Hello Brooklyn - Part 1

As soon as the moon rises, the bar opens. The ancient neon sign flickers to life, and a low electrical humming fills the air. "Hello Brooklyn." The name of the bar I now consider to be my home. Situated on the ancient track into Brooklyn, back in the day. This old place has seen a lot of changes. Now it's the year 2011 and the only things that change are the people. Every 50 years or so, a new family come into eat, and they decide to move into the delightfully pleasant town that has frown around our bar.

Now, our pub is nowhere near Brooklyn. It's almost 800 miles away. But it used to be. The only way to enter Brooklyn was to pass by our bar, which was even then called "Hello Brooklyn." We offered rest and rehabilitation to any travelers, and fed them.

Loretta came to Paris when I was just 18, she came to the place where I worked. The lady I worked for welcomed her in like an old friend. Me and my friend could only listen at the door. Moments later, they came out. I was ordered to pack my bags and leave with Loretta. After a moment's hesitation, Loretta decided she would take Victoria as well. Victoria gleefully went to pack for both of us. This was in the year 1863, and my Boss was Marguerite Bellanger. She was born Julie Leboeuf, and she was mistress to Emperor Napoleon III.

When we arrived in America, we went straight to Washington DC. Again, we were welcomed like old friends. On the ride over, Loretta had us dress in the appropriate attire that these Americans wore. Loretta was taken to see President Lincoln. A man who reminded me of my father. A smiling face, nice and protective on the outside, but look to close, and you'll see the caged beast that often leaped out at me. Loretta was greeted warmly, and inquired as to whether they had any southern prisoners. When he replied yes, she was ecstatic.

A guard took us down into the jail, and slumped in the corner, hurling and hissing abuse at passing guards as a young girl, not yet 20. The girl had long thick black curling hair which obscured her face, and a ripped red dress, identical to the color of blood on black lace. The girl calmed as soon as we took her into our arms, but as soon as we tried to get her in the carriage, she turned wild. "No!" She screamed in a thick southern accent, "No! I will not be taken to die!" Somehow Loretta sedated her, and we didn't hear from her until we arrived at a musty inn.

It was in here that Loretta told me of her plan.