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The JoneStranger





JoneStranger is a self-styled vigilante, military veteran (U.S. Army) fed-up with runaway crime, failure of law enforcement to curtail crime in fictional city of Metrobia, like gang turf wars over illicit drug trade, police/political corruption. 

JS’ alter ego Rushia (RUS-SIA) Gerard makes himself a committee-of-one to make an impact on the madness, initially to bring to justice the young urban thugs (JS calls Yutties) to justice, whom law enforcement has had little success (purposely) in interdicting.

What drives Rushia Gerard into action is a rumor on social media of a declaration by Crips and Blood gang factions a 100-day gangland murder spree to kill 100 innocent people adorned in a red or blue clothing item. Several random shootings marked by one physically-challenged teenager who wore red laces in his sneakers sends JS into the night to find and apprehend the shooter and deliver him (with evidence) to the Metrobia Police Department (MUPD) 77th Street station. 
JoneStranger is adorned in
carefully designed attire that blends with his environment (blacktrousers, shirt, gloves, loose-fitting trench coat, black Amish Padre Stetson hat). Attire blends with ordinary to onlookers. Items are in actuality high-tech garments digitally wired, bullet-proof, stab proof; Wears a high-tech waist-belt device that obscures his physical appearance rendering him nearly invisible at night. 


JoneStranger’s modus operandi is to refrain from killing, but when unavoidable can and/will use deadly force in drastic situations. As story evolves, he will kill one individual who left him no choice. This is when law enforcement interest in him will go from casual annoyance to “Top-10 Fugitive" when charges against him escalate to homicide. 

JS has a number of miniature immobilizing crime-fighting devices at his disposal attached in his light-weight trench-like coat. Here is his total weapons cache (doesn’t carry all these weapons at once):


Light weight flex steel toe/rubber sole boots 
• Black attire is light weight made of special super tough fabric
• 60,000 watt miniature rechargeable (cell phone-size) taser  
• Tranquilizing darts tipped with concentrated ketamine tranquilizer 
• Red powder mist immobilizer (small cubes that explode into red mist on impact)  
• Special light-weight alloy .357 magnum with 20-clips & silencer 
• Miniature lithium battery-operated police scanner 
• Portable lithium battery operated night vision (infra-red wrap-around eyewear); cell phone & camera 
• Specially-designed unbreakable, cut-proof, fire proof plastic hand ties
• Street fighter. Japanese combat judoka/jui jitsu expert; Zendoryu karate, Hapkido expert.  JS’ repertoire of offensive/defensive skills include pin-
point kicks, punches, knee strikes, back fists, 180 and 360 degree spinning kicks, elbow strikes, knife hands, ridge hands, back fist/bottom fists, spear hands, joint manipulation, arm & wrist locks, arm & knee bars, and a multitude of chokes. 

Targets gang bangers, drug dealers, street drug operatives, home-spun chemical labs; abusive copsmessage to them, “I will be watching!”

Will be spun around real crimes in the fictional city of Metrobia with interplay from mayor, council, police chief, activists, community leaders with fictitious names to provide a sense of reality, although the storyline will be enhanced with false, but imaginative angles and sub-plots.


JS is not a full-time crime fighter but hits the streets periodically to throw law enforcement off his trail, and to keep the Yutties and other criminal element skittish, unable to get too relaxed for fear of “the spook,” as they call him, lurking nearby at the edge of darkness.                                                  



The 'Green Shoelaces' murder



Rushia Gerard springs awake, abruptly throws the covers from his body,

knowing he has much to do. A glance at his bedside clock reveals a false

alarm—it is only a quarter past five. He’d been restless all night and

 didn’t sleep well. The green shoelace killer weighed heavily on his mind.

Hopping out of bed, Rush grabbed his bathrobe and flopped into the

big black leather chair before his computer, fired it up and waited 

for the Google 10 logo to appear. 

Before the screen in thought the lit screen casts him in silhouette:

“Crimes have gone down since I slept…. I know County Sheriff

Rob Muna's cowboys failed to corral the killer of that young boy!

Perhaps the press should pay more attention to escalating

crime in Metrobia, and less to side-shows like

Ronald Rump's media theatrics!”

"The strategy meetings between the political heirarchy

gettin' stale. Mayor Katie Fisch, Congresswoman Roxanne

Rivers, Sup. Janna Hall and Muna may mean well, but I



“Time to make another round—pay those Yuts, the 

Lime Street gang a night call. They killed that kid

‘cause he wore greenlaces! And they're still

walkin' around free and braggin'!

“I’ll round ‘em up! Congresswoman Rivers is

right—‘someone’s gotta pay for the damage they

did to Metrobia, flooding it with drugs and guns!'”


Consternation in his expression.

“… and gotta plug the cartels too or they’re

gonna reduce America to a stupor ...

if she's not already there!

"But, first need to gather some intel on the

 Lime Street gang responsible for the kid's

murder. They hang out daily at The Bistro ... .

I'll pay the joint a visit and deploy a stealthy

 water bug to gather some irrefutable 

intel for indictment and conviction... ."


Rushia Gerard sits at a patio table outside The

Bistro inconspicuously munching on a double

cheese burger and fries, having already released

the water bug, which scurried to a hidden locale

inside the guest dining area ahead of any of the

arriving Lime Street gangsters.

 "Now, I'll await for the transferral of the intel..."

 Rushia thought to himself, slurping a Pepsi.


Several hours elapsed since Rushia Gerard planted

the robotic spy at The Bistro, now enveloped in the

darkness of nightfall. The Lime Street gang numbered 

20 strong on this night—several engaged in a game

of bid whist, four more slamming dominoes, and the

rest munching edibles, fixated on the Lakers and

 Nuggets game on a mounted 60-inch big screen.

Unbeknownst to them, the robotic spy had been

gathering intel and transmitting undetected to 

Rushia Gerard for hours now in a chandelier 

hanging from the ceiling.

The bid whist action dominated the scene,

with the gang set's 30-year-old leader Rayvon

"Gallows" Charles commanding attention with

his raucous outbursts.


Slapping a winning card hand on the table...

"That's a plus-seven," he bellowed. "Me and my

pot-ner triumph! Hell, that was easier than

smokin' that lil chump wearin' green shoe

strings in my 'hood! He had to go, and ya'll

gotta pay! That's "Gallows" truth!" 


"Water bug aced it!" Rushia Gerard shouted.

"Got a confession and photo ID. I will make

a house call tomorrow at The Bistro to gather

the package for the Metrobia County Sheriff,

 along with digital evidence—and a scoop for 

Metrobia Herald Editor Jerrold Goodfellows...


"I will sleep soundly tonight."


initiated his action plan before sunrise,

messaging the same intel directly to both

the rookie sheriff Muna and the Metrobia

Herald's veteran publisher Goodfellows. 

Glancing at his watch, several hours expired

since he pushed the "send button" on his PC.

"Both men should have the message by now,

aware that an extraordinary event will befall

them soon—that a new breed of crime snuffer

will emerge in Metrobia to make the city a

safer more lawful place.

MEANWHILE ... at both Sheriff Muna's office and

the Metrobia Herald, similar energy was churning.

Muna read the note with interest, aware from

36 years in law enforcement that vigilantes would

from time-to-time rise with grandiose notions of

single-handedly circumventing crime. Muna was

very careful not to overreach as former Metrobia

Police Chief Renard C.P. Larks had done in the

1990s to Kurt Sliwall and his Guardian Angels,

when they voluntarily instituted patrols of 

Metrobia's worst neighborhoods.

Instead, he assigned Undersheriff May Tardee

to follow-up and keep him posted.

At the Herald, Jerrold Goodfellows wasn't

about to pass on a potential scoop, unaware

if any other media had been apprised. He

assigned coverage of the story to long-time

reporter Doug Lincoln and the Herald's

star photojournalist Roddie Rashly. Their

task was to quickly get the story posted

online ahead of the competition. 


The Bistro was teeming with activity, with the 

entire Lime Street Gang present—as was the case

most nights during the week—engaged in table-top

gambling, billiards, attuned to sports on the big

screen or chowing down.

They hadn't noticed the sudden appearance of the

guest adorned in all black at the entrance to the

cafe—until he caught Gallows' eye.

"This ain't open to the public from 7 to 10 p.m.

—it's a private party," Gallows lied, something

he and his cohorts had been doing for a year to

maintain their exclusivity. The owner dare not

object and the gang kindly obliged him with $10k

per month to serve them food, and to use the

cafe as their private gang set for three hours on

weekdays and two additional hours to midnight

on the weekends and holidays.


The stranger held a red cube in his right clench,

trench coat collar turned up, and brim hat tilted

low over his brow, so that his face was hardly

discernable. He also wore a black mask over his

mouth and nose, and didn't flinch.

"I said this is a private set, maan—why you still

standing there?" Gallows barked. That's when all

eyes turned on the stranger, who subsequently

tossed the red cube several feet above the gang,

hitting the ceiling and bursting profusely into a

red mist, quickly enveloping the entire cafe in a

cold fog, rendering every one present instantly

unconscious, collapsing to the floor and slumping

where they sat. 

Unfortunately, the cafe owner suffered the same

fate. But the stranger took special precaution to

turn off stove-top burners and ovens to prevent

a fire in the cafe.

"Never planned to remain here, Gallows," the stranger

said, after which he shackled the gang leader's hands

together with two indestructible plastic ties around a

circular steel pole in the center of The Bistro dining

area extending from the floor to the ceiling. 

The stranger emerged from the cafe, activating a device

within his trench coat that renders him hard to detect

during nightfall. He blended into the darkness not a

moment too soon.

Just then four Metrobia Sheriff units pull up and one other

vehicle bearing a reporter and photographer from the Herald.


The time is 8 o'clock p.m.

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