![]() ![]() While Hennessey propped up Powderly's dead body, Chippy Robinson stuck a cigar in the corpse's mouth and cracked jokes about the man he just killed. ![]() When this was accomplished, the two Egans dragged his body out of the joint and put it in their car. ![]() The former two had lured Powderly to the joint for the express purpose of killing him. Hackethal's resort was also the scene of a violent inter-gang dispute on May 24, 1923, when David "Chippy" Robinson, James "Sticky" Hennessey, and Joe Powderly showed up to do some drinking. This resort was a favorite hangout of the Rats, who used it as a base of operations while they were planning a mail robbery in Staunton. By 1921 he had turned to a life of crime.Ī high-ranking member of the Egan gang, Hackethal owned a popular resort on Long Lake, about thirty miles from Staunton, Illinois. Frank served with the American forces during World War I. By 1893 his parents had returned to the Chouteau Township area of Madison County, Illinois. He was one of nine members of the Egan's Rats to be convicted of mail robbery on November 15, 1924. Louis organized crime figure in the early 20th century. Hackethal (Decem– July 13, 1954) was a prominent St. ![]()
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![]() “Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear.” I pushed up onto my elbows to gaze down my body at my now ruined lingerie. “What’s not sexy about ectoplasm and James Bond?” Wiping at my eyes, I rolled off him so I could lie on the floor at his side.īraden huffed. ![]() As soon as our eyes met we burst out laughing again. “Whoa!” He wrapped his arms around my waist as we fell so that he landed on the floor and I landed on him.Ī few seconds after impact and Braden’s pained grunt, I pushed up off him to look into his face. In Braden’s attempts to right me, his own feet slipped. My shoe slipped on said gunk, my leg flying out beneath me. We got into a wrestling match, except the goal was to cover the other as much as possible in the green crap. I squealed, trying to get away from him, but Braden laughed, scooping ‘ectoplasm’ off his tuxedo as he pushed my wig off and rubbed the gunk into my hair. He folded around me, squeezing me in a bear hug as he rubbed his goo-covered face over mine. The narrowing of his eyes was the only warning I got before he moved across the room faster than I thought was possible. “Oh man,” I struggled to breathe, “I’m going to pee myself.” ![]() “My doormen let the Ghostbusters into the club. I finally calmed enough to wheeze out, “What happened?” Of course like always I did not heed the warning. His eyes washed over me as he shut the door and seeing me in my underwear made his glower darken.ĭripping down his face, pooling across his broad shoulders and falling in icky glops down his tuxedo was green gunk. ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Stuart Turton, who brought us a searing life lesson in the searing bleakness and also reassuringly the redemptive possibilities of humanity in his first supremely successful novel The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle, knows more than a thing or two about humanity’s proclivity for blaming things beyond ourselves for the great evils we seem able to commit with far too great an ease. ![]() So we invent religions, fairytales, creatures that lurk in the bleak shadows or swim in the murky depths, anything to take us away from the fact that we are, at heart, not as pretty or laudable as we would like to be. You could be forgiven for thinking so when you look at the dizzying amount of literature, music, film and on and on devoted to exploring the darker and lighter parts of humanity’s inner self, but the truth is, very few of us are in favour of taking too close at what lies deep below our socially acceptable surfaces nor of taking any responsibility for the terrible acts committed by whatever rises from the deeper reaches of our often unknowable souls. Humanity is not, by and large, a fan of looking deep into its soul. ![]() |