No Art, No StyleSaturday, 2 PM Eastern Standard Time, phone conversation.
Female Voice: Good afternoon, Sun Moon Restaurant- All Japanese food, all day and all night.
Male Voice: *Respectful Afternoon! I am a young Japanese student. I am hoping I can find employment in your fine restaurant.*
Female Voice: *Yes, we are very busy here, very busy! We have a place as dishwasher, in the late shift. Starts at 11:00 PM, until 4 AM.*
Male Voice: *Understood! I will come to fill out any paperwork. I thank you very much!*
Female Voice: *I can not promise you anything. Come in and ask for the manager, and he will see you. Oh-kay?*
Male Voice *Understood! Again, a million thanks!*
note: ** indicates translated from Japanese
Monday, 2 PM Eastern Standard Time, Paragon City Police Station, Kings Row.
Knowledge is, of itself, useless. It has no action, it merely rests waiting to be acted upon. The collection of knowledge, of its own, does not lead to wisdom and enlightenment. It is the application of knowledge that yields this; otherwise, knowledge grows old and stale, useless as a closed book.
To the Ones of Shadows, teachings never grow old. A simple principle, when looked at long enough, yields complete new understanding, and a whole new branch of contemplation. Take, for example, Gionjutsu- the making and using of false sounds. When first taught to the young, it is used as a means of distracting immediate attention, such as the casting of a pebble in a direction one wishes a subject to look. Later, the same student realizes that varying sound can redirect attention even when the Ones of Shadows are standing in plain sight of the subject. This, in time, leads to the teachings of disguise.
The police station is bustling with activity as the young Asian male enters, carry-on bag slung over his shoulder. He looks at the signs on the walls, lost in the constant flow of people. Finally he asks a desk officer a question, and is pointed in the direction of a double-desk. It is currently occupied by two police officers in plain clothes, neither of which rises as he approaches and sketches a small bow.
“Good afternoon! I am Hatsuhiro Mishimoto. I look for.. Officer Jack Wells.”
One of the two officers nods, and points to a nearby chair. “ Please sit down, Mr. Mishimoto. I am Detective Wells, This is Detective Morrison, my partner. How can we be of assistance?”
The young man sits, adjusting the shoulder strap of his bag. He pauses, as if gathering his thoughts. “You .. speak Nipponese?”
Detective Wells frowns for a moment, considering. “Nip.. oh, Japanese. No, I’m afraid we don’t. I can find a translator if you need, but it may take several hours..” he adds a shrug of his shoulders, eyeing his pile of unfinished paperwork.
“Oh, no. Thank you, no trouble. I speak.. Anglish. “ The young man’s mouth sets into a rigid smile, a sign of his struggle to be understood. “I look for.. death of ancient, honorable family. You.. investigate, yes?”
The detective leans forward, placing both elbows on the table as his attention is caught. “You mean old Nagasumi? The old man who was killed on Forty Second and Elm, you’re his family?”
“Yes! Ancient Nagasumi is.. honorable father to mother. I..” The young man twitches his nose, the pause lengthening as he fishes for a word.
“Grandson” offers the hitherto silent detective Morrison, chewing on a toothpick.
“Yes! Thank you!” The young man nods, and almost bows in that direction. “I am grandson. We.. receive letter. List of.. information? Much Much things there, one thing missing. Very important thing, very important.” He shrugs, and smiles.
“Oh?” asks Detective Wells. “Go on, I’m listening”
“It is.. small thing. Beg forgiveness to bring.. embarrassment. Yes. “ The young man takes a deep breath, and puts both his hands on his knees as he straightens out his back. “Ancient have.. small … jewelry. Not important to money. Important to family, very important.” He nods, giving accentuation to the statement. “It is black pearl, small of finger tip. Silver.. cloud, to hold pearl. And.. “ he fishes for a word, with some frustration, then points to Detective Morrison’s neck and his gold chain, making round motions around his own neck.
“Chain” offers the laconic Morrison, switching the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.
“Hai! Chain! Small chain, silver. Money not much. Important to family, yes?”
Detective Wells reaches inside a desk drawer and pulls out a folder, full of neat typewritten pages and photographs. He pages through them, slowly. “So what do you do, Mr. Mishimoto?”
The young man smiles widely, nodding eagerly at the question. “I.. work in theater. Tokyo Kabuki theater, small. Very important theater.”
Detective Morrison smirks around his toothpick. “So that makes you what.. a dancer?”
Wells interjects without looking up, still paging through the folder. “Hush, Moe. What do you do in this theater, Mr. Mishimoto? You’re an actor?”
The young man slaps one hand on his knee, and chuckles. “No, not actor. I.. employed to move things. Chair, table, gone. Back with new thing.” He makes a motion of picking up an item and moving it aside.
Detective Wells finally looks up, and nods. “Ah, a stage hand. I understand. Well, Mr. Mishimoto, I have here the complete list of your grandfather’s effects.” He pats the top page on the thick folder. “That chain and pearl you mention isn’t in the manifesto. If you can give me a day or so, I can have this checked out.. .. where can I find you?”
“Thank you, thank you very much.” The young man stands and bows, readjusting his bag. “I stay at… Grandfather place. Will eat at… Sun Moon, fine restaurant. Eleven of night”
Detective Wells nods, and Morrison removes the toothpick as he asks. “Eleven at night? Isn’t that kind of late for dinner, you think?”
The young man shrugs apologetically. “In Tokyo.. this is twelve of afternoon”
Detective Wells stands, and offers to shake hands. “Yes, you must be jetlagged. You should go get some rest, we’ll be in touch later. Sorry about your grandfather, Mr. Mishimoto.”
The young man takes the proffered hand, but still bows afterwards. “Thank you. Very kind” After a smile and a bow towards the other officer, he picks his way hesitantly across the busy police station Edited by: Caerwaen Graeholm at: 4/23/04 7:38 am
Monday, 4 PM Eastern Standard Time, Paragon City, Kings Row; Alleyway through Elm at Forty Second.
In every city, there are those who walk invisibly. They wear no black hood, nor do they slink from shadow to shadow as Hollywood film makers would have you believe. No, they hide in plain sight. Their invisibility is due to their state: no one wants to see them, because to see them is to acknowledge their existence, their plight. In Paragon City, they are called “The Homeless”; harmless bums who live on the wastes of humanity, marginal less-than-human dwellers of cardboard boxes and dirty alleyways. To be invisible, the Ones of Shadows need only find the unseen ones, and assume their likeness- this is the second level of Kagegakurejutsu, the use of Shadows.
Kuraigetsu winds a piece of cloth around his right hand carefully, making sure to retain mobility while masking color and fingerprints. From his vantage point inside the cardboard box he can see across the street to his grandfather’s antique shop, and he takes special note of everyone who passes by. What little heat the afternoon brought to the winter day is now fast fading, and the heavy clouds are ample indication that there’s a snow storm coming. He studies the items he’s collected during the day’s foraging in the neighborhood refuse bins, forming the elements of a strategy.
For the second time today two young men he’s been watching emerge from a local store, raucous in humorless laughter and holding what appears to be paper currency. They are dressed in outlandishly bright clothing, bearing numerous piercings and tattoos; spiked hair, leather jackets, surplus military knives openly displayed on their belts. Their aggressive nature is so blatant that they cause a ripple in the flow of pedestrian traffic- a bubble, or a wedge moving forward parting them as they go. Kuraigetsu studies them carefully, watching the body language, the distance between them, the focus of their eyes. After they’re gone, he returns to his task of wrapping his left hand, with the same meticulousness he gave the right one.
Monday, 7 PM Eastern Standard Time, Paragon City, Kings Row; Corner of Elm and Forty Second.
The snow failed to fall as expected. The temperature has fallen quickly after sundown, helped by the wind that cuts sharply down the emptying streets. It would be faulty to consider the cold an ally, a friend to the Ones of Shadows. No, the cold bites on all alike, and treads carelessly on any who challenge it. But, the clever carp knows how to use the strong current to shorten its voyage; the Ones of Shadows learn to navigate the cold for their own purpose, blending in, flowing around it.
The heavy covering necessary to protect from the cold can be used to effect Hensogakure jutsu, the blending in through disguise. Disguise, in turn, eases Ikan no jutsu- the gathering of information from the locals, while planting false information to hide the path of the Ones of Shadows. Together, these are applications of Kyojutsu ten kan; approaching truth through its deception, and deception as though its truth.
Kuraigetsu tightens the heavy raincoat around him, and adjusts the threadbare scarf to cover his nose. With a shuffling step he approaches the lit doorway, where an elderly man with “granny” style glasses perched upon his long nose locks the door. The man sees him, and instinctively clutches his heavy overcoat closed- but the shuffling step and the hacking cough Kuraigetsu mimics lessens his threatening presence. He stops, wavering, and places his hands together as in prayer, shaking them slightly.
“Oh, please; for the love of Gawd. “ A rough cough shakes Kuraigetsu, and he clenches his own chest as if to smother it. “Tell me you’ve seen him, tell me you’ve seen my boy?” The words are harsh, spoken between coughs.
“You shouldn’t be out like this, old man. You know, Father Winter isn’t very forgiving to antiquities like you and me” The other old man sticks his hands in his pockets, and a slight smile blossoms under his thick grey mustache. “Go home, before you catch your death out here”
Kuraigetsu allows his body to slump against the hard brick of the nearby wall, and shakes his head. “No sir, can’t do that. Not while my boy.. have you seen him? I heard him say he was a’headin’ this way..” He lets his voice trail away, turning his attention to the mostly empty street behind him.
“Well, I don’t know about your boy. Plenty of people coming and going these days. I’m sure he’ll turn up at home, all warm and sound while you putter around out here and catch your death of pneumonia.”
“No, he’s out here alright, him and those no good boys from the dockside. I heard them plannin’ something, they think just ‘cause I can’t see none too good I can’t tell what they’re after. Nothing wrong with my ears, no sir. Sharp as a coon’s claws.” Kuraigetsu pulls away from the wall, but is apparently shaken by a bout of coughing. The other man comes closer, attempting to steady his cough-wracked body with a friendly hand. “They’re up to no good. Something about a pair of toughs, how they’re a’comin’ to roll them and take their money…”
The other man shakes his head ruefully, and pats Kuraigetsu’s back. “Well, that’s bad news right there, you see. I know who you’re talking about. Those men are nasty, you take my word for it. Just as soon cut you as look at you, damn the lot of them. “ The old man looks left and right, making sure the street is clear. “Your boy is fixing to get himself killed. You head on home now, before they catch wind of you, and kill you too!” The old man reinforces the statement by poking Kuraigetsu’s shoulder.
Kuraigetsu coughs once more, holding his chest to draw labored air. “My boy may be a dummy, but he has the fightin’ spirit in him, he sure does. That knuckle head and his gang won’t be taking no scruff from a pair of no-goods, no sir!” He shakes an unsteady, mitten-covered hand briefly until coughing recaptures him.
The old man takes a step away from Kuraigetsu, and shrugs drawing breath for a stern lecture. “Don’t I wish. Those young punks are bleeding me dry. But it’s not just them. It’s their boss, Shim, and the whole damn lot of those Hellion bastards down by Gramercy Bridge. Your son is going to get himself stiff, stiff as that old fool of Nagasumi- you mark my words. And so will you; Shim will see to it if the cold doesn’t do you first. Me, I’ve enough sense to go home out of the cold. Good night!” Without another word, he walks off down the street towards the train station.
Re: No Art, No StyleMonday, 8 PM Eastern Standard Time, Paragon City, Kings Row, Alleyway through Elm at Forty Second.
It is far easier to be used by a weapon than to use one. The Ones of Shadows recognize this, and shun weapons where they can. A weapon can become a crutch for a warrior, until the lack of the same weapon brings him to defeat. Or, a weapon can become a liability, so that the warrior cannot act, or think, unless the weapon is near. There is a danger in perception, because perception shapes reality. If you tread in Shadows, you quickly learn this lesson.
When a weapon is to be used, then it should be thought of no more than one would think of his hand, or his foot. The Ones of Shadows have developed a form of unarmed combat, tai jutsu, that gives complete flexibility to the usage of any weapon. A hand strike becomes a cut, if a cutting weapon is held in that hand. A sweep becomes a crushing strike with a staff, if that weapon is held. It is a relationship of convenience, not one of necessity. A mind free of clutter, a body performing the dance it has known intimately since childhood. The Ones of Shadows reach out, and the things around them become their weapons of the moment. When the moment passes, the weapon falls back to anonymity.
The two enforcers enter the alley, passing a bottle of vodka between them. It’s a good day’s take, Shim will be pleased and they get a sweet cut. The bigger one, Dane, takes the bottle from the other while he was still drinking and slaps him across the face, in mock outrage. “Off my bottle, Stumpy. “ Laughing, he takes another swig.
They’re almost upon the old bum before they notice him in the dark alleyway. He’s sweeping, of all things- the movements of the beat up old broom only managing to scatter the filth further at his feet. The hellions share a glance, and a wicked smile; a bottle, and some sport! They lengthen their steps as they close the distance, Dane holding the bottle by the neck and Stumpy drawing his combat knife. “What ...”
Whatever else they were about to say is lost to history. Kuraigetsu steps on his broom’s whiskers, drawing the stick and sweeping it overhead in one smooth movement. The double twirl adds momentum to the stick, and when the ends strike the two punks simultaneously there is a loud thunk. Using the rebound, Kuraigetsu steps between them quickly and lands a flurry of blows up and down their bodies, the strikes keeping their already unconscious bodies dancing upright longer than they should. Eventually, weight and gravity finish their work and the two punks measure their length on the alleyway floor, amidst the rest of the rubble. Kuraigetsu is long gone, his stick now a bum’s makeshift cane as he ambles away unhurriedly down Elm- slightly richer in money as well as fulfillment.
Excerpt from Police Report, “Olaf Donaldson and Rolando Guerrero Homicide”, Paragon City, Kings Row Precinct.
“… estimate cause of death to be hypothermia, not blunt trauma. Both victims appear to have been severely beaten, robbed, and left for dead. Though the bruises indicate substantial damage, it was not fatal; last night’s unusualy low temperatures account for the quick death.
A confidential source at the scene claims the assault was effected by a youth gang from Dockside, Independence Port. He claims he spoke to an old man who was looking for his son the night the homicide took place. The old man in question is reported as having stated that his son’s gang was planning the assault. He remembers little of the old man except he had a southern drawl, and a hacking cough. When questioned further, he remembered the old man as wearing a reinforced raincoat of the type dock workers would wear, and that he had an overwhelming stench of fish about him, but being average in every other way. The victims wallets were found discarded several streets south of the scene, in the general direction of the Yellow Line station. Several items (Appendix C) including driver’s licenses were found in the wallets, but no money.
Victim’s police records follow…”
Re: No Art, No StyleMonday, 10 PM Eastern Standard Time, Paragon City, Galaxy City, Gramercy Bridge.
Invisibility isn’t necessarily passive. There’s an aggressive side, which can be exploited to advantage. Rather than becoming one, which isn’t seen, you can become one which others don’t wish to be seen by. As such, you’ve become invisible. If you are Oni, or demon, to be noticed by you is to become the target of anything ranging from dangerous mischief to outright terror. The Ones of the Shadows know the shape of Oni, and embrace it when needed.
Consider Gojo, the five feelings of vanity, wrath, compassion, sloth and fear; each can be utilized as methods of control. Consider the Shogun. If he rules through fear, then the Oni can reach the Hommaru- the inner courtyard- unchallenged.
There are nights when sensible people seek the comforts of indoor living as soon as possible. This is one such night, in Paragon City. But there’s always those who dwell, and even flourish under such conditions; the people of the night, the folk of adversity. To them, the bitter cold is nothing more than an added feature of the dangers inherit in the night, a new test for their evolved superiority. Many of these would be found here, in the warehouse district near Gramercy Bridge and Gemini Park. Here is the gray zone where survival determines its own law, where death warrants are implicit upon crossing. And death may face you, or reach to you from the darkness. To be in this zone alone, you must be a predator. Only the ability of inflicting your own law may keep you safe.
Kuraigetsu takes a moment to gather his thoughts. Through self-control he manages the biting cold, which his patched up leather jacket cannot keep out. His ears will grow colder quickly under the taxi driver’s cap, so he must keep his actions as focused as possible to reach termination in the shortest amount of time. A last look around before he turns on the lights of the appropriated vehicle and drives the short distance across the bridge towards the one warehouse entrance he has determined to be his target.
He leaves the vehicle idling a few feet from the entrance, and throws a miniature switch under the dashboard, one of his own making. The driving lights begin to blink alternatively – which makes the otherwise unremarkable sedan curiously different. And different, is often enough to imply what one needs to believe.
“Are you.. Mr. Shim?” Kuraigetsu asks after closing the sedan door. He keeps both hands in his pockets, but the jacket is unzipped.
The man sitting on the easy chair, odd in its outdoor placement, looks Kuraigetsu over. The fire burning nearby inside an old beat-up oil drum licks at the scene, throwing odd shadows at both their figures. As their gazes meet, and Kuraigetsu immediately averts his own eyes downwards. A snort from the sitting man then, as the roles are defined- predator, and prey. He sprawls further on his chair as a measure of contempt, and fairly growls an answer. “What do you want, pigeon.”
Kuraigetsu remains unmoving. While his eyes dart to Shim, and back away, his posture remains steady. “Look, I want no trouble, I mean..” he sighs, biting his tongue, giving away another measure of control. “Your boys told me to come see you, about my fees.”
Shim dangles a leg over the arm of the chair, and draws his ankle knife. He plays with it, licking the edge. The tattoo of a dragon that crosses over his shaved head seems to slither from the flame light. “So you owe me. You pay with money, with goods, or with blood. I don’t give two shits how.”
Kuraigetsu clutches at an object dangling from his neck, and tries to close the leather jacket. The flickering light of the nearby fire dances briefly on a piece of jewelry there, before his body shift hides it. “I can pay. I will pay, I swear. It’s just that.. it’s hard times, right now. My wife, she’s in the hospital… I was on my way there now, you see..”
Shim stands up and holds the edge of the wicked knife against Kuraigetsu’s throat, sneering down at his face. “I don’t wanna hear no @#%$ about later, pigeon. You owe, you pay. We can start with this.” With a speed unusual for one of his size, he grabs at the pendant with his free hand and wrenches it from Kuraigetsu’s neck. Only because he was expecting it does he turn slightly against the push and avoid the incidental cut to his neck.
“No, please... that was my father’s. It’s all I...” The slap rocks him off balance, jerking him to one side.
“Shut your trap. You have twenty-four hours to come up with what you owe. Plus half again, for being late. Now scram.” Shim sits back down, dismissing the taxi driver with a sneer.
Kuraigetsu drops to his knees, palming an object. He reaches for Shim’s forearms, pleading. “Please, I beg you...” The moment his hands come near the larger man, he pushes the hypodermic needle into the pock-marked forearm and delivers an overdose of Superadyne- the same one the hellions have been using, but in a condensed form of his own making.
He stands, looking down at the drooling and shaking body of the two-bit gangster. With expert eyes he watches the dilation of the pupils, and nods to himself, adjusting the taxi driver’s cap upon his head. He heads off to the waiting car, opens the door, and speaks in loud tones for the first time since his arrival, shouting in contrived anger. “Keep it, you bloodsucking bastard. But that’s the last payoff you get from me. Hope you choke on it.” Without another glance back, he drives off.
Excerpt from Police Report, “John Doe, A.K.A Shim Homicide”, Paragon City, Kings Row Precinct.
“.. found face down in a pool of blood by police officers arriving on the scene. Cause of death is hemorrhage from multiple stab wounds. Preliminary coroner’s report states the victim was likely catatonic from a drug overdose when he was stabbed to death. Needle tracks in belly, arms, under tongue and in eyes indicate frequent drug usage. Victim was stripped of all valuables, except for two gold teeth and an item of jewelry found clenched in his fist. Cross referencing of evidence implicates the victim in the murder of one Hasaki Nagasumi, reference material attached. No witnesses available.”
Excerpt from Police Report, “Confidential Source: Snake”, Paragon City, Internal Affairs Division.
“…places an unidentified police officer in an unmarked car at the scene of a homicide, see Police Report F91-A80004. Source states the officer in question drove into the bridge warehouse district, discussed business at length with one Shim, a small time operator involved with insurance racket in the 7th District area. Source was too far away from the subject, trying to appear inconspicuous, so did not hear the conversation. He did, however, overhear him say something about a “payoff”.
Officer in question was uniformed, of medium height and build, wearing the Class C “saucer” style hat. Attached please find the outline for an investigation to be initiated soonest.”
Edited by: Caerwaen Graeholm at: 4/23/04 7:58 am
Re: No Art, No StyleMonday, 10:50 PM Eastern Standard Time, Paragon City, Kings Row; Sun Moon Japanese Restaurant.
Invisibility is both external and internal. This is mysticism, but it is also self control. In order to effect kage tsuki, the strike-from-stealth, one must first learn Kageshin- the quiet mind free of aggressive intention. The Bushido, those of the Art of War, can perceive intention; the One of Shadows must still the mind like a quiet pond.
In the days of our ancestors, the Ones of Shadows often found work in the theater. The ability to clear your mind of intention, and assume the personality of a famous hero with total believability served them well. In time, they abandoned the practice of the actor and became stage hands, astonishing as this may seem. In the traditional Kabuki theater, the curtain doesn’t fall between scenes. Rather, the set is redressed by stage hands dressed and hooded in black, who move unnoticed and unheard. The audience may see a chair, or a small table move briefly through the air of its own and a bedroll take its place, or a garden bench. If noticed, this is mysticism. If not noticed, it is invisibility.
Kuraigetsu checks his watch as he approaches the back door of the restaurant. Backpack in hand, he adjusts his worn, oversized green sweater and catches up to the two other young people entering, holding the door and bowing a greeting with a smile. Inside, the change of shift has created a small maelstrom of chaos inside the busy kitchen. Without much difficulty he navigates the crowd, and heads for the client restrooms right outside the kitchen doors.
Back in the restaurant, he finds a table with a stack of plates. He picks several of these, a bowl, a pair of used “chopsticks” and brings them over to an unused, clean table. Done, he adjourns to the bathroom where he removes the green sweater, stashes it into the backpack- hanging both it and the apron on a nearby hook. A quick wash of his hands doesn’t remove the fishy scent he collected while in the dockworker disguise, but it is a small matter. Out of the bathroom, he gathers a bowl of fish soup from the self-service counter and sits at the table where he previously planted the used dishes.
Halfway through the soup, he notes the two police officers enter the restaurant. They, in turn, spot him after a sweep of the clientele- Kuraigetsu waves and stands, bowing in their direction.
“Good evening, Mr. Mishimoto. I hope we’re not interrupting your dinner.” Detective Wells remains standing, but Morrison slips into the booth and gets comfortable. Wells gives his partner a stern gaze, but realizes the futility of the gesture and puts it out of his mind.
“No. Everything… finished. Please to sit down, Detective Wells. You … wish to eat?” Kuraigetsu gestures him to sit, waiting until he’s done so to sit down in turn.
Jack Wells eyes the lumpy fish soup, and shakes his head in the negative. “Thank you, Mr. Mishimoto. I think I’ll pass. I only came by to give you this.” He extends a bit of broken chain, from which dangles a black pearl mounted in silver. “Is this the item you were looking for?”
Kuraigetsu stares at the pendant wide-eyed, and bows several times as he reclaims it. “Thank you! Thank you, very much! Yes, this is item. Family to be much.., debt for you, Detective Jack Wells.”
Wells stretches back on the booth bench and waves the statement away. “No need, Mr. Mishimoto. All part of the job. All I ask is that you come by the station tomorrow and sign the appropriate release forms.”
Kuraigetsu places the small pendant upon the red tablecloth gently and admires it for some time. “I am… happy chain is to find. Very much happy.”
Morrison stirs, leaning forward. “Yes, we found it on a perp today. Clutched in his fist while he slept in a pool of his own blood.”
Wells elbows his partner as Kuraigetsu pushes his bowl of soup away, sudden distaste plain on his features.
“Mr. Mishimoto, what exactly is that pendant that makes it so valuable… to you, I mean?” he asks, trying to distract the young man.
Kuraigetsu draws a deep breath and nods. “It is… Dark.. ah… Moon! It is, for long time, to family. Many many fathers. Honor is... to keep safe” He reaches into a pocket and brings out a red silk handkerchief, and wraps the pendant in it with great reverence.
“Very interesting. Hey, how do you say Dark Moon in Japanese?”
The young man beams a wide smile at the officer. “It is… Kuraigetsu.”
Re: No Art, No Style
Ok, I couldn't help myself and placed this here I'll place the character I am playing here as well, although Kuraigetsu was my first character concept and I hope that some day, he comes to life at the Project.
I'll place the character I am playing here as well, although Kuraigetsu was my first character concept and I hope that some day, he comes to life at the Project.
Email This To a Friend
Topic Commands
Click to receive email notification of replies 
Click to stop receiving email notification of replies