I mentioned I might have to take a trip to the UK. Well, fiddle dee dee, life makes a mock of us all. I shall be getting on a plane this week, which means no posts for two, three weeks after this one. Family stuff. I shan't go too deep into it except to say that, if you have any Bournemouth recommendations, I should like to hear them. Not that I expect to have much free time, but it's nice to have options.
This week's post is inspired by recent events in Monaco.
A Ukrainian plutocrat was targeted by foreign assassins and very nearly blown to pieces. The target, Vadym Iermolaiev, managed to avoid death while his wife and their 13-year-old child suffered injuries. The wife seems to have been the most seriously injured. Monaco, famous for its security and serenity, is shocked to its core. Such things just don't happen there. Those security cameras are there for a reason; it ought to be impossible to do anything dastardly in Monaco.
The alleged assassin, 39-year-old Anastasiia Berezovska, was later found dead in what can only be described as suspicious circumstances. It would not be difficult to imagine this as an espionage operation gone horribly wrong.
To that end:
The Fearless Vampire Killers
Roman Polanski's Fearless Vampire Killers
The agents, either Edom or Edom-adjacent, are called in to trace a bomber.
The bomber managed to blow a hole in one of Monaco's exclusive apartment buildings, injuring two, one of whom is still severely injured and in hospital while the other, suffering minor injuries only, has been released.
The alleged target of the bombing. Cypriot billionaire Chris Dravot, is in seclusion aboard a superyacht in Monaco's Port Hercules. No visitors, no press. Dravot suffered only minor injuries, according to the media.
The more seriously injured victim is supposed to be his wife, Monica. However, agents who poke around that yacht discover that she's aboard too, and perfectly healthy. It was another person altogether who suffered grave injuries, and that person is Edom's own Hound.
If the agents follow up on this they discover that the injured 'wife' was supposedly transferred to a military hospital in Germany, after her crypto billionaire 'husband' pulled some strings. Only the best for his beloved, after all. Except the injured party never got to Germany. They were sent straight to Proserpine, where Seward is now working to save her life.
Of course, the agents aren't told any of this. They're just told to trace the bomber, capture alive, and interrogate.
Cue Thrilling Chase scene across Europe, ideally finishing up in a forest in Romania - Hoia-Baciu. There the agents discover the bomber's handlers, agents of Romania's security services, Serviciul Informatii de Externe. They have an underground bunker in Hoia-Baciu, where they plan to carry out their own debrief of the bomber.
Turns out the Romanians believe Hound, and by extension Edom, has been turned to the Conspiracy. This operation was supposed to be a proof-of-concept, and the bomb was loaded with vampiric banes. The more injured the target, the more likely that the target is (preferably was) a vampire, or at least a Renfield.
The only person who knows exactly what went down in Monaco on the day is the bomber, and if the agents don't hurry up and get her back the folks from Serviciul Informatii de Externe are going to solve that problem permanently.
I come to bury Caesar not to praise him, I suppose, since by all accounts Humphrey Smith is someone I would not get on with, had I met him.
He did run a damn good chain of pubs, mind.
You'll know them if you've ever been in one. Sam Smiths pubs (Samuel being the Smith who inherited the chain back in the 1880s and made it what it is) are unique. They serve their own stuff, exclusively. No televisions, no mobile phones, loud noises and swearing discouraged. Often the pub is in a listed (or at least architecturally interesting) building or has a storied history.
The Cheshire Cheese, for instance, is one of my favorite places in London, It's Fleet Street's pub. Generations of journos have gotten quietly pickled there. It turns up in A Tale of Two Cities. Dr. Johnson, Mark Twain, Voltaire, Tennyson, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - they've all stood at that bar.
Since this is a family-owned concern and since there are still Smiths in the mix I'm going to cross my fingers and say that the brewery will survive. Whether the children will take the same personal interest their father did in the business is an open question. My understanding is that the old fellow used to haunt his pubs like some kind of roving specter. He was not above closing pubs down if something displeased him, and he could be displeased by, say, social media posts. Which seems ... petty. A bit unchristian.
Grinchian.
Once shut, Sam Smiths tend to stay shut. After all, the brewery owns the building. It can do as it likes with its property.
Who knows what the future will bring? A breath of fresh air, a change in ownership, something else? I may be in the UK again soon, unexpectedly, and if so will try to stop by a Sam Smiths before I fly home.
From a roleplay perspective, having a location that remains essentially the same over decades, centuries, is a useful tool. Particularly if it's as unique and identifiable as a Sam Smith's. You can't mistake those for anything other than they are. No TV, no swearing, no socials - it's almost the antithesis of a modern pub.
Many have frosted windows and stained glass decorations. The interiors often have either brown or beige painted walls, or elaborate wall paper. Some have notable interiors such as the Crown Inn in Wetherby which has furniture by Robert Thompson or the Princess Louise in High Holborn with booths around the bar. Many of the pubs owned by the company, including many that it has acquired since the 1970s, are empty
Speaking personally I can recommend the Princess Louise. Been there many a time. Very cozy place.
Let's add some RPG elements and say we're talking about The Bull, an East End boozer I mentioned before in connection with NBA:
East End boozer near Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park and on the edge of Limehouse, West India Docks, narrowly missed by Nazi bombs during the war and now a hangout for peculiar characters of all kinds.
Owned by: Ex-IRA (silent partner).
Publican of record: Charlie Brown (not the Charlie Brown), someone who everybody knows. The police may or may not realize he's a front for the Ex-IRA. Edom certainly knows.
The Brewer: Bowman Brewery, vans coming and going at odd hours.
Watched by EDOM via Maggie Canter, Church Scavenger (p96 Field Manual).
In this version, Bowman Brewery is a stand-in for Sam Smiths. Which means the Bull is like many another Sam Smiths pub. It lacks modern features, has no telly, no fruit machines, swearing is discouraged and the publican lives in fear of that fateful day when a beady-eyed old man walks in the door.
If Sam Smiths aka Bowman owns the place then, logically, the ex-IRA doesn't. He's very much a silent partner of Charlie's. He helped Charlie Brown out of a hole a few years back and now the publican serves two masters. He owes Bowman his job and livelihood; he owes the ex-IRA everything else. Bit of a tightrope walk, that.
Incidentally, this is the kind of thing I think of as quintessentially English. Not rolling countryside or fish and chips; this kind of my-way-or-the-highway thinking, where cutting off your nose to spite your face is standard practice.
New Face
Charlie Brown has a problem. One he can't reach out to his silent partner about, one he dare not talk to Bowman's about, but a problem nonetheless.
There's a new face at the pub.
This is a regular's pub; new faces stand out at the Bull. This one's been coming by once a week, every week, for about a month. Charlie knows them well enough to start pouring out the beer as soon as they walk in the door.
Here's the thing: whoever this new face is, they're not new. At least, not new to the Bull.
Charlie first became aware of this when he noticed a photo up on the wall. It's the same old thing Charlie's walked past once a day every day for his entire working life, without paying the slightest mind. Today he glanced at it, then took a closer look.
There they are. The new face. One of a celebratory group, back in the 1970s.
They haven't aged a day.
Perhaps Charlie can persuade someone to help him explain his dilemma?
Option One: A Misunderstanding
They're not the person in the photo. They're the child of, who happens to look exactly like. Except this isn't a coincidence. The new face is looking for more information about bartender Duncan MacNeil, arrested in the 1970s in connection with a string of slasher murders in the area. MacNeil killed himself before trial. The new face is convinced MacNeil wasn't the killer, that the killer still lives, and is one of the Bull's regulars. Are they right? If so, who?
Option Two: Poor Lighting
The lights either don’t work properly or are being interfered with in some way. Lights are seen on when they shouldn’t be and flicker off without warning. Tradition has it that this is ‘the spook’ monkeying with the electrics. Funny thing; this has been happening more and more often now the new face has shown up. In fact, the only reason Charlie noticed the photo is because the lights happened to go just as he was walking by, and the picture caught the reflected light - or at least, that's how Charlie explains that odd glow. What connection has the new face with the spook?
Option Three: Dead Man Walking
The new face is supernaturally inclined, either a Renfield or something of similar power level, and is here on a mission from one of the campaign's third parties (e.g. the Alraune). Perhaps it's some kind of diplomatic gesture, perhaps it's enemy action. Either way, the Bull has become the center of everyone's attention. The new face isn't the only one in that photograph who's about to come back for a return visit, but if the characters don't figure out why then things could get very messy.
I'm not a visual thinker. If I want to describe a scene I don't picture the far-off hills or the shadowed forest paths. I suspect one of the reasons why I go for the Rule of 4 and Rome is that these rules force you to think about what goes into the soup, to create a recipe. That recipe can be made to fit different paradigms, but it's the same recipe. The recipe used to make tiramisu can be adapted to make ice cream. Theoretically the recipe used to make carbonara can also be adapted to make ice cream, but I make no promises as to taste. Eggy, though. Creamy. With a hit of salt and umami.
Drawing leaves me cold. Forcing the recipe to fit into a particular box is no fun. I appreciate the necessity. Not everyone thinks the way I do, and some people need the formula.
Ratatouille
Yes, there is a flow to the diagram. It directs along certain lines and paths. Theoretically you can refer to it when in need to provide a sense of plot direction. But because it's not how I work or think, I find this kind of thing frustrating. So long as your technique is on-point you should be able to flow with the recipe and embrace the end result.
But!
Let's think about this from a design perspective.
Let's say this is a murder mystery, It doesn't matter, for this example, whether it's a locked-room puzzle, a cozy, a whodunnit or some other kind of mystery. There is a body on the floor and our heroes have to find out how it got there, and why.
The body is the opening scene. Theoretically there can be a scene prior to this where the characters are introduced to the victim before they hit the floor, find out a little about them, what-have-you. But for purpose of this example the body is the opening scene.
From that scene, questions follow.
What did they die of?
How was the means of death administered?
When was the means of death administered?
Who had the opportunity, means or motive to administer the means of death?
Some of these questions can be answered in the opening scene. If the victim's head was bashed in, and there's a bloody crowbar lying nearby, safe to say you've found out what they died of and how means of death was administered. You may also have eliminated the weedy secretary from the list of suspects, since it would take significant upper-body strength to do what's been done and the secretary's arms are scrawny.
That said ... suppose the victim was poisoned first and lying on the ground. A toxicology report would show that one way or the other, as might blood splatter. The weedy secretary might be back in play, since it would be easier to do what's been done while the victim's lying face-down. In fact, since that's the only way the weedy secretary might have done it, and that's the way it was done, signs are beginning to point in a weedy direction ...
Point being, each of these questions can be a scene in and of themselves, which means they all need a spot on the diagram. What began with one box becomes many, with arrows pointing hither and thither.
Let's start with two boxes.
One is the opening scene. The inciting incident. Call it what you will.
The other is the end scene. However the detectives get there, this is where they'll end up. The murderer revealed.
All those boxes in the middle? Some of them are set dressing, some red herrings. Notice in the drawing above that the boxes are color-coded and shaped in a particular way. That allows me to see at a glance which scenes are directly relevant to the plot and which not.
There will always be something interesting to do in any scene. Whether or not the interesting thing is also plot-relevant ... well, Doctor Watson's in Sherlock Holmes for a reason. Without him, the stories would be a boring recitation. This-is-how-it-was-done. Yawn, But, with him, a plot-relevant character wanders in and out of intriguing situations, finding things out. Not all those things are as important as they seem at the time, but they all seem important at the time. Eye-catching.
So, to sum up: the diagram might look like a spaghetti nightmare. Nevertheless, it follows a recipe. It has the same rule of 4 and Rome as any other plot. Difference being, it fits those things and Rome into a skeleton which can be referred to, as needed, to give you a sense of plot direction.
The important things remain the same, Something interesting to do must be in each and every scene, whether it's set dressing, a red herring, or something else.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some drawing to do.
a ghost town is more than just a few forms. I think of it in these terms: first a town loses its ability, then its vitality, and shortly after that it becomes a ghost
Here's another practical example, inspired by various internet posts but particularly this one.
Goussainville, Val-d'Oise is close to Paris and was at one time an ordinary place. Then someone built an airport next door. Air and noise pollution was bad enough, but then a Russian aircraft crashed during a show killing several residents, all the air crew, and destroying a portion of the town. What was already a steady decrease in population became a flood, and the old town emptied out.
An architectural wrinkle prevents significant regeneration. The 14th century church of St Paul and St Peter at the heart of Goussainville is protected by the state. Neither it nor any building within 500 meters can be altered in any significant way. While parts of Goussainville are thriving, the old town is a graffiti-pocked shell of its former self.
I think of ghost towns in small sandbox terms. There may or may not be a convenient central hub - a general store, an inn, a church - but the town's story is scattered roundabout, which means there will be different kinds of experiences to be had.
That's what we're looking at here. There is a central hub - the church, the abandoned mansion, the old supermarket - but the ghost town's story is scattered across several locations. If they want to follow up on certain angles (the Russian plane crash, eg) they might have to leave the town altogether and go hunting in old archives. Perhaps they'll find old television footage:
Perhaps they'll find first responders or former government employees, now long retired to [somewhere far away from here] who have vivid memories of the event. Perhaps this, perhaps that, but the central point is that the story is large and will be found in several locations, not all of which are obvious.
Let's give this an Esoterror angle.
To The Devil A Daughter: Bundyclub, France
Bundyclub, from the Esoterrorists main book, is a group of otherwise unconnected people who become serial killers under the direction of John Michael Loehr, a ringleader figure who communicates with all of them online. The group began as killer fans, and later, under Loehr's direction, become killers.
Bundyclub acquires an international dimension when Loehr contacts a Frenchman, Gabin Bazin, through the same internet forum.
Bazin's fascinated by killer Marcel Barbeault, aka The Shadow, who Bazin believes committed at least one murder in Goussainville: Bazin's mother, Esme. Bazin believes the murder was never solved, at least in part, because of the plane crash which interrupted the investigation.
Loher's corpsejabber controller 'Maria' perked up when Bazin's dead mother was mentioned in chat. Could Bazin be tempted down the same path as Loehr, becoming the center of a French Esoterror daughter cell?
It's been two years since that initial contact. Now Bazin has a corpse on his back and a murder basement in one of the abandoned buildings in Goussainville. Like Loher, Bazin has been gathering like-minded individuals online. They plan their first killing soon. A target in Paris has been picked out.
However, unlike Loher Bazin hasn't quite mastered the dark arts of internet security, and the French authorities have picked up his trail. The OV is dropped a hint: somewhere in Goussainville a dark secret is hid, but where exactly - and what?
OK, last week it was all about the books and blu-ray. This week it's the RPG stuff.
Cranfield was ... odd ... in the vendor hall department. I mean, the establishment's huge. But the vendor section was a room behind the bar. Nice room. It got a little hot in there, not much air flowing through. I wouldn't want to be in there all day. Drifted in and out a couple times, was tempted by this and that, thought of my suitcase with tears in its nonexistent eyes, that sort of thing.
Yes, I know. I know! But some temptations can't be resisted. I really admire Aaronovich's work. That's why I agreed to write for the setting, but I never did get the physical of the main book and Underground/Overground collects all the short scenarios including the one I wrote. I already have the physical of Liberty's Shadow. That's enough for now.
Plus, Underground/Overground has variant spell rules and a system for playing foxes. How hard can any gamer's heart be? Could you resist those soulful brown eyes? I remember seeing Reynard all over London, when I lived there. A natural fit for the game.
I wasn't that tempted by the pleather version. Granted, pretty. But our climate is death to that sort of thing. That said, your milage (and climate) may vary.
OK, this one had to sell itself. I enjoy a bit of nonsense. But this was setting off alarm bells. Honestly, if several of the organizers hadn't turned up in full Scouting rig (mentioning no names, in part because I can't remember them) I might have turned my head. I shan't say they inspired me. I shall say they caught my attention, and the book did the rest.
This is meant to be a more survivable kind of BRP, which I think probably suits it best to an in-between kind of game. A relaxing change of pace between more grueling adventures. But I could be selling it short. A campaign of this might be what the doctor ordered.
I'm not sure how much use I shall have for Westhaven, the setting in the book. I mean, this is Cthulhu. Arkham's right there. Kingsport too. It makes more sense to my addled mind to use those locations. But your milage may vary.
Malleus Monstrorum. Because you need something with tentacles in your life. Plus, it was on sale. It did force the Arkham book out of my hands, though. There wasn't a chance I'd squeeze both this and the Arkham book in the case. Hard decisions had to be made. Over 150 entities gruesome and otherwise? OK, sold. I didn't pick up the cards, though. Again, suitcase. There are limits to any creature's endurance and I knew I'd be going to Birmingham later.
Speaking of.
That is the queue for badges and entry passes, Thursday afternoon. Good night. The picture does not convey the heat. There was very little air down there and no air conditioning. It was no joke. I flat out do not understand how anyone thought building an Expo center like that without functioning HVAC was a good idea. You might as well fling gunpowder into a furnace.
But!
The queue moved quickly. I picked up the bits for myself and a mate, and we braved the nonsense on Friday from the moment the halls opened.
Did I buy books? I did not.
Was I severely tempted? Yes. But not by books, so much. I did get a small pile of other stuff, special dice, mats, that sort of thing. You can't find these down here. Cons are the only chance I have to get them.
Now, this might in part be because I was with an old tabletop buddy (Keiran, you villain!) but I felt the tabletop urge again. I used to be an enthusiast. No good at painting, mind, which is about 90% of the hobby as far as I can make out. Much like about 90% of tabletop RPG is talking about playing, rather than actually getting around a table and playing. But it was a big part of my life. Skirmish gaming is always easier to find a group for than Napoleonics because, although the Napolean crowd is dedicated, it takes a lot of time to set up and play. I still shudder at the memory of one dark day when we spent the better part of an hour setting up and placing units, only for the other player to concede two turns in. No, the other player did not help put the terrain back.
Whereas a brief skirmish between two or more factions on the streets of Rome (or in my case back in the day, a gunfight in a nameless Western town) is much quicker to arrange and play.
Pictures like these are the crack in the cocaine. You look at something like this and inspiration hits. Never mind that my painting skills are not up to the task. I can see this, in my minds eye, spread across a table at gaming night.
I did not buy it. Nor did I buy any of the solid, paintable Bloodbowl (or possibly Bloodbowl knock-off) stadium sets I saw on sale. I still have a team hiding in a box somewhere. Two, actually. Nor did I buy any of the Chicago Way stuff, tempted though I am by its setting. I think I still have the ruleset somewhere, though that may have changed.
That's the rub, honestly. You get to a point in your collecting career where you look the temptation square in the eye and say, I haven't the space or the time. Other things bring me joy. I shall pay attention to the other things.
There will be a period, about a month, where I wonder whether I ought to have done thus or so.
Then the image will fade and I shall go on to other things.
For years I've been wheeling a carry-on secure in the knowledge I can get off the plane straight away and walk out of the airport. I avoid paying the fee of [whatever it may be]. Score! So clever am I!
This was a good rule. Then everyone started following it. This trip to the UK started with a mad scramble to get everyone's bags in the overhead. I genuinely thought someone might die, probably one of the flight attendants from an aneurism. We left a few minutes behind schedule; by the grace of God it wasn't much more than half an hour. Opening the containers up again was like Russian roulette with carry-ons. That's before you consider that for a lot of folks it wasn't carry-ons; it was duty free, it was duffle bags, it was this, it was that, but it wasn't the standard size bag. Which makes a huge difference when the overheads can only take two or three standard size.
No, no. Never again. I'm going to get a larger bag (because why not) and whenever I fly long haul, that bag gets checked. I don't care if the airline charges me. It is worth the cost to avoid the pain. Short haul is different. If I'm only going to be out of country for a few days, it makes sense to use a smaller bag. But long haul, with a larger bag, I can carry more books. Which are duty free. Alleluia!
Now, the conventions.
Chaosium UK was an eye-opener. I'd forgotten how desolate UK villages can be; there's nothing in Cranfield beyond a couple pubs, a chippie, a Chinese, and one decent restaurant. Allegedly decent. I never saw it because it wasn't in walking distance and Cranfield's Uber drivers are double-charging weasels.
I tell you, these places are deserts where you park your 2.4 kids until they're old enough to feck off to uni. I cannot imagine living there. You'd start to see the walls move in and out after a while. Which is very odd, for a university village. I can only think the students make their own fun. Or get the hell out to Milton Keynes as soon as possible, but that would involve functional public transport or a willingness to get robbed blind by the aforementioned Uber weasels.
Cranfield School of Management was great and the staff did their best, though I did feel as if I'd gone back in time and was a student again. At least this time the bar had a decent selection of non-alcoholic beer! Food was British Stodge, and while I do not mind a bit of Stodge I can't imagine living on the bloody stuff. You'd need a cast iron stomach and the epicurean incuriousness of a billy goat.
Another thing I had forgotten: UK cons are mostly about gaming. I've become used to the North American version, where there's a much larger vendor presence, film, guests, panels, the whole schmeer. As a result I didn't sign up for anything like as much gaming as I could have, though I did enjoy dipping into a Rivers of London game, Route 66, and was able to sit in on the start of a Jimmy's Last Dance session. Plus, Miskatonic Playhouse! Ahh, fun times. I did spend money. One of these days I should also claim the .pdf version of some of those games I bought. I tell you, it's easy to get sidetracked in a dozen different directions if you're not careful.
Then there was the Birmingham Expo.
Yes, there is a vendor presence at the Expo. However did you guess?
One thing Birmingham does not know how to deal with: heat. It was baking in there. Thank God it was high ceilings at the Expo centre for the heat to bleed out or I think there would have been a couple heatstroke cases.
I went to one panel - Off With Your Head, a ton of fun, my allegiance remains with King Non-Copyright Mouse - in something called Piazza Five, which is a tiny brick oven at the heart of the Expo centre. I think I caught a breath of fresh air once, briefly, at the start of the show, when the aircon wrote its will and collapsed. I was in the front row, because I like to be in the splash zone. If someone on stage spontaneously combusted and burnt to ashes on the spot, I would not have been surprised. Credit to Sam See, the Vizier and Master of Ceremonies. He did not wilt. Which must have been a temptation.
For the love of God, put in more water stations at least, inside the halls. Better yet functional HVAC, but water stations, por favor.
Coming Up For Air, George Orwell. I haven't cracked this one yet but I'm looking forward to it. A nostalgia tour of the world before the Great War. 1960s paperback reprint of the 1939 original.
Memoirs of Joseph Grimaldi, edited and rewritten by Charles Dickens. I love the stage and I admire Dickens' writing style. I haven't finished this one yet but am working on it. My God, Grimaldi had a punishing father.
Death In Captivity. Michael Gilbert. Chewed this down within a day. A prisoner is found dead inside a second world war internment camp. Why was he killed? Who's responsible?
Crook O'Lune, E.C.R. Lorac. A remote farmhouse is set ablaze and a woman dies of smoke inhalation. Why do this? Is it to distract attention from sheep smuggling or is there something more sinister at root?
Impact of Evidence, Carol Carnac A car wreck in the Welsh Borders kills a retired doctor, and a second body is found. Who's the extra dead man? Why was he in the doctor's car?
Both these last are technically cozy crime, but they're as far from cozy as it is possible to get. Ate these within 24 hours of purchase.
Deadly Dolls: Midnight Tales of Uncanny Playthings, short story collection. Because how could I resist? Bought on the Saturday, finished same day. Highly recommended to horror fans, there are some interesting pieces here you won't see elsewhere.
Farmer Giles of Ham, J.R.R. Tolkien. See, this is why you go to places like the BFI bookstalls. Lovely little 1979 imprint of the 1949 original. I've read this before. it was a treat to read it again.
The Chinese Nail Murders and The Phantom of the Temple, both Robert Van Gulik, both BFI bookstalls. Lovely 1960s Panther paperbacks. I've a lot of time for Van Gulik. He tackles his subject with aplomb. I look forward to reading these.
She Walks At Night, Seiko Yokomizo. Pretty sure I picked this up at Foyles the first day I was there. Brilliant stuff, with an ending that subverts all that has come before.
Suspicion and Inspector Imanishi Investigates, both Seicho Matsumoto, bought at Heathrow Airport. Because all the other books were in my case and that had been checked in. Finished Suspicion as I was waiting to board the plane.
Film! Yes, I did buy some blu-ray, mostly from the BFI but also from Fopp. Which, you ask?
Last post before I fly. I'll be offline for two weeks; won't see you again till the beginning of June.
Reminder: I'm one of the hosts of a Friday panel at the UK Chaosium thing in Cranfield. Come say hi!
***
Wild West shows were a big thing, once upon a time. Buffalo Bill is supposed to have started the first, after Ned Buntline's novel made him famous, but in their day they were the Great Big Thing of entertainment. By the 1880s there were several troupes travelling the US and making a big splash abroad. They began to die out around about the 1890s, and the biggest and the best, Buffalo Bill's, fell to bankruptcy shortly before the First World War.
Broadly speaking, the format was the same across the board. Daring displays of horsemanship, shootist talent, and glammed-up frontier life, capped with an Indian raid on some burning cabin or other, repulsed by the brave cowboys and their allies. Historical accuracy was so far from the point as to be living in another country under an assumed name. Buffalo Bill and his fellow entrepreneurs knew one thing and one thing only:
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance
This is why Stoker uses a cowboy stereotype in Dracula. Not that he gives a damn, but he knows what his audience likes. They knew cowboys. Dime store novels and Wild West shows told them everything they needed to know about the heroes of the prairie.
In the 1930s, Wild West shows are dead and gone. The West as a genre of entertainment is still alive and well; the riders and daredevils move on to film. There are still novels, just not dime novels.
There are collectors who want those novels.
Ghost Woman
The Hounds know that someone out there wants all the copies of Doc Cantrill's Burning Sagebrush they can get their hands on. It's not clear why.
Burning Sagebrush is a tell-all that first saw print in the States back in 1908, went out of print for a while, then saw a new edition in 1931 as a tie-in for a Tom Mix flicker. Mix's film wasn't a faithful adaptation of Burning Sagebrush, which is just as well since the novel's next door to pornography. At its release, there were calls for it to be banned under the Obscene Publications Act.
Sagebrush is the story of a wild west desperado who rides with a Wild West troupe, having adventures across the US and, in the final chapters, in Europe. Bedroom antics made it notorious, in its day. Cantrill's tour of the boudoirs of Europe, in company with his ride-or-die Indian queen Ghost Woman, kept boys awake at night.
In the film, much is made of the final chapters in which Cantrill and Ghost Woman restore a Ruritarian monarch to the throne, in the guise of a thrilling Wild West show which is actually an excuse to smuggle guns to the rebels. In the novel, this bit takes up less than a chapter and is capped by a daring raid and 'rescue' of Princess Kinbote from an unhappy marriage. Kinbote joins Cantrill and Ghost Woman in the show. This never happens in the film.
There's a lot of money on the table, but why is someone so eager to get all the Burning Sagebrush they can handle?
Option One:Hollywood. The buyer is a studio executive who realizes that the novel is actually coded for some sort of 'kookie European cult'. The executive wants in on the cult and figures that they can curry favor by presenting them with a gift: covering up their deeds. The cult in question is the Keirecheires, which the executive thinks is some kind of upper-class supper club. The Keirecheires is the inspiration for the Ruritarian romance. The cultists don't mind the book so much, but they become concerned when Hollywood comes knocking on their door. Surely this little man doesn't want to film their activities?
Option Two:Kinbote. Formerly Annie Love, a star of the British stage who happened to go round with Cantrill's show for a while as the poor victim rescued from the clutches of wicked Ghost Woman. There's a bit in the British version of Cantrill's novel that Annie Love, now a woman of leisure living in Brighton, really would rather the world not know about. Turns out those clutches were clinches, and there are photos to prove it in the British version. Unfortunately for Love the ghost of Cantrill is just as eager to see his work in print as she is to keep it out; it's a struggle between a dead man and a living woman as to who will come out on top.
Option Three:Ghost Woman. Formerly May Lillie, a kid from Brooklyn who saw the world on horseback and ended up running cabarets in Soho through the 1920s after Cantrill's show went bust. She supported herself during the war with unsavory photographic displays; very artistic, but not the sort of thing she wants publicized. However, the Keirecheires, who took those photos, are keen to get them back out there for cult reasons of their own. May Lillie knows the cult of old and is gathering friends from her Wild West days to put a stop to it. She's willing to use the Hounds to find out where the Keirecheires is hiding, but the Hounds aren't friends of hers. She'll sacrifice them to get the information she needs.
