Joel
05-26-2003, 06:06 PM
Hi everyone,
recently, I started writing my own Max Payne fan fiction story. It was looking like a really good full fledged story, but with year 12 commitments, it was evident I would never find the time to finish it before the PC release of the sequel. That's why I want to propose this. Instead of me just writing a story for everyone to read, I want to make it interactive on this message board. How? Well, i've written the first chapter which will set the foundations of the story. Once you've read it, it's then someone's turn to write the next chapter and take the story to the next level. My only worry is that someone will stuff the story by writing something really stupid; but, we're amongst fans so it shouldn't be a problem. So how about it? We'll make it fairly lengthy, lets say that part 1 will have....8 Chapters? See how we go. Here's the first chapter:
****Max Payne: Crimson Moonlight*********
Part 1- Drop dead, gorgeous.
Chapter 1- My second life.
Nothing more than an abandoned wasteland. Papers scattered all over the floor, my untidy bed, the desk in shambles. Meet my office. For two weeks I had planned to clean this mess up. It’s amazing how much you say you will commit yourself to do something but end up never doing it. But that was me- all the more I wanted to do something, the less likely of me doing it. I was all talk and no walk. I haven’t always been that way. But at the moment, I was too busy visiting the other side of town. The part of New York I enjoyed. Café’s and that sort of crap. I was amazed that I could afford this sort of lifestyle. But if you’re desperate enough for something, you somehow end up getting it.
Anytime soon, I am expecting my land lord, Chuck to kick my down my door down by the hinges, throw me against the wall and demand my rent money and expect me to pay for the repairs of the door. Yes, I’ve seen better days, but there’s always been far more worse.
A year had passed since my first turbulent case, one whole year since New York’s worst blizzard. Although the worst had passed, the pain was still there. Looking at the photos of Michelle and the baby on my desk brought tears to my eyes from time to time. Their perfect, harmonious smile fabricated the real tragedy that took place. In resolving that tragedy, I was a fugitive, a killer on the run brining down the mob and Nicole Horne, CEO of Aeiser Corporation, a very respected billion dollar company. The violence was inordinate, but there was no other solution. Not only was I trying to find a means to cure the pain, but in good faith, I was doing a job for Alfred Woden, a member of the inner circle. True to his word, when the police apprehended me, I was looked after. Alfred stepped into the office with that distinctive smug smile and eye-patch. As it turned out, I was off the hook. He gave me an office in downtown New York where he felt my Bogart style talents would fall into place; being a private investigator.
Being a Private Investigator wasn’t a very profitable trade. In fact it was woeful. Emotionally hollow, here I am, unemployed, broke and my only companions that accompany me are cigarettes and alcohol. I’ve come a long way, though.
Looking in the mirror, I wasn’t quite the looker. My hair was like a birds nest, there were faint shadows across my face from where I needed to have a shave were growing. I needed to overhaul my routine. My mild skin had also seen better days. After mourning and weeping, I put an old suit, had a quick shave and neatened up my hair. My office is small connecting to a fire escape in the alleyway. For me, it is the main entrance and exit to my apartment. The other exit that is adjoining to the main hallway was a no-go zone for me. Nine times out of ten, Chuck (the landlord) would catch me and demand to see some money. But there is only so long I can avoid him by camping out in my apartment.
There’s a closet built into the wall that holds all my clothes, the same wall that has the entrance to the hallway. This same wall also has my ensuite that has the basic trimmings; basin, toilet and shower. So, if you can imagine there a three doors on the one wall. This wall is opposite the window wall that is facing the street. My desk faces the fire escape entrance, behind me is my computer, filing cabinet and fax machine. I also keep a hansom bookcase with not just books but different types of ornaments and decorations. Finally, next to the window is my bed. This consists of a blanket and a bed sheet sitting on top of a banana lounge- perfect for me.
I stand up and decide to see what was happening down on the street. It looks very quiet. Across the street is the newsstand, next to that is the Pawn Shop and then the alleyway followed by The Orsino Bar. On my side of the street is my apartment building, to the right is a shop soon to be opened up, next to that, a hair dresser and finally the Esplanade café.
I turn back to my desk where my books and stationary items are. However that isn’t what catches my attention. A bottle of whisky sits on my desk, the bottle whispers in the most subtle tones “Drink me, drink me.” I am overcome by temptation, I pick the bottle up, unscrew the lid and take a quick swig. I hate warm alcohol; I hate it with a vengeance. But it’s in my system now so I can’t complain. After all, nobody is listening.
To my surprise there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in” I say as I stand up and straiten my jacket on my shoulders. The door opens and a drop-dead gorgeous woman comes in. Blonde hair tied back in a ponytail stopping just above her shoulders, wearing glasses with sharp, tight, sharp features in a sexy business suit; jacket, button up shirt and a short skirt stopping on her thighs with black zip-up leather slim boots stopping just below her knee-caps.
“Mr. Payne I presume?” She asks poking her head in the door.
“Depends who’s asking.” I said.
She follows in and closes the door behind her holding a folder. “My name is Kirsten Miles, I’m with the FBI.” She said with a serious tone while possessing a badge and then concealing it into her jacket.
“Come in, take a seat, Ms. Miles. Call me Max.” I prompted. She sat down and removed her glasses, folding them into her top jacket inner pocket. “So what can I do you for?”
“I know quite a lot about you, Max. You seem to have quite a reputation and I could use some of your unique abilities.”
“Depends which one of these unique abilities you’re referring to.” I gave back to her.
Kirsten gave a sarcastic s******. “I’m sure you have many, Mr. Payne. But I’m referring to those ones you used to track and hunt down the Punchenello Crime family. According to your reputation, you also bought Aeser Corporation to its knees. Your talent isn’t common. But I suppose losing your family to V-head junkies would give you the adrenalin to perform as you did.”
She knew my history a little more than the media could afford to. She’d approached someone for this job earlier but must have referred them onto me. But who? Alfred Woden, Jim Bravura?
“How do you know so much about me?”
“I have my sources. Nevertheless, I could use someone like you. This case is in your field. I’m willing to pay you $400 plus expenses should you succeed.” Her gaze darted right into my eyes. She was dead serious.
“It sounds tempting. But I won’t mince words, I don’t like secrets. I want to know where you got the information.”
“I cannot tell you Mr. Payne. You’re on a need to know basis. If I were you, I’d take this job since you don’t seem to be too well off.”
“You don’t seem to even attempt at being innocuous. I’ll play the game but I’ll expect some answers along the way.” I was willing to make a compromise, but it was a promise on her account that could easily be breached.
“Very well.” She said opening her folder and putting it on the table. “One of our agents, special agent Thomas Datner.” She said whilst handing me a dossier on the missing agent. Information like his photo, age, contact number, address and any other administrative data relating to his position at the FBI was there.
“How long has he been missing for?”
“A week and a half. We’re not sure of the case he was working on and he’s not answering his phone or email. We send agents over to his home, no luck. His car is nowhere to be seen either on his property or in the FBI car park. He’s one of our most trusted agents, we’re very concerned.”
Looking at the photo closely, he had dark hair and haizel eyes with a confident smile on his face. I could picture this guy one day being the Director of operations at the FBI. Also in the folder was a history of his career to date. It was filled with dozens of auspicious achievements which held him to good stead. He was only thirty-two years of age.
“Would there be a reason for him to simply run away? Anything obvious like marriage problems or stress at work.”
“Datner wasn’t married and he seemed to be quite capable and in control at work.”
“Did you know him personally?”
“We had done some work together. Like I said, he was very competent and had an approach to investigations that was just about flawless. He gave me no hints that he needed to go away or anything like that.”
“Did he have a partner as in a fellow agent he was teamed up with?”
“Hmmm, no, not particularly. They seemed to assign him to cases that the Director felt that was in his capable hands.”
“So why is it that you want me to investigate this disappearance? I mean, it seems incredibly internal for someone non-related to the FBI.”
“It’s a private investigation. The FBI haven’t found time to do it, they’ve wiped their hands clean. This is partly why you’re on a need to know basis.”
“I can’t guarantee I’ll find this man. This is over my head.”
“Then I can’t guarantee your payment, Mr. Payne. I cannot emphasize the importance of this. If you’re not interested tell me now.”
“I’ll take the case. How long do I have?”
“Seven days.” She said and then reached into her purse. “Here’s $800. You’ll get the $2000 if you can get me Datner.”
“If he’s dead?”
“Then our cause joins him, Mr. Payne.”
“I told you to call me Max.”
“I’d like to keep our relationship as professional if you don’t mind.”
“I have no problems with that, Kirsten.” I said with a self-righteous smile.
She then handed me a card with her office and mobile phone number on it. “Should anything turn up, make sure I’m the first to know. If you need any leads or information don’t hesitate to ring.”
“Sure.” I said while writing down my number on a bit of paper. “My office and mobile.”
“We’ll be in touch.” She said and then stood up and left.
Then she was gone. Her sweet scent had vacated my office with her. Did that conversation even happen? I thought to myself. I held the cash in my hand like a blessing. I could now pay off Chuck which would remove a big load off my shoulders and make him happy. Perhaps things are looking good after all.
I opened the drawer in my desk and get my trusty Beretta, the weapon that had kept me safe all these years. Always loaded and ready for action, I tucked it into my gun holster.
Since I didn’t know what Datner’s case was, it would make sense to check out his residence for clues, maybe the police had overlooked something. It seemed as though Datner was an independent man. In fact, it almost sounded as if he worked in isolation a lot of the time and was used as a fill in agent for the occasional assignment. I have a feeling that not many other people would know more than what I know now.
I left my office, walking down the hallway, decorated with cheap paintings with half flickering light bulbs in the roof. I was $800 richer. I thump my fists on Chuck’s door; the stench of bad odor seeping through the cracks of the door. The door opens with Chuck standing there, a brown stained singlet, track pants and thongs with a hint of stomach hanging over his waist line. He seemed to be sweating with a cigar in his mouth. In the background, cheap disco music coming from his TV could be heard with orgasmic sounds to follow. It was just like him on a hot day to watch a low-budget porno.
“Waddya want?” he snarled.
“I won’t take much of your time, just thought you’d like your $200 rent money.” I said literally shoving two one hundred dollar bills into his chest. His eyes lit up and he became animated.
“Not bad, Payne, not bad at all. I have an all new respect for you…until next week. Now beat it!” he said slamming the door in my face.
Until next week you fat bastard… I whispered.
recently, I started writing my own Max Payne fan fiction story. It was looking like a really good full fledged story, but with year 12 commitments, it was evident I would never find the time to finish it before the PC release of the sequel. That's why I want to propose this. Instead of me just writing a story for everyone to read, I want to make it interactive on this message board. How? Well, i've written the first chapter which will set the foundations of the story. Once you've read it, it's then someone's turn to write the next chapter and take the story to the next level. My only worry is that someone will stuff the story by writing something really stupid; but, we're amongst fans so it shouldn't be a problem. So how about it? We'll make it fairly lengthy, lets say that part 1 will have....8 Chapters? See how we go. Here's the first chapter:
****Max Payne: Crimson Moonlight*********
Part 1- Drop dead, gorgeous.
Chapter 1- My second life.
Nothing more than an abandoned wasteland. Papers scattered all over the floor, my untidy bed, the desk in shambles. Meet my office. For two weeks I had planned to clean this mess up. It’s amazing how much you say you will commit yourself to do something but end up never doing it. But that was me- all the more I wanted to do something, the less likely of me doing it. I was all talk and no walk. I haven’t always been that way. But at the moment, I was too busy visiting the other side of town. The part of New York I enjoyed. Café’s and that sort of crap. I was amazed that I could afford this sort of lifestyle. But if you’re desperate enough for something, you somehow end up getting it.
Anytime soon, I am expecting my land lord, Chuck to kick my down my door down by the hinges, throw me against the wall and demand my rent money and expect me to pay for the repairs of the door. Yes, I’ve seen better days, but there’s always been far more worse.
A year had passed since my first turbulent case, one whole year since New York’s worst blizzard. Although the worst had passed, the pain was still there. Looking at the photos of Michelle and the baby on my desk brought tears to my eyes from time to time. Their perfect, harmonious smile fabricated the real tragedy that took place. In resolving that tragedy, I was a fugitive, a killer on the run brining down the mob and Nicole Horne, CEO of Aeiser Corporation, a very respected billion dollar company. The violence was inordinate, but there was no other solution. Not only was I trying to find a means to cure the pain, but in good faith, I was doing a job for Alfred Woden, a member of the inner circle. True to his word, when the police apprehended me, I was looked after. Alfred stepped into the office with that distinctive smug smile and eye-patch. As it turned out, I was off the hook. He gave me an office in downtown New York where he felt my Bogart style talents would fall into place; being a private investigator.
Being a Private Investigator wasn’t a very profitable trade. In fact it was woeful. Emotionally hollow, here I am, unemployed, broke and my only companions that accompany me are cigarettes and alcohol. I’ve come a long way, though.
Looking in the mirror, I wasn’t quite the looker. My hair was like a birds nest, there were faint shadows across my face from where I needed to have a shave were growing. I needed to overhaul my routine. My mild skin had also seen better days. After mourning and weeping, I put an old suit, had a quick shave and neatened up my hair. My office is small connecting to a fire escape in the alleyway. For me, it is the main entrance and exit to my apartment. The other exit that is adjoining to the main hallway was a no-go zone for me. Nine times out of ten, Chuck (the landlord) would catch me and demand to see some money. But there is only so long I can avoid him by camping out in my apartment.
There’s a closet built into the wall that holds all my clothes, the same wall that has the entrance to the hallway. This same wall also has my ensuite that has the basic trimmings; basin, toilet and shower. So, if you can imagine there a three doors on the one wall. This wall is opposite the window wall that is facing the street. My desk faces the fire escape entrance, behind me is my computer, filing cabinet and fax machine. I also keep a hansom bookcase with not just books but different types of ornaments and decorations. Finally, next to the window is my bed. This consists of a blanket and a bed sheet sitting on top of a banana lounge- perfect for me.
I stand up and decide to see what was happening down on the street. It looks very quiet. Across the street is the newsstand, next to that is the Pawn Shop and then the alleyway followed by The Orsino Bar. On my side of the street is my apartment building, to the right is a shop soon to be opened up, next to that, a hair dresser and finally the Esplanade café.
I turn back to my desk where my books and stationary items are. However that isn’t what catches my attention. A bottle of whisky sits on my desk, the bottle whispers in the most subtle tones “Drink me, drink me.” I am overcome by temptation, I pick the bottle up, unscrew the lid and take a quick swig. I hate warm alcohol; I hate it with a vengeance. But it’s in my system now so I can’t complain. After all, nobody is listening.
To my surprise there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in” I say as I stand up and straiten my jacket on my shoulders. The door opens and a drop-dead gorgeous woman comes in. Blonde hair tied back in a ponytail stopping just above her shoulders, wearing glasses with sharp, tight, sharp features in a sexy business suit; jacket, button up shirt and a short skirt stopping on her thighs with black zip-up leather slim boots stopping just below her knee-caps.
“Mr. Payne I presume?” She asks poking her head in the door.
“Depends who’s asking.” I said.
She follows in and closes the door behind her holding a folder. “My name is Kirsten Miles, I’m with the FBI.” She said with a serious tone while possessing a badge and then concealing it into her jacket.
“Come in, take a seat, Ms. Miles. Call me Max.” I prompted. She sat down and removed her glasses, folding them into her top jacket inner pocket. “So what can I do you for?”
“I know quite a lot about you, Max. You seem to have quite a reputation and I could use some of your unique abilities.”
“Depends which one of these unique abilities you’re referring to.” I gave back to her.
Kirsten gave a sarcastic s******. “I’m sure you have many, Mr. Payne. But I’m referring to those ones you used to track and hunt down the Punchenello Crime family. According to your reputation, you also bought Aeser Corporation to its knees. Your talent isn’t common. But I suppose losing your family to V-head junkies would give you the adrenalin to perform as you did.”
She knew my history a little more than the media could afford to. She’d approached someone for this job earlier but must have referred them onto me. But who? Alfred Woden, Jim Bravura?
“How do you know so much about me?”
“I have my sources. Nevertheless, I could use someone like you. This case is in your field. I’m willing to pay you $400 plus expenses should you succeed.” Her gaze darted right into my eyes. She was dead serious.
“It sounds tempting. But I won’t mince words, I don’t like secrets. I want to know where you got the information.”
“I cannot tell you Mr. Payne. You’re on a need to know basis. If I were you, I’d take this job since you don’t seem to be too well off.”
“You don’t seem to even attempt at being innocuous. I’ll play the game but I’ll expect some answers along the way.” I was willing to make a compromise, but it was a promise on her account that could easily be breached.
“Very well.” She said opening her folder and putting it on the table. “One of our agents, special agent Thomas Datner.” She said whilst handing me a dossier on the missing agent. Information like his photo, age, contact number, address and any other administrative data relating to his position at the FBI was there.
“How long has he been missing for?”
“A week and a half. We’re not sure of the case he was working on and he’s not answering his phone or email. We send agents over to his home, no luck. His car is nowhere to be seen either on his property or in the FBI car park. He’s one of our most trusted agents, we’re very concerned.”
Looking at the photo closely, he had dark hair and haizel eyes with a confident smile on his face. I could picture this guy one day being the Director of operations at the FBI. Also in the folder was a history of his career to date. It was filled with dozens of auspicious achievements which held him to good stead. He was only thirty-two years of age.
“Would there be a reason for him to simply run away? Anything obvious like marriage problems or stress at work.”
“Datner wasn’t married and he seemed to be quite capable and in control at work.”
“Did you know him personally?”
“We had done some work together. Like I said, he was very competent and had an approach to investigations that was just about flawless. He gave me no hints that he needed to go away or anything like that.”
“Did he have a partner as in a fellow agent he was teamed up with?”
“Hmmm, no, not particularly. They seemed to assign him to cases that the Director felt that was in his capable hands.”
“So why is it that you want me to investigate this disappearance? I mean, it seems incredibly internal for someone non-related to the FBI.”
“It’s a private investigation. The FBI haven’t found time to do it, they’ve wiped their hands clean. This is partly why you’re on a need to know basis.”
“I can’t guarantee I’ll find this man. This is over my head.”
“Then I can’t guarantee your payment, Mr. Payne. I cannot emphasize the importance of this. If you’re not interested tell me now.”
“I’ll take the case. How long do I have?”
“Seven days.” She said and then reached into her purse. “Here’s $800. You’ll get the $2000 if you can get me Datner.”
“If he’s dead?”
“Then our cause joins him, Mr. Payne.”
“I told you to call me Max.”
“I’d like to keep our relationship as professional if you don’t mind.”
“I have no problems with that, Kirsten.” I said with a self-righteous smile.
She then handed me a card with her office and mobile phone number on it. “Should anything turn up, make sure I’m the first to know. If you need any leads or information don’t hesitate to ring.”
“Sure.” I said while writing down my number on a bit of paper. “My office and mobile.”
“We’ll be in touch.” She said and then stood up and left.
Then she was gone. Her sweet scent had vacated my office with her. Did that conversation even happen? I thought to myself. I held the cash in my hand like a blessing. I could now pay off Chuck which would remove a big load off my shoulders and make him happy. Perhaps things are looking good after all.
I opened the drawer in my desk and get my trusty Beretta, the weapon that had kept me safe all these years. Always loaded and ready for action, I tucked it into my gun holster.
Since I didn’t know what Datner’s case was, it would make sense to check out his residence for clues, maybe the police had overlooked something. It seemed as though Datner was an independent man. In fact, it almost sounded as if he worked in isolation a lot of the time and was used as a fill in agent for the occasional assignment. I have a feeling that not many other people would know more than what I know now.
I left my office, walking down the hallway, decorated with cheap paintings with half flickering light bulbs in the roof. I was $800 richer. I thump my fists on Chuck’s door; the stench of bad odor seeping through the cracks of the door. The door opens with Chuck standing there, a brown stained singlet, track pants and thongs with a hint of stomach hanging over his waist line. He seemed to be sweating with a cigar in his mouth. In the background, cheap disco music coming from his TV could be heard with orgasmic sounds to follow. It was just like him on a hot day to watch a low-budget porno.
“Waddya want?” he snarled.
“I won’t take much of your time, just thought you’d like your $200 rent money.” I said literally shoving two one hundred dollar bills into his chest. His eyes lit up and he became animated.
“Not bad, Payne, not bad at all. I have an all new respect for you…until next week. Now beat it!” he said slamming the door in my face.
Until next week you fat bastard… I whispered.