Manual Scary Larry (A Captain Critter 30 Word Book)

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Sterling measures the forces of fall with Queen of Physics by Teresa Robeson, illus. Subscribers: to set up your digital access click here. To subscribe, click here. Simply close and relaunch your preferred browser to log-in. If you have questions or need assistance setting up your account please email pw pubservice. PW Edu. Sign up for our Children's Bookshelf newsletter! Children's Announcements. Stay ahead with Tip Sheet! Free newsletter: the hottest new books, features and more. Parts of this site are only available to paying PW subscribers.

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And swimming is difficult with a. The locals called them the Little Jewish Navy, which meant that Abraham Horowitz probably held the rank equivalent of admiral. The mill was legitimate. The hoodlums hanging out in front of the business office obviously were not.

Sullivan stopped the car and got out. The sun was going down and taking the last bit of warmth with it. He threw on his scarf and gloves, but left his coat open in order to get to the. Three men were loafing on a bench at the top of the steps. To the side, the rollup doors to the sugarhouse were open and two burly men were throwing burlap sacks onto the back of a truck.

The way that each of them were effortlessly lifting four or five fifty-pound sacks at a time told him that the workers were fellow Spikers. A bunch of guys sitting around smoking while Actives did all the work The Purple thugs got off the bench when they saw him coming up the stairs.

The lead tough intercepted him before he could reach the door. The kid was barely old enough to shave, but had already developed a street swagger, but everyone was tougher when they had two buddies standing behind them. He tossed his cigarette into the snow. He can vouch for me. They were starting to fan out around him. The sharks were circling. Horowitz if he wants to talk to me. The kid snickered.

You should come back He activated the Power, using just a bit of his reserves, and tested the world around him. The weed head had something dense enough in the small of his back to be a pistol. The leader had something metal in his pocket. The Spikers loading the truck both stopped and looked over his way, having sensed the subtle flux in gravity.

Sullivan took his time taking out a cigarette, putting it to his mouth, and striking a match. The thugs watched him light up, incredulous as he took a puff, held it for a moment, then let it out. He had to hand it to the kid. He was fast with that straight razor. It came out in a silver flash.

The kid held the razor low at his side. The kid lunged. The razor zipped out like a striking rattlesnake. Sullivan grabbed his Power and twisted gravity. When in a hurry there was no time for finesse. A small piece of the world broke. Up was down and down was up. He slammed into the sheet metal cover overhead. The kid hit the concrete in a shower of dust and snow. Sullivan turned just as the weed head went for the gun under his coat. He had plenty of Power stored up, and it never hurt to make an example of idiots, so Sullivan drastically lessened the strength of gravity around his target before he slugged the punk square in the face.

A little nickel-plated pistol went skittering off into the snow. There was one Purple left. He was just standing there, too flummoxed to move. Sullivan removed the cigarette from his mouth and pointed at him. The punk jerked open the doors and ran for his life. Sullivan looked over to see the two Spikers coming his way.

One of them had picked up a length of pipe. I may be like you Gravity distorted. Falling snow stopped and hung in mid air. The workers looked at each other, surprised at the display of control. Sullivan cut it off before he wasted too much precious Power. The snow resumed falling. The Heavies returned to their truck, but they kept an uneasy eye on him. The punk at the bottom of the stairs was moaning about the condition of his face.

The kid with the razor was out cold. Sullivan took a seat on the bench and finished his smoke. Two minutes later the door opened again. This time four Purples filed out and they all trained shotguns on him. Horowitz will see you now. This was not somebody to short change, so it was probably wise to start with an apology. There was no need to be impolite to guests. Bad for business. You cut a deal with the enemy to take down dangerous Actives, right? As for the enemy, any man would make a deal with the devil to get out of Rockville.

If one of the Hoover telegrams had a member of the Purple gang on it for him to help catch, Sullivan would make damn sure he had plans to get the hell out of Detroit real quick afterwards. A Heavy like you could make a lot of money working for the Purples. My people appreciate an educated man, especially a self-educated man such as yourself. Izzy, may he rest in peace, said you read books like some sort of professor. His wife hired me to find him. Horowitz chuckled. He fixed me up good as new and told me to quit eating so much sugar.

Not with this sweet tooth. Arthur did other things for the Purples too. Son of a bitch charged an arm and a leg, though. The gangster shrugged. Sick folk can get mighty desperate.

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Detroit was better off than most of the country, but even here there were tent cities growing on the fringe. Lots of people were out of work, hungry, and hurting. Horowitz made a big show of studying Sullivan for a long time. Maybe I could tell you something that would help us both out of a jam. He was looking for an angle, but men like Horowitz always were. Maybe this crew works with the Mustache Petes The word was that Purple gang had an uneasy truce with them. What do you say to that? The last BI telegram had said the Maplethorpe gang had gotten hit in Albion.

Two birds, one rock. As long as you never said where you heard it from The second he got his crew Mended, Arthur probably died. Let me put the word out. As far as the gangster was concerned selling out Johnny Bones was like taking the garbage out to the curb for pickup. Sullivan stood to leave. Shoot him, squish him with your Power, whatever you got to do.

Mark my words. Sullivan debated his next move. Mae was still coming up with nothing. If Horowitz was right, Arthur Fordyce was probably already dead. Until he got a lead on where the Maplethorpes were holed up, he was at a dead end. If Horowitz was wrong, he was wasting his time. Well, not exactly wasting The BI office was near the Fisher Building. The giant art deco skyscraper was impressive, even if they were turning the lights down at night to save money now. It was late, the snow was still falling, and most everyone had gone home for the night, so Sullivan left a note for the agent in charge of the manhunt to contact him.

He got home around To be fair, it would be rather difficult for some academic historian to chronicle the unrelentingly bleak meat grinder of the trenches, the sheer mind-numbing spectacle of Second Somme, or the final march into the blackened ash wasteland that had been Berlin. Even though Sullivan had been the most decorated soldier in the unit, there was only one picture of him, and it was a group shot of some Spikers taken somewhere in France. All of them were tired, dirty, starving, cold, suffering from dysentery, wearing their rusting Heavy suits, carrying their Lewis guns, and lucky to be alive.

The book only had two pages about the Gravity Spikers. That was it. All that fighting, all those sacrifices, condensed into two lousy pages, and sadly one of those pages was mostly about his own exploits. Of the men in the photo, only ten percent had come home alive. There were photos for most of the officer corps and Sullivan was looking for one in particular.

He checked again, just to be sure, and it was correct. Fordyce had to be in his sixties in the picture, and it had been taken back in Fifteen years ago Has it really been that long? For that reason Sullivan had been expecting a younger man. Sullivan checked on Bernie and his cats in the morning, but still nothing from Mae.

Bernie said that was a very bad sign, meaning that the target was not in an easy to find state, as in above ground or in one piece. The BI agent in charge of the manhunt had Sullivan come into the office to talk. Most of the G-men tolerated him, a couple respected him because he was very good at his job, and a few openly despised him for being an ex-con. But like it or not, when it came time to arrest somebody who could bend the laws of physics, Sullivan was damn handy to have around. The head of the Detroit office was a weasel named Price. He was a ticket-puncher, a man who existed primarily to get promoted.

Price loved getting in the papers. The agent in charge of the manhunt was a homely fellow by the name of Cowley, fresh off the morning dirigible from D. Which inclined Sullivan to dislike him automatically. Price was mostly worried about how the arrest of the Maplethorpes would play in the news, but rescuing a Healer Sullivan could see the wheels turning there. Cowley showed him sketches of the members of the crew.

Encroaching Waters - Critical Role - Campaign 2, Episode 34

Kidnapping was a local matter, not a federal crime, but both Maplethorpes were on the most wanted list, so it was agreed that if Sullivan helped capture them it would count as two against his quota. He made sure he got that in writing. The rest of the day was spent chasing leads to nowhere. He placed a telephone call to Mrs. Fordyce to inform her that he was still looking, but had no real progress to report. When darkness fell, Jake Sullivan returned to his office to prepare. His magic was ready, Power built up in his chest, just waiting to be used to twist gravity to his will.

Full text of "The Demon Haunted World"

But Power burned quickly, and once it was gone, it took time to replenish. So that meant guns. He dragged the huge weapon out, cleaned and oiled it, and loaded the huge drum magazines from boxes of military. Twenty-six pounds of lethal steel, the Lewis was big, ugly, and effective, sort of like Sullivan. He was good at it. As a soldier for his country, as an inmate for survival, and now as a A slave to the G-men?

It was better if he told himself that he was doing this one for a young widow and to avenge another First Volunteer. It seemed more pure that way. The Lewis went into a canvas bag. He went downstairs, ordered a late dinner, and waited. Burning Power was like hard physical exercise, so he treated himself to a real good meal in preparation.

Big Spender. A ten year old serving as a Purple gang runner showed up while he was polishing off his coffee, gave him a note, and took off. Sullivan read the address, finished his drink, put out his smoke, and left a generous tip. It was time again to go to war. The address was for an auto parts factory on Piquette. Like many other businesses in the area, it had recently been shut down and the workers laid off. He parked a block away and went in on foot. Regular folks were eating hams, singing carols clustered around the fire, or some such thing, not spying on an abandoned factory through a hole in a fence.

The lights of the city reflected off the snow clouds enough to give him plenty of pink light to see by. He recognized the lean, broad-shouldered fellow making his way to the back door from one of the sketches Agent Cowley had shown him as one Bruno Hauptmann, a German immigrant and member of the gang. This was the hideout, all right. Hauptmann was walking with a bad limp. He knocked on the back door and a few seconds later it opened and he disappeared inside.

Location confirmed, he debated calling the BI. There was strength in numbers, but the only person Jake Sullivan trusted was Jake Sullivan. The switchboard put him through to Cowley. He gave them the scoop, then reminded the G-man to make sure the rest of his boys knew not to shoot at him. The cavalry was on the way. Sullivan removed the Lewis Gun from his car and headed back to the factory. They might be watching through the long row of windows, so best to move quick. He reached the fence, and using just enough Power to lighten himself, leapt cleanly over the barrier.

The door was solid by any measure, but not built to withstand someone like him. Not even pausing, Sullivan lifted one big boot and kicked the door wide open. The interior was dim, lit only be a single shielded lantern. Hauptman and another man with one arm in a sling were caught flatfooted just inside, stuffing candy bars in their faces. Sullivan moved the gaping round muzzle over and simply shot him dead.

The body hit the cold concrete without so much as a twitch. Ears ringing, he turned the gun back on Hauptmann. He picked up the lantern and lifted the cover, filling the space with light. Sullivan walked around a big hydraulic press. There were several mattresses and blankets on the floor, but the rest of the gang was out. Using Power in big bursts was easy, fine control took more concentration.

He gave Hauptmann another two gravities. The German grimaced and stumbled against the wall. Where is he? Hauptmann screamed as bones creaked. I do pushups in that.

Sullivan instinctively flung himself to the floor. A muzzle flashed outside as someone worked a Tommy gun across the glass. He needed cover, fast. There was a thick steel plate leaning against the hydraulic press. With no time for finesse, he grabbed the plate, surged his Power so hard that it felt light as a feather and jerked it around to use as a shield.

Sullivan cursed himself for turning up the lights. The others must have returned and seen them inside.