On the floor, a kick to the hipster's ribs opens him up for a barrage of stomps. "Help...help!" People attempt to stop the altercation. Tae-Von looks on and is asked to help. He responds, "Nah, mans shouldn't of yawned in the #!*$@'s face!" He gets up, and with sing-song maneuvers to the next car chanting, "NY, N, N, Y... NY, I will bust you in yo' eye. NY, N, N, Y... ah boop, bap, bap, bap, burrrrr BOW!"
Two cars up, DeQuan leans against a pole checking his Snapchat, his homie, Sha posted on the train door finger tutting. Tapping DeQuan, he boasts. "Ya boi fitna to turn up tonight! Jasmine wit the fatty gunna there... and you know!" Racing past Franklin, the train abruptly halts, sending a straphanger jolting every which way. DeQuan and Sha grab hold of the overhead pole. "Say less Sha, I know you been after that for a minute!" Tae-Von makes his way to the car DeQuan and Sha are in. "Aye yo, be easy Sha, but Tae-Von just walked into our car." Sha pulls out an ox on the low. DeQuan gives his mans a "look", shaking his head. "Nah chill."
Police waiting at Nostrand remove both the hipster and man who were fighting, placing each of them under arrest. The train doors close. "Next stop Utica Avenue," announces the train conductor over the PA system. DeQuan presses forward to restrain Sha. "Nah boi, that ain't happenin'!" Undetected, DeQuan yokes up Sha, pulling him through the sea of people into the next car. The train abruptly stops again, this time between the Kingston and Throop and Utica stations—the two nearly fall! Sha struggles to get loose. "Nah boi, lemme go! He jumped my cousin!" Alerted straphangers gawk at the two. DeQuan gets in Sha's face. "And yo' cousin washed all of them! Let it go!" Slowly rolling into the Utica station, the train comes to a complete stop, the doors open. Pushing Sha toward the stairs then up to street, DeQuan exclaims, "Look #*!%@, I'm makin' sure you gettin' &#$$% tonight... wantin' to fight and $&#%! You buggin'!"
DeQuan pulls Sha across the street, through Fulton Park. He jams two fingers into Sha's chest. "We're goin' to this party, we gunna have #%!@*~ fun, and you gunna battle! I'm not losin' anotha bro to no dumb $&#%!"
“Aight, fam you got it! You can let me go... you right; I'm good!" DeQuan releases his grip.
“Bet bro, imma let you go!”
Brolic dudes in all black post up in front of a brownstone checking IDs and pattin’ down the long line of people trying to get into the party. The line extends to the corner, the iron gate on rotation. Older men kick back on the stoop, smoking herbal cigarettes, drinkin' wine, talking sports and politics. 90’s Hip-Hop bumps from the house. DeQuan strolls up to the gate. Sha follows. “Aye mister, my mans got a battle tonight... Shatique Warren.”
"And, what that mean?" the security guard gawking down at Sha and DeQuan. “You act like this a club in Manhattan or a party in Hollywood Hills. I don’t know you, and I don’t care! You better get to the back of the line!” Sha sucks his teeth. Daquan grabs Sha, pulling him toward the curb.
"DaQuan stop grabbin' me bro!"
“Look... don’t trip Sha—I'll call Justin. Don’t let that oversized milk dud bother you—madd brolic for no reason... lookin’ like a chocolate-covered peanut on top of two cinder blocks!"
"You gotta a battle tonight… plus we gunna to turn up!”
“You know J don’t be answerin' his phone like that bro!” The deejay starts mixing 'Juicy'. People waiting on line go wild, throwing their hands up, reciting the lyrics:
It was all a dream, I used to read Word Up! magazine
Salt-n-Pepa and Heavy D up in the limousine
Hangin' pictures on my wall
Every Saturday Rap Attack, Mr. Magic, Marley Marl
I let my tape rock 'til my tape popped
Smokin' weed in Bambú, sippin' on Private Stock
Way back, when I had the red and black lumberjack
With the hat to match.
An older man comes out from the second floor door. “Uncle Willie," Daquan calls out. "Dis dude here won’t let us in!” Uncle Willie gives the security guard a scowl. “They cool! Come in through up here boys and avoid all that nonsense down there!” DaQuan and Sha race up the steps past the guys on the stoop, following Uncle Willie in, across the floor then downstairs. Uncle Willie glances back. “How you boys doing? Ya'll stayin’ outta trouble, right?”
“Yessir!” DaQuan and Sha reply. Uncle Willie turned around fully, his glasses lowered. “Don’t be like these other knuckle-headed boys out here! You keep dancin’, graduate college, and ya’ll gonna be alright! Just stay the course!” Uncle Willie shuffles down the hallway, they pass the kitchen. DeQuan and Sha peak their heads in. “Hello!”
Nana Grace stood at the stove like it was a trusted instrument, her sleeves rolled up, wrist steady as she stirred a pot which breathed back at her with steam and spice. Her frame petite, yet sturdy and strong; it spoke of supernatural resolve and of a faithful God. She tasted, adjusted, tasted again—decisions made without ceremony, the kind that come from knowing. Posted near a window, Aunt Kat worked with confidence, rolling out buttermilk biscuits on a flour-dusted counter; her palms pressed against the rolling pin, back and forth it rolled. The oven behind her tickles softly, patiently preheating. She moves onto finishing the coconut cake. At the cast-iron, two-compartment sink, Grandma Carrie snickered, recalling fond memories as she rinsed berries. Her voice was bright and anchoring, a voice that turned work into gathering. She reached for a bowl, then another, stacking them with intention before returning to a pot of collard greens.
“Oh, hey babies! How ya’ll doin’?” Aunt Kat shouts, decorating a three-layer white cake with toasted coconut flakes. Grandma Carrie lifts her head from the greens, cigarette on the edge of her lips, ashes nearly at the filter. She glares at DeQuan and Sha. “Ya’ll chillren bet not be ackin' up down there. I gotta .38 for any chuckle-head mutha#%!@&~ who gets outta line.” Nana Grace jumps up, “Carrie, behave now… you just got saved! You left that cussin’ and fussin’ at the bottom of the baptism pool!” Uncle Willie hurries DeQuan and Sha along. “Let's get goin' before Carrie busts one of yo’ heads!” He directs them to the basement, "Ya'll know where it is, ya'll ain't no guests here! I'm too old to be doin' all this walking." Sha laughs. "Uncle Willie, you like 50!" He chuckles, "Boy... I'm 66 years old, you know the sayin', 'Black don't crack'." He scoots the two on toward the basement door. "Enjoy yo'selves! I gotta go, a young tenderoni waitin' for me round the corner. She been blowin' up mah phone!" DeQuan and Sha look at each other before hollering with laughter.
Christmas lights snaked through beams wrap around the basement, blanketing the space in colorful shapes. Partygoers chant and scream while forming a semi-circle around dancers in a three-way battle. DJ Fe jumps on the mic, amp'ing up the crowd. "What up Brooklyn?! How ya beautiful people doin'? Ya'll ready to get all da way turnt!" The crowd responds raucously. A spread of Soul and Jamaican food in aluminum serving trays line an eight-foot folding table stationed alongside the basement's right wall. A chubby, dark-skinned man sits in a corner, his plate piled high of fried catfish, yellow slaw, crackling bread; jerk chicken, cabbage, rice & peas.
An old, artisan bookshelf of assorted liquor butts up against the front wall. A custom-made bar of cherry oak hems in the bartender and two assistants working steadily to shrink the 15-deep line. Hawk garnishes several cocktails with citrus and stone fruits, before doling them out with flare and grace to patrons. The second assistant fulfills frozen drink orders.
"'Two Night Nurses' with peach flavoring and a shot of Henny for you and yo' girl Kev!"
DeQuan and Sha make their rounds dappin' up homies and greeting fine ladies. The two separate. "Yo, imma get up wit Jasmine!" DeQuan, focused on the dance floor, ignores him. "Yeah, yeah!" DeQuan approaches the bar. A young chick wearing a dusty weave lashes out, "Why you skippin' the line—boi... you betta get to the back of the line!" Hawk defuses the situation by offering her a shot of Hennessy.
"O, dis for me?"
"Yes, it is! This my homie DeQuan. Lemme chop it wit him and I'll hook you up!"
"Aight, if he your mans and all dat!"
Hawk motions for the second assistant to take over as he comes out from behind the bar. "What up DeQuan, where Sha at?" Sha pounces on both DeQuan and Hawk from behind.
"Right here yo! Let me get a "BuckTown Bomb!"
Hawk responds. "You sure you wanna do that before your battle?"
Sha slams down a twenty-spot. "Yup, now get me my drank! I got roundz for days boi, I'm guud!"
Returning behind the bar, Hawk begins making Sha's drink. Posted up on the far side of the bar, Sha waits. "Aye Hawk, your cousin and his boys coming to the party? Reaching for the Hennessy and dark rum, Hawk turns and shrugs his shoulders, "I doubt it. Matsi been MIA for a minute!" DeQuan briskly slides over to Sha, "Bro, why you askin' about Hawk's cousin... #*!%@ scares the $&#% outta me! Sumptin' ain't right a bout him."
Taylor cuts down a dimly lit block, his collar up, phone pressed tightly to his ear; size 10 Palladium boots tapping a little faster than the night required. The brownstone glowed as he passed it—windows lit, music leaking through brick, laughter spilling onto the stoop like something you could step into by accident. He didn’t slow, but his eyes flicked that way, catching a blur of movement inside, arms lifting, bodies swaying; the warmth, the love of a good time Taylor wasn’t heading toward. His good time, his pleasure was smoked, snorted and popped!
Settled with a bowl of Fruity Pebbles in his room, Michael went in for the first bite; NBA 2K17 paused, his team frozen in mid play. An unknown call comes through on a burner phone, he answers.
"Goodnight, Pop-up Bakeshop Distro Department. We deliver round the clock and as far as Pennsylvania and the south western part of Connecticut! How may I help you? Yes, sir... your order of a pound of garlic, two pounds of pastry flour, and a quart of Red Gojuchang just went out. Your order should arrive in the next hour."
“Thank you,” Taylor said into the phone, voice mild, practiced casual. He stepped around a group lingering on the sidewalk, the bass from the party thudding once against his ribs before falling away. "Do you offer subscriptions?" Taylor inquired. The street smelled like food and cold air and something sweet he couldn’t place. He kept walking, words sliding into half-sentences, references that meant nothing to anyone overhearing—weather, errands, a favor owed. His free hand traced the seam of his coat as if checking himself. Behind him, the house party surged, a door opening, voices rising. Ahead, the block dimmed, quieter, more private. He nodded to whatever was said on the other end, sealing the understanding without naming it, and slipped the phone back into his pocket as if the conversation had never happened at all.
Further edged into Brooklyn, night weaponized the air crisp, making it troublesome to breath deep. Stinging his lungs, Wicker forged ahead, riding west on Dean Street. Streetlights flickered in an uneven rhythm, throwing long shadows that stretched and snapped beneath his bike tires. Wicker's knapsack hugged him. It was heavier than a knapsack should be, its weight shifting with every bump in the road. He checked the corners without turning his head, reading reflections in parked car windows, listening for engines that slowed too much. When he cut the handlebars and turned onto Schenectady Avenue, the block felt quieter, tighter—the projects still lively, row houses dark except for a few lit windows; a lone bodega glowed like a small stage. The smell of damp concrete, budding leaves and flowers hung lingered in Wicker's nostrils. His breath fogged faintly as he peddled, not fast but steady; the way you ride when you don’t want to be remembered. Somewhere a radio murmured through a cracked window, and a bus hissed to a stop a block away. His knapsack tugged at his shoulders, a reminder of the thin line he was riding—between getting where he needed to go and being caught. Despite the thoughts, he kept moving, passing a couple snuggled up by the gas station; tires slicing through the cool night.
Hand in hand, David and Janet walked up Schenectady after a night of dinner and dancing, eager to get home. The moon leaked though trees, creating eclectic shadows across the block. The couple danced and giggled. Suddenly, a white van booked it, speeding towards Eastern Parkway from Atlantic Avenue, screams and banging heard from the vehicle. Immediately, David pulled out his phone and dialed 911.
"911 please state your emergency." said the 911 operator. Janet typed down the license plate number in her note app. Her hands trembled. David consoles her, placing his hand on hers. "Yes, my name is David Kincaid. My wife and I were coming from the Utica A Train Station up Schenectady when we witnessed a white van barreling up the block and could hear someone from inside the van screaming and banging on the door. No, we did not see anyone. Yes, yes, my wife has the license plate!" A goon in a ski mask and skullcap rush the couple from the back of a dumpster situated in the driveway of a dilapidated school. He jams his gun in David's face. Quickly, the goon turns the gun on Janet, cocking back the hammer. She recoils, hiding behind David. The goon's eyes move to David's cellphone. David quickly disconnects the call. "What did ya see tonight... nuffin', right?" The couple nod their heads in agreement. "Good, now gimme yo' phones."
The goon gawks at David's gold watch. "Nice watch—run it!"
"Run what, run where?"
David's daftness gets the gun jammed in his face again. "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot you don't speak #*!%$—never mind, gimme yo' jewels, I want errything!" The goon's eyes scan the vicinity, darting to each end of the block. David and Janet hand the goon their phones, wallet, purse and jewels. Stuffing what he can into his pockets, the goon takes off, disappearing into the night.
Preserved Preservation
Beneath the city everyone thought they knew, underneath the noise, grit and grind, below the night owls in flight still seeking to quench their thirst; a gathering—an impromptu assembly convenes. The location, an oval shaped chamber with protruding crown molding on every other wall, walls that curved and rounded at the top and bottom. The chamber's design was never-ending. A huge table sat in the center of the room, it too was oval. Its surface impeccable, inlaid with symbols and fabrics, preserved despite time and touch. Smells of lavender, rain-soaked stone, and old ink both settled and twitched the senses. Sconces made of pure gold circled the room, its light was that of a winter sunset bottled up.
Above the table, hung a chandelier crafted of the finest crystals. Instead of candles, ignited precious cuts, hewn from Obsidian Blue Brickbraf, an igneous rock native to the Barcuklaw casted the chamber in what most would refer to as an off-putting light, with highlights of campfire embers and Tokyo Blue; but then again, those who were gathered at this council were not "most"! A hum saturated with forgotten lullabies in languages no longer spoken seemed to impregnate the atmosphere.
Suddenly, materializing throughout the chamber, four doors appeared, each inscribed with words across the doorposts: Condado de Bronx, Condado de Nueva York, Condado de Queens, Condado de Richmond. An otherworldly glimmer shone from underneath the doors. Lively debating echoed from behind the door inscribed, Condado de Bronx. A violent shaking shook the space, light from the Obsidian Blue Brickbraf flickered—SILENCE. "Why must we always have Obsidian Blue Brickbraf to illuminate the chamber?!" The quiet broken by a willful, raspy voice, and the precious rock, magically replaced with wax candles. Swinging open, the entry way of the doors were filled with great silhouettes. A fifth door appeared but remained shut. Instantly, the chamber filled with creatures of earthly and fantastical lineage. The borough masters were the first to arrive, followed by the kings of north and south Brooklyn. Preservationists trickled in, quietly taking their place.
A humanoid-like being, adorned with antlers and covered with thick auburn hair from its bosom down to their legs stepped from a shadow that hadn’t been there a moment before, her hooves making no sound on the stone. A figure of smoke and ash condensed near a ventilation grate, heat rippling the air around it. An old man who smelled faintly of river water leaned on a cane grown from living wood, his reflection moving differently than he did. A circle formed. Languages overlapped: English threaded with older tongues, with sounds that weren’t quite speech at all as council members greeted one another. New York politics and current events were discussed and debated. Side conversations carried on in hushed tones and in silence, through gestures, through the subtle shifting of air and light; worries expressed and burdens for the Borough of Kings shared. Allegiances questioned with foreknowledge of betrayal—wolves were among us, not just the two or four-legged kind but those who kept maliciousness in the chest pocket. Good news traveled fast, but a negative report was quicker and without opposition: Borough Master Pueblo Pablo was dead, Micah in the wind; an unprecedented evil was coming to the Land. Concern and fear affected many among the council. All signs pointed to one thing, the degradation and desolation of Brooklyn and all of New York.
Callum heard it all! He sensed it! "Thank you all for coming, especially on such short notice! What is the question that burns in most of your hearts?" He stood alone at the center of the council circle, boots planted on stone older than human memory. The floor shimmered faintly, etched with sigils that shifted like breath beneath glass. Above, another light shone, filtered through no visible source, changing color as it passed through wings, antlers, horns, and halos of smoke. This was not a place for the untested or unfaithful. Around the circle gathered members of the House of Brubeatah: colossal gladiators; stonebound elders whose faces were carved by centuries; flame-eyed sentinels who whispered to one another in sparks; and figures whose shapes resisted names altogether! Their power pressed inward, heavy and humming, a living storm of magic and will. Callum felt it settle on his shoulders, he felt their anguish and sorrow; nearly buckling, he stood! The great warriors knelt to no one but One. Instead, they lifted their chin, scars catching the light—marks earned not in legend, but by conviction and because of dedication; in the territories, realms, and secret places of New York and beyond; where the world had begun to fray, and with a nod, they counted Callum worthy. They knew the fallout of nature and culture thinned to nothing: Bitter streams and poisoned bodies of water; the arrival of invasive species, first quietly then boldly, as if testing how much could be taken without recompense. Then, desolation and destruction!
A murmur rippled through the council, a sound like wind through many different worlds. Callum drew a steadying breath. He crossed broken ground and forbidden paths to stand here, carrying news no one wished to hear but all needed to face.
“Our land is not dying all at once,” he began, his voice clear despite the weight of his assignment. “It is being taken—piece by piece. And if we wait for certainty, there will be nothing left to defend.” The council fell silent. Magic stilled. Even the oldest beings leaned closer. The war had not yet been named—but everyone present could feel it approaching.
Solari Bark was the first to respond. Members of his order surrounded him. The air shifted—leaves trembled where there were none, heartbeats slowed, and a low, living hum threaded through the chamber. He stood tall despite his age (1,500 years to be exact!), bark-brown skin creased like ancient roots, his long silver beard woven with vines that glowed faintly as if remembering sunlight. Moss crowned his wide-brimmed hat, and a staff of living wood rested in his palm, pulsing with a patient, watchful energy. When his pale, luminous eyes swept across the assembly of humans, dwarves, gods, and half-forgotten legends, it was not judgment they felt—but measure.
“Solari Bark, member of the Order of Nocturn Fauna, wizard over a section of Prospect Park, including the pond. I do not come for dominance,” Solari said, his voice mild yet strong, like a wind carried through a forest canopy. “Nor for praise! I come because balance falters!” He inclined his head to the tellurian delegates first, acknowledging them as stewards, then turned to his mystic associates—elf nobles shimmering with impatience, centaurs standing immovable, a massive minotaur in silent appraisal. “You feel it as I do. The roots are strained. Old wards are thinning. Wickedness does not always roar—it creeps!”
As murmurs rose, Solari lifted one weathered hand, and a small green shoot unfurled between his fingers, glowing brighter as the room stilled. “This council exists because we declared an oath to Brooklyn, its people and to each other” He continued. "Never has there been a demilitarized zone since the Great Folly, and never will there be!” His gaze lingered on each faction in turn. “If we are to endure, we must be vigilant together. Not as glory-seekers. Not as legends. But as caretakers. This is who we are!”
A Red-cloaked Warrior stepped forward from the edge of the fireplace, cinders sliding across his mantle like falling stars. He did not bow either, but acknowledged Solari. His arms remained crossed, not in defiance but restraint.
“Forest-Keeper,” he said, his voice low and scarred by battles survived, “I have watched cities burn because no one stood early enough! I have learned that ruin is not born in flame—it is born in neglect.” He turned, briefly, to the council, the glow of distant fires reflecting in his eyes. “I was shaped by war, but I am not its servant! Strength that answers too late descends into apathy and oblivion. Strength that stands watch becomes fortified.”
His gaze returned to Solari, steady and unflinching. “You speak of vigilance. I agree! Balance is not preserved by hope alone, nor by power unchecked. It is preserved by those willing to endure blame, wear scars, and remain when others turn away.” He loosened his arms, letting his red cloak fall still. “Where roots must be defended from fire, I will stand. Where wickedness creeps in shadow, I will meet it without glory or excuse. Not as a conqueror—but as a watchman.” The enchantment around him dimmed slightly, as if listening.
“You have my accord, Solari Bark. Let us act before Brooklyn is remembered only as a mountain of ashes.”
Sophia Regent rose. She wore no crown. Her posture was effortless, practiced—the stance of someone long accustomed to being obeyed. Where other creatures bore signs of age or erosion, she appeared preserved, as if time itself had learned better than to touch her carelessly. She smiled before speaking. It was not kind.
“You speak of decay as if it were a tragedy,” she said, her voice velvety, almost amused. “As if something has gone wrong.”
The council bristled. Wings shifted. Stone scraped against stone. “Brooklyn,” she continued, pacing the circle slowly, “is not dying. It is being emptied. And an emptied place is the most useful kind!” She stopped near the center, eyes glinting. “Culture is loud! Memory resists. Communities argue. But remove them gently—raise the cost, soften the language, rename theft as opportunity—and the land stops fighting back.”
Many protested. She raised a single finger. "As a native, and one with power, I have a right to speak here before the council."
“You mistake my intentions if you think I want chaos,” the regent said. “Chaos burns too fast. I prefer order. Clean lines. Predictable growth. People who arrive grateful and leave quietly.”
Her gaze swept the council, measuring. “Moral decay is a myth,” she added. “What you call decay is simply the shedding of inconvenient attachments.” She leaned forward slightly, conspiratorial now. “And once attachment is gone, power moves easily.” The glare of distant towers flickered in her eyes, reflected like stars. “I do not rule by force,” she said. “I rule by comfort—by aspiration! By convincing everyone that what replaces them is better than what they were.” Her smile returned, sharper this time.
“Brooklyn is only a beginning,” Sophia Regent concluded. “It is proof of concept.”
She sat back down, composed, satisfied, already planning the next place that would be made soft enough to take.
Addressing the council once more, Callum stood before the gathered council, helm tucked beneath his arm, eyes bright with urgency.
“Word has reached us at the Brooklyn Borough Master's residence—and I am sure most of you are aware that a werewolf and tigress are on the loose—both escaped from Mishka's traveling circus which passed through Cobble Hill just a few hours ago. We are all well aware of the dangers that this poses—especially with the full-moon approaching! A team has been assembled to retrieve the tigress and address her handlers. Another issue, the BrookNaw Canines are restless and in mourning! Sasha, their alpha female was murdered—details of her death are unknown at this time. We must watch the pack closely! Magi are already predicting chaos and bloodshed! We know that Hakim reared and steered the pack away from human flesh, but their son is grieving—the pack is grieving! Something was taken from them, and grief makes even the disciplined reckless.”
"And where is Hakim?" An older commander leaned forward, fingers steepled. Callum, head down, kept silent. "MIA." Murmurs spread through the hall.
Callum paused, letting the weight of his words settle. He drew a slow breath before continuing. “Mongreg magic lives! Morin Murrow—long thought gone beyond the veil—has returned! He's been traveling with Mishka, ringmaster of the traveling circus, affiliated with Russian gangsters. We believe his work is honest, but then again, this is Morin. A source relayed he's returned for his lover, bound to him by a magic older than any order or faction.
“You’ve done well to bring this to us early,” the older commander said. “A grieving pack is more dangerous than a hungry one, and escaped beasts always draw attention. If Morin has taken up his mantle again, he would have broken an ancient law, and his consequence will follow!"
“And there are deeper stirrings still,” Callum retorted. “Two entities have begun to awaken, both tied to a residence on Wyckoff Street. The block appears ordinary, but my compatriots and I are unnerved by what lingers in that house; it's a hub of terrible power!
A robed figure nodded slowly, eyes unfocused as if listening to something unseen.
“The awakenings align,” they murmured. “Grief calls to power. Love calls louder still! If Morin searches for his beloved and is joined with them, he can be taken off the board all together! Love is a great tool which has the power to disarm and transform..."
Callum's tone dropped to near reverence. “Mountains of brick and poured concrete tremble! A dragon lives above the Gowanus Projects, a fire drake.” Callum straightened, meeting the council's eyes one by one. “These are not isolated events! They are threads of the same weaving! We stand at the edge of something vast—and if we do not act with wisdom as well as strength, we may become part of the storm rather than those who weather it. I cannot stress the seriousness of the manner!”
A noble scoffed, shaking his head. “Stories stacked on stories,” he said. “A circus animal, a fairy tale wizard, a dragon above our heads? This sounds less like intelligence and more like a bard’s rehearsal.” He waved a hand. “We cannot mobilize forces every time the wind carries a rumor. Bring proof—or bring silence!”
Reserved, a young woman stepped forward. “My name is Nachelle. My people are connected to Order of the Leo—I am of the Order of the Leo! I’ve trained with Callum,” she said, nodding toward him. “He doesn’t imagine threats. If he says something is stirring, then it already has claws in the earthly realm and a foot hold in the unseen dimension.” She squared her shoulders. “I stand with him!”
Above the council, a train roared past, unaware. A siren wailed and faded. The city breathed. When the meeting ended, there were no handshakes, no farewells, but rather commitments to Brooklyn and the other boroughs; a resolve to meet and stand against whatever evil that would come. One by one, the members and Preservationists dispersed—into shadows, into service tunnels, through portals into unknown dimensions; back onto New York streets. By morning, the chamber would be empty again, just another forgotten space beneath millions of footsteps. And the City would go on, oblivious that for a few hours, its future had been argued over quietly by beings who understood just how fragile life really was.
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