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rose-animenz · 3 years ago

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Sorry I'm not really active on here follow me @rose_animenz on insta for more updates and shit-- anyways here's a fic i just put on wattpad after 2 year hiatus SOUDAM (KAZUICHI SOUDA X GUNDHAM TANAKA)

The quick pace that Kazuichi had assumed forced the cold air to flap against the scrunched up areas on his jumpsuit. Especially around his calves where he had pulled up the pants legs to help with "his aerodynamics and speed". What a dumb idea that was. Yes, Kazuichi Souda, the 'Super High School Level Mechanic', was running around the campus of Hope's Peak Academy in winter due to the carelessness of a hamster dependent Chuunibyou.

Now the pink haired boy was upset with the current situation because he was going out of his way to run from his workshop all the way around the building to the dorms where said 'hamster puppet master' (which he had called him once jokingly) most likely was. All in order to return a large pack of sunflower seeds. They had been left on his work bench by mistake and by the label he could only assume they weren't the cheapest.

As he stopped to catch his breath he took another look at the bag in question. "ORGANIC, PET LOVER SUNFLOWER SEEDS!!!" He read in his mind with a fake enthusiastic voice. Usually he wouldn't go out of his way for something this small, but the conversation they had before made that seem unlikely that he would return for them, and he sure as hell wasn't going to give in.

💛💛💛

Gundham Tanaka, The self proclaimed 'Overlord of Ice', wanted something made. Specifically from Kazuichi Souda, the man who seemed to hate everything about him. It was a nice day but surprisingly chilly and Kazuichi had been happy with spending his weekend tampering and tinkering with different machines. He had been disassembling an old oven with fluid and practiced movements. Tinkering with things back at home had always been a risk; he'd have to reassemble it before his dad got home and beat the shit out of him, so the fact that he can do so freely at Hope's Peak is not only a relief but a wish come true.

"Wait wait wait... So you want a what now?" said Kazuichi, looking up from his work.

"I would like an automated form of feeding for my deva's, something that runs time based," Replied Gundham, ".... Please."

Kazuichi was feeling reluctant to help his rival for something that could be bought at a pet store. After hearing the please he tacked on at the end Though he was at least willing to hear him out.

"Why are you asking me? That's not anything special, things like that are already in stores." He stated, wiping his nose with the back of his arm. There was a moment of silence. Well, not really silence. The home-made wind chime hanging outside of his workshop rung loudly as they stared, not speaking.

Eventually the other spoke up, "If I am trusting a mortal with something regarding my deva's, I figured I may as well... ask someone I know can handle the task."

Hearing this Kazuichi perked up a little. Gundham trusted him? That can't be right, Kazuichi had done more than enough to prove that not so. Like challenging him to multiple fights over Ms. Sonia, setting the campus kitchen on fire trying to make eggs for a late breakfast, and even threatening the hamsters themselves. And that's just to name a few off of the top of his head. He opened his mouth to point this out but was shut up when the other slammed a larger bag of seeds on the desk nearby. It was half empty but it still made a loud THUMP.

"I have brought with me my common use of food for my four deva's mortal form. Excuse the missing amount, for this is the only bag I have at the moment--" he brushed a piece of hair back into his slicked up hairstyle, "--You may take a sample if that will help you in your creation."

Kazuichi blinked twice then answered, "Wait, I never said I'm gonna do it."

"Well, why wouldn't you?"

"Why would I? We aren't really even friends."

A stormy expression crossed Gundham's face. Without another word, he turned and left. Kazuichi's eyes lingered on the doorway for a moment before he got back to work. that interaction was... strange to say the least. It wasn't until he reached for his flathead screwdriver that he noticed the bag still sitting on his desk.

"God dammit, he really left them."

💛💛💛

Now he's running towards the dorms hoping that he can drop off the seeds and get back into the warmth. He already told Gundham he wasn't going to do it. Was it left by accident or did he really plan for Kazuichi to just do it anyways? He passed the front garden so the dorms were close by. He made the final sprint to the dorm building and pulled the front door open with too much force. Once he was inside he let out a sigh.

Kazuichi read the sign and found Gundham's room number quite easily. He had never had a reason to go there before until now. It seemed dumb but Kazuichi felt this was some kind of test or challenge to see how strong his will is. Even if Gundham wasn't testing him it was a test for himself. He was not going to make something for his... rival? Even if he did say please and looked as if he was telling the truth. What if he had done it and Gundham had laughed? He was already insecure about his abilities, and having someone like Gundham who was honest and proud telling him his work wasn't enough would kinda sting. Kazuichi hates to admit it but his talent is mostly fueled by feedback. Sure he likes to mess with machinery but he wouldn't keep doing it if people didn't think he was at least a little helpful... I mean its not like he thought he was very important anyways. Not like Ms. Sonia.

He approached the door numbered 217 and pulled himself away from his thoughts.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

There was no response for a moment but as Kazuichi was about to turn and check he had the right number at the front, the door quickly opened a crack. A single red eye poked through staring at him. It was pretty silly but Kazuichi stifled giggle with a cough. Last time he laughed at Gundham he got a lecture about "astral powers" and how "those with low standing should show respect" or something along those lines.

"Dude, you left these." He said pushing the bag towards the door.

And the door shut in his face. He was pissed. Just as he raised his hand to bang on the door and demand he take the seeds it flung open, fully this time. He made a mental oh and watched as Gundham walked further into his dark room.

Did he want Kazuichi to enter?

He took Gundham clearing his throat as a sign and stepped into the threshold. As he slipped off his shoes he tried to look more into the dark room. It looked similar to Kazuichi's... Just a lot less cluttered with tool boxes and random machinery. There was a bed in the corner with a desk on the wall perpendicular to it. Everything was some shade of black, blue, or red. He walked further in and noticed the welcoming smell of vanilla and something he couldn't quite place. It was citrusy but not as strong as the vanilla.

He shook his head and remembered what he had come here to do.

"You left your seeds," Kazuichi said sternly. The taller boy turned and held his hand out. Once he held the seeds he sat down on his bed and sighed deeply. Again silence filled the room. Kazuichi didn't know what to do. Should he leave now? Should he say something? Gundham spoke up and interrupted his confused thoughts.

"Thank you for returning them to me."

"Oh!Uh yeah man, no problem I guess," he replied quickly. "Wait so you didn't leave them on purpose...?"

At this the Chuunibyou looked up. "No? what would motivate me to leave them purposefully?"

"I don't know I just thought you were being pissy and saying, like, 'I dont care do it anyways' ."

"What? When have I ever been 'pissy' with you?" Gundham looked hurt for a second but Kazuichi ignored it and kept talking.

"You're always pissy man. You walk around all grumpy-like and you talk like everyone gets on your nerves."

He stood up and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I do not talk that way Kazuichi."

The denial only fueled Kazuichi's frustration.

"You're doing it right now! ...What's your issue man?!"

Gundham stepped forward.

"My issue? Why do you have such a fixation on disliking me?! I haven't done anything worthy of your anger!"

This was getting out of hand. Kazuichi could tell that this wasn't going to end well but he was tired of Gundham being the victim.

"You're the one making Ms. Sonia drool all over you! You keep her all to yourself and then act like you don't like her! Either date her or quit hogging her man!"

"This is about the dark princess...?" He said softly.

"YES! You always hang around her then act like you're all high and mighty! You're being an asshole."

"No, truthfully I am not attracted to her! She's kind and spends time with me, but that doesn't insinuate that it isn't platonic."

Kazuichi was getting pissed off. He was doing it again, the whole 'I don't like Sonia bit'. Its obvious he's interested in her! They're always together, for fucks sake he even blushes! There's no reason he shouldn't like her she's fucking perfect!

"Then why the hell are you always blushing around her?!"

He shoved Gundham. He didn't think about it he just pushed him away. It wasn't hard but it still made Gundham stumble. Gundham's face went dark and his eye twitched. Gundham shoved him back. Kazuichi's hands shook. Why did Gundham think he had the right to be angry when he was the one lying! That was when Kazuichi stopped thinking.

He shoved again, harder this time. That was when Gundham threw the first punch. It grazed his chin and he stumbled but he wasn't backing down. Kazuichi raised his fist to retaliate except Gundham shoved him back again. His shoulder blades hit the wall behind him roughly, knocking the air out of him. He coughed heavily trying to get the air back into his lungs.

"God dammit...! Just... admit you like her dude!"

Gundham used his forearm and pushed Kazuichi's shoulders back into the wall.

"Listen to me right now--" his voice was calm but dark, "--I am not interested in her in that way. I never will be."

Kazuichi looked up. He met Gundham's eyes, one bright red and one a dull grey. There wasn't any sign of dishonesty. This confused Kazuichi more. Why wouldn't he like someone like Sonia? She's tall, blonde, sexy, and a literal princess!

"But... Why?"

Gundham looked pained for a second, but then answered, "...I can't because of the poison in my blood--"

"Oh don't give me in that bullshit! we both know that isn't real!" Kazuichi interrupted. He pushed against Gundham's forearm which only made him use more pressure to hold him in place.

Kazuichi stared. Again he asked, "What makes you not like her huh? Why?"

Silence again. Gundham's eyes looked glossy. He didn't care. Why is he so interested in why he doesn't like her? He didn't know.

"COME ON WHY DON'T--"

Then it all happened. It only lasted a few seconds but everything seemed to move slower. It sounds cliche but it was really like it happened in slow motion. Gundham cut Kazuichi's yelling off with his lips. It wasn't soft or sweet like Kazuichi imagined a kiss to be, it was harsh and quick. There wasn't a romantic build up, no staring into each others eyes, no slow lean in... it just happened.

Gundham pulled away quickly and stepped back. He seemed hesitant, almost like he didn't know what to do. They both just stood there staring at each others faces.

This was insane. He was just kissed by his... Rival? So many things were running through his head.

Why did he kiss me?! Does that mean he likes me...?! Why didn't I push him away? Why isn't he saying anything??! Why am I not disgusted? Does that make me gay? Is he gay?!

"I apologize..."

Kazuichi looked into his eyes, confused, "...what?"

"I said I am sorry. I... I didn't plan on doing that to you..."

Gundham's eyes were shining and he was biting his lower lip. Kazuichi felt a pang of grief, which only confused him more. He grabbed his hat and pulled it down over his eyes.

"... What the fuck is going on..."

He let his legs go limp as he slid down the wall until he was sitting with his head between his knees.

"... Kazuichi?"

Gundham's voice penetrated the deep fog his mind was surrounded by. He pulled off his hat and looked up towards the tall boy. His pale face was contorted and his eyes were wet. The mascara that had been applied to his lower lashes was wiped away leaving a small amount of black residue. The thought that entered Kazuichi's mind scared him.

Why does he look prettier than Ms. Sonia?

That's when his mind started making connections. All the denial and hurt, pushed away by a single thought he let slip. He was interested in Sonia, not because he liked her, but because he was jealous. Sonia was beautiful and graceful and kind, and Kazuichi was some kid who was so insecure that he tried to look like a bad boy. Sonia was allowed to be near Gundham and talk to him freely but Kazuichi was too afraid. He made himself believe he just loved and admired Sonia, but the truth is he wanted to be her. Because he didn't want to admit that somehow, for some reason, Gundham was the one who caught his eye that first day of school.

It hurts. He was so obsessed with Sonia that he didn't even realize his feelings. He was so obsessed with the fact he wasn't her that he didn't realize he didn't have to be her.

Kazuichi stood slowly and stared right into Gundham's eyes. He wasn't going to fight this anymore. He had kissed him, that couldn't be an accident right? He had to know... Does Gundham feel the way he think he does?

With new resolve Kazuichi strode forward. Gundham closed his eyes expecting a fist to the face but all that he felt were two hands grabbing his jaw and a pair of soft lips against his. Gundham froze for a second and then rested his hands on the smaller boy's shoulders.

They would have a tough conversation after they pulled away but for now, all Kazuichi could focus on is how happy it made him to feel Gundham against him. He wasn't Sonia Nevermind. He didn't have to obsess over her. Now all he had to do was put his everything into helping Gundham understand his feelings. All the good and the bad ones.

Because the one I was truly obsessed with is a tall man who carries around hamsters wherever he goes. Because the one I was secretly interested in is a crazy boy named Gundham Tanaka

Sorry for any formatting isues or anything and heres the link if you wanna support me on wattpad and get updates:

https://www.wattpad.com/story/297179288?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details_button&wp_uname=Rose_animenz&wp_originator=csrnZU7AXFAprq9s7XTqx84kr7h%2F4vvS%2BoLyozBIef5ye1VNLaxXxQ%2FlLgDCF4xv6oqx86ZvwmB27HhEN3AOlbcdDsARA82r9kNhCk%2BHh%2BASV9O7%2F8ZWowjxfDNtAGZL

#soudakazuichi #soudam #soudham #sdr2 gundham #gundham tanaka #danganronpa 1 #danganronpa 2 #danganronpa #m/m fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #sdr2 kazuichi

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advancetech05 · 5 years ago

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p-artsypants · 6 years ago

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Boy Toy (Act IX)

I have been reading each and every review that comes in, and I appreciate all of them! I also understand some of you are worried about the ending. And I promise, all of my stories have happy endings! (Because it makes the suffering worth it.)

FF.net | AO3

—

With the collapse of Bludvist, its seemed like the whole Kingdom as they knew it did a complete 180. Daily, Stoick received letters asking for loans and building permits to finally fix some essential buildings. The hospital was on the top of the list. It had been knocked down, looted, and burned over and over again, but Stoick had been adamant that building had to survive, no matter what. So now, with the threat of constant destruction gone, an entire new hospital was being built.

Next on the list was the orphanage. For obvious reasons. Stoick was also offering, what was essentially, free money to those who needed it the most. Families were coming in groups, each collecting a sum and then pooling them together to make enough for a really nice housing unit. Once spring broke in a few weeks, the building could begin, and life would go on.

But that was not so for everyone. Almost immediately after the attack, three men came to Stoick, groveling. They spoke of a plot of assassination on the Tsar’s head, and begged forgiveness since they turned themselves in.

Since none of them knew any helpful information on the matter, they were thrown into the dungeon, and security in the palace was doubled. There wasn’t much else to be done.

Meanwhile, Hiccup and Astrid continued their daily walks. Slowly this time, as Hiccup was still recovering from his grievous wounds, and he had a new leg to get used to. Toothless likewise was recovering, but the brave little thing was doing fine.

“Astrid, can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?”

“When…before I was taken…I had this feeling.” Though he had decided to brooch the subject, he couldn’t quite find his words. “Were there days when you didn’t wind me up?”

Astrid glanced to the snow. “Yes,” she stated, softly. That was before she knew he was human, when she thought she could do what she wanted. “It was days when the calendar was just full of meetings and brunches…I knew I wouldn’t have any time to really interact with you…so I just left you off.”

He furrowed his brows as he studied her. “I don’t think you’re being honest with me.”

God, had he already learned to read her so well? That was a painful thought.

“You got me.” She admitted. “There were days I didn’t start you up…because…” She couldn’t say it. It was just to horrible, and just confirmed everyone’s hateful words about her.

“You started to grow tired of me?”

Her eyes slammed shut. So he figured her out? Well, it was fairly obvious. In the past months, he had proven his intelligence and had already come a long way from the naïve puppet he was at the beginning.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s okay.”

“No, no it’s not.” She frowned hard, holding in painful thoughts. “You’re my husband…my best friend. And I treated you like dirt.”

“Astrid, you didn’t know…”

“I should have!” She shouted, disrupting the peaceful snowfall around them. “I spent the most time around you, so I should have seen it! I should have seen that you had a heart and feelings—“ She turned her head away from him, hiding her shame. “But I was so blinded that I missed it all.”

Warm hands encircled her shoulders. “But that was then, and you came for me. Now, you’ve opened up to me. I forgive you, Astrid.”

His words allowed her shoulders to relax and her head to roll forward. “I…I’m going to make this up to you, Hiccup. You’ve suffered your whole life, and now I want you to enjoy your time you have left.”

He smiled at her gently, and let his fingers dance across her cheek. “I don’t remember much of my old life. My purpose now is just to make you happy. So don’t worry about me, okay?”

Though she audibly agreed, on the inside, she had a much different plan.

—

The next morning, she awoke to see Hiccup still asleep next to her. His body was still, not breathing like a normal human, but pressing her head to his chest, she still heard the ticking of gears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, kissing his forehead. “But I need you to stay asleep today.”

She dressed on her own, before Ruff or Tuff even arrived. And when they did, she surprised them by opening the door before they could knock.

“Oh, you’re up early.” Ruff acknowledged.

“I have business to attend to today.”

“Like the brunch with Heather Zerker?”

She had forgotten about that. “I need to reschedule. Today I’m doing something for Hiccup.”

The twins stared in awe, and then scrambled to take care of the necessary preparations.

“Yes!” Cried Ruff, glancing at her list. “We’ll take care of everything! Don’t worry a bit!”

“And, one more thing...” she warned them. “Hiccup is powered off for the day, because what I’m doing is a secret. Leave it that way.”

The twins saluted.

“Good,” she stated, adjusting her cloak to cover part of her face. “Now fetch Snotlout. I’m going out.”

—

The first stop on her errand run was to Gobber’s.

The toy maker was busy at work, he and Fishlegs were repairing some of the more salvageable toys she had in the basement of the castle.

“Ahem,” she cleared her throat.

“Your majesty!” Fishlegs nearly shouted, dropping a screwdriver.

“As you were,” she stated cooly.

“Well Princess,” greeted Gobber. “What can I do you for? Is Hiccup alright?” He noted the boy’s absence.

“My husband is doing well since the incident.” She provided. “But I’m here on a private matter, one that must remain secret from him.”

Fishlegs stopped his working and listened in interest.

“Oh?” Asked Gobber.

“I would like his name, his real name.”

Gobber sighed, “Are you sure about this? He doesn’t have any memories and he—“

“His name, Gobber.”

“…it’s Henry.”

The memory of the woman during the parade came to mind. She had also called him Henry.

“And his last name?”

“I don’t know.” Gobber shrugged. “When the lad was still a little thing, maybe around 8 or 9, he came and asked me to teach him how to make toys, because he couldn’t afford to buy them himself. So I took him in as an apprentice. He said he didn’t have a last name, and that he lived with his mother in the narrows.”

The narrows were a part of the town down by the docks. Where most of the buildings were abandoned warehouses, there were a handful of shacks, some being only a room with a whole family in it. Being so far from the market meant they were far from the Berk Guard. There was no protection from criminals, but there were rarely raids from Bludvist all the way down there.

“So he was your apprentice?” She asked, “for how long?”

“Up until he died, actually. Fishlegs joined us about two years ago, when we made that working catapult.”

Ah yes, she remembered that one. A great deal of fun.

“You met him a few times too, on birthdays and Christmas.”

Her eyes widened. “What? I did? I don’t remember…”

“He never introduced himself, but he was there when we delivered presents. He said he enjoyed seeing your reaction.”

A guilty knife stabbed her in the gut and made her weak in the knees.

“I met his mother on occasion, but she seemed like a very private person. Didn’t say much, and never stayed for very long. But she loved him immensely. He never knew his father.”

“When did he…you know…?”

Gobber sighed, sitting on his bench. He glanced to a room in the back corner, that was covered by a sheet. “I should have noticed sooner. He never ate the food I gave him, instead wrapping it up to take home to share with his mother. He was always skinny, skinny as a twig. But then one day, he fell in the snow and broke a few ribs. It wasn’t a bad fall, so I knew something was wrong. Turned out, he hadn’t eaten in weeks. His mother was ill, and he gave her every morsel he could scrape up. All the while, he was lying to her that he was eating his own portions. So we sat him down, and forced him to actually eat. But by then…it was too late. His mother came to me crying, and said that he went to bed feeling sick, and never woke up.”

Tears came to Astrid’s eyes, hating everything that was being said.

“We buried him, and then we came to your birthday ball.”

Her eyes widened. “Right after?”

“It was a good distraction.” Provided Fishlegs.

“When you said ’I want you to make me a husband’ my immediate thought was ‘we should bring Henry back.’”

“How?” She asked, “How on earth did you do it? In three days, no less?”

Gobber beckoned her and Snotlout into the back room. It was a workstation, and it looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in a long time. “Is this…?”

“His work room, yes. Henry was extremely smart and creative, despite having no education. He taught himself how to read, and did research on physics, aerodynamics, human and animal anatomy…everything that caught his interest.” Gobber picked up a journal that sat on the workbench. “It started innocent. He found a little black cat that was missing a leg, and nursed it back to health, creating a fake leg for him.”

“Toothless!” She exclaimed.

Gobber stared at her in surprise. “Yes, that was what he called him. How did you know that?”

She smiled, fondly. “He…Toothless was following him. Hiccup found him in the courtyard and took care of him. He dubbed him Toothless out of the blue, and the name stuck.”

Gobber smoothed his mustache. “It seems…some of his memories are coming back to him.”

Astrid nodded, but said nothing, urging him to continue.

“Not long after people noticed Toothless walking everywhere with him, a little old woman came to us. She had lost her cat to old age, but she wanted her companion with her for the time she had left. So Hiccup designed a…system of sorts. Something that worked like an artificial heart to keep the body running like it normally would. Only, it had to be powered by a hand crank. Therefore, the wind up key. When it worked, we kind of thought he was crazy, but he promised never to touch it again.”

“You mean he designed…that whole thing?”

“Yes, every detail and note is contained in this.” Gobber handed her the journal. “He didn’t create it with the intention to revive a human, and if I hadn’t been drinking, I probably wouldn’t have tried to do it either. It is rather…morbid and wrong.”

Astrid didn’t say anything, just held the journal in her hand.

“But, of anyone in Berk that deserved a second chance…I think he definitely earned it.”

Astrid wiped her eyes.

“Does that give you closure?”

She looked to him. “Does he have any other journals? Can I take them to him?”

Gobber frowned. “Are you sure? If he reads these…it could bring back old memories.”

“That’s what I want. I know he suffered, but he deserves to know the truth about who he was.”

Gobber sighed, knowing there was no arguing with the Princess. So he simply nodded and got to work packaging up all his notes and sketchbooks. “Just be careful.”

She nodded.

—

The next stop was the graveyard. she wasn’t quite sure why she decided to come here, but she just wanted to see his grave. Maybe to cement the fact that her husband was dead at one point.

Problem was, the graveyard was fairly large, since Bludvist tended to keep things busy.

“Do we even know if his graved was marked?” Asked Snotlout.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I should have asked Gobber.”

“Pardon me,” a voice spoke.

Turning, they were greeted by a man not much older than the Princess, looking rather large and imposing. He wore red robes, those associated with the church, but had three blue lines inked on his broad chin.

“You’re a—“ Astrid began, taking a few steps towards her guard.

“A milk drinker?” He asked, pleasantly. “Yes, I was. Don’t worry, it frightens everyone. I may have been born up in the mountains, but I don’t consider it my home. My name is Eret, I’m the undertaker here. Now that you know that I’m not going to hurt you, can I help you?”

Astrid smiled in relief, but Snotlout did not relax his guard. “I’m looking for a grave. The name Henry, buried around November 13th.”

“Hmm…last name?”

“No last name.”

“No last name? Oh! I think I actually know who you’re talking about. This way.”

The Princess and her guard followed Eret past all sorts of statues of angels and headstones, until he stopped at a little plot. It was only marked with a puny wooden cross. “Well, this is it. Young Henry, died of starvation.”

“Yes, this would be the grave we’re looking for.” There was no body in it, but just the sight of the cross sent a real, true coldness to her bones. She crossed her arms a little.

“Did you know him?” The undertaker asked.

He obviously had no idea who she was, since her hood hid her identity. And it was safer that way. “No, not really. Did you?”

“A bit.” Said Eret. “I began to keep an eye on his mother after his passing. She’s quite ill, and it’s only a matter of time before…”

“What is she ill with?” Astrid asked, not hiding the concern in her voice.

“Not sure. She can’t afford a doctor. We here call it poverty disease. It’s when someone gets sick, and then can’t afford any care. Eventually it’s just exacerbated by them trying to continue working…”

“Where is she? I’d love to help.”

“She lives down in the narrows, by the old fishery. Her name is Valerie.”

—

Astrid, for being the Princess of a country, had never been to the narrows before. Surely, Stoick would throttle her if he found out she went there with only one guard.

“Hey Astrid?” Snotlout asked softly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re good at fighting too. This place makes me nervous. Not that I can’t protect you, but…”

“I wonder how many times Hiccup was jumped coming home from work?”

Snotlout sneered, “once would be too many.”

They spotted a woman doing laundry, and asked her if she knew of a woman named Valerie. Then they were pointed in the right direction. Despite the grittiness of the area, the folks were helpful enough. Though Astrid did receive a few too many lewd looks while Snotlout received the finger.

“I dressed down,” Astrid noted, looking at her plain clothes. “But I still look a lot nicer than all these people.”

“Lets just find Hiccup’s mom and get out of here.”

Finally, they came to a little shack. Smoke rose out of the little tin chimney, indicating that someone was home. Astrid knocked, “Hello? Miss Valerie?”

A weak voice answered from within. “Who is it? What do you want?”

“I…am a friend of your son’s. I would just like a word, please.”

There was a pause and then, “come in.”

The shack was in order. A small room with two beds opposite of each other, and a fire pit in the middle of the dirt floor. Nothing else was there to mention.

In one bed laid a woman, looking incredibly thin and frail. She fought to sit up, coughing a few times. “Hello?”

Astrid didn’t know what to say. A few months ago, she had mocked this woman, and called her crazy. But now, she was meeting her mother in law, and didn’t have a clue how to proceed. “Uh…”

“You knew my Henry?” The woman’s eyes were filled with sorrow, and the dirt on her hollow cheeks made her look like a skeleton.

Oh, Astrid should have put more thought into this. Yes, reuniting Hiccup was his mother sounded like a wonderfully kind thing to do. But the woman had already lost her son once, and now he was going again. This wasn’t fair to her.

“Please,” said Valerie. “Tell me how you knew him...I miss him so much.”

With a sad sigh, Astrid stepped forward, and took a seat on the bed, pulling her hood from her face. “I know your son…”

“You’re…the Princess Astrid? But…how? Why? Here?” She shook her head. “Your husband, during the parade…”

“He is Henry,” She confirmed, holding the woman’s hand. “He’s alive.”

“He’s a—…” The woman dissolved into tears and curled in on herself.

Snotlout watched in awe as his princess embraced this filthy beggar woman in a comforting hug. He had fairly recent memories of Astrid spitting on such people.

But that was before Hiccup came along.

“Snotlout,” Astrid called.

“Highness,” he snapped to attention.

“Can you fetch a carriage? She needs to come with us to the palace.”

“No, no please...” the woman begged, her tears making streaks in the dirt on her face.

“Listen,” Astrid said, taking a firm grasp of her arms. “Henry is...he’s not the same boy that you knew. He did die, that is true. But the toy maker brought him back. He doesn’t remember who he used to be, and his body is entirely dependent on machinery now.”

“...what?” The woman breathed.

“Unfortunately...there’s been a malfunction.” She looked into the mother’s eyes, and felt her voice die in her throat. This wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t be doing this! “He...he won’t last much longer. But you deserve to be with him, too.”

Valerie shut her eyes tight as she continued to cry, overwhelmed in grief and relief.

“But you’re very ill, and I can’t let you stay here.”

“I can’t!” Valerie protested. “I can’t go with you!”

Astrid pleaded with her, earnestly. “I’m not leaving my mother in law to starve like a wretch in this squalor! You’re coming with us!”

“No!” She cried. “It’s not safe for me! It’s not safe for Stoick! I can’t go back!”

Wait.

“What?” Asked Astrid, leaning closer. “What did you say?” No one ever called the Tsar by his first name alone, well, except for her.

Valerie shook her head. “I’ve already said too much, I can’t…it’s not safe…”

Gently, Astrid grasped the woman’s arm again. “Please. If this a threat to our safety, you need to tell me.”

The woman wiped her eyes, trembling. “I’m sorry…I…Valerie isn’t my real name.”

Astrid just stared at her, eyes narrowing.

“My name is Valka, Valka Haddock.”

Silence reigned as Astrid stood suddenly, shell shocked. Haddock was Stoick’s last name, a rare fact because of the royal status. And Valka…Valka had been the name of his late wife. The one taken by Bludvist.

“I don’t—“ Astrid stuttered, “I don’t understand. You’re the queen?”

Valka hushed her, “you mustn’t speak so loud!”

“I’m sorry,” Astrid took a calming breath and returned to sitting on the bed. “Please, continue. I’m all ears.”

Valka gnawed at her lip, nervously. “Stoick and I…we were married. At first, it was…a rough marriage. Arranged.”

She had heard a little about the marriage from Stoick. He wasn’t keen on talking about it, but when prodded, he admitted that he had been fond of her before she was lost.

“When I found out I was pregnant,” began the woman, “I was…overjoyed. Stoick was a nice, gentle man, but he didn’t love me the way I loved him. With our baby, it was like…I’d finally have a part of him to love me back. However…the Chancellor, Osvald Zerker, was not happy about this news.”

“The Chancellor? Why?”

“Because if anything happened to Stoick, he would win the crown.”

She had heard nothing of this before. “What? Since when?”

“Since Stoick was an only child with no heirs. Technically, Spitelout, the Captain of the Guard, was the closest relative, but he was not deemed competent enough to rule. So Osvald was deemed viceroy. That is…until the crown prince was to be born.”

A cold fear crept into the back of Astrid’s mind when she remembered Dagur. During a the fight that ensued over Mala’s pregnancy, he had carelessly mentioned that he was only interested in her for her power. Now it seemed like Dagur hadn’t gotten that idea on his own.

“Osvald came to me one night, two guards with him,” Valka continued. “He gave me a choice. I could purposefully lose my baby, or I could save him and kill Stoick in his sleep. If I refused to both, they would take me to Bludvist, and that would be the cue to start the raids on the royals.”

“So…Osvald wanted to take the throne?” Astrid asked. This would confirm the plot of assassination those men had warned them about.

“Yes, and he was willing to do whatever it took to get it.”

This was turning out to be a very interesting and insightful day. As soon as they returned to the palace, she would make sure that Osvald was jailed.

“I chose to run. After a while, the guard stopped looking for me, and assumed I was taken by Bludvist. In this way, I was able to protect Henry and Stoick.”

“Oh my god!” Astrid said suddenly, the last bit of information clicking into place. “Hi—Henry is Stoick’s son!”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“He’s the Crown Prince!”

“Yes.”

Astrid put her hands on her head, dealing with this information. What a strange twist of fate. She shook herself out of her trance. If all this was true, she had a lot of work left to do. “Well, it’s safe now.” Astrid assured. “Osvald can threaten you all he likes, but I personally saw that Bludvist was eradicated. And we are aware of the assassination plot, so the guard in the palace in on alert.”

“But some of the guards are plotting with Osvald!”

“Never the less,” Astrid pressed. “I am next in line for the throne. If he wants to hurt Stoick, he’ll have to get to me first, and I will personally make him suffer as Fragonard suffered.”

Uncertainty was still violently within Valka. After all, she had spent her whole life hiding, and just a few words were supposed to put her at ease?

“You’re coming with us. I’m not giving you a choice.”

Resigned, Valka closed her eyes. “Alright then, I’ll come back.”

#boy toy #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup horrendous haddock iii #hiccup #astrid #Astrid Hofferson #Snotlout #fanfiction #hiccstrid #pinocchio!AU

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cochimney · 3 years ago

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Factors Involved in Chimney Repair Process

The caps come in various designs and styles, like ones that are aerodynamic to reduce any downdraft from the passing winds and breezes. The cap also comes with many other features, including a solid top.

But sometimes the fire you burn will send creosote particles out and they have been known to accumulate within the cap that could eventually block the proper flow of air needed.

When doing the Chimney Repairs, the main goal is to clean off the built up creosote that can be a huge issue for most metal caps.

· The first step is to put on some shoes with rubber soles and some clothes that will fit loosely on you. Then you will want to set up your ladder - preferably an extension ladder that will extend to about three feet above the ease to allow a safer way to climb onto the roof. Don't forget to bring a Phillips screwdriver and a wrench as these tools are the most important for this job.

· If you lift the Chimney Crowns off and it is attached to the flue, you need to locate the screws and unscrew them using your screwdriver. Then you can use the wrench to hold the nuts steady during this part, provided there are nuts. This will allow you to be able to take the cap down to make any necessary repairs in your garage.

· One way to remove the built up creosote is to use a chisel and a hammer as a way of scraping it from the cap's sides. It's probably a good idea to wear protective gloves to keep your hands protected from the creosote. When you have chipped all of it off, you can collect what you have removed into a bag for disposal in the garbage can.

· While you have it detached, you have a chance to repair any joints that might have been separated. This can be done by screwing them back together with the use of self-tapping sheet metal screws. Afterwards, you can clamp that joint by using a C-clamp followed by using a drill and a No. 2 drill bit to drive the screw. On a side note, there's no need to create any predrilled holes since the self-tapping screws will do that for you.

If you are looking for Chimney Inspections service, then contact https://www.cochimney.com/

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sunsetcarnation264 · 1 year ago

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A good amount of stuff I made of these babies, including them without the cybernetic modifications!

Would've had them scanned (which I'll show better quality versions later) but... It's kinda complicated atm

#Super Robot Monkey Team Hyperforce Go #Fankids #Aerodynamic Screwdriver #Astral Wrench #Diamond Galaxy #Emerald Tinker #Hermodactyloides #Jasper Skye #Magma Cloud #Marino Obsidian #Kaminari Apricot #Peridot Gears #Soma #Lil's Art

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michellemagly · 4 years ago

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Data Center HVAC - Cooling systems cfd

New Post has been published on https://computercoolingstore.com/data-center-hvac-cooling-systems-cfd/

Data Center HVAC - Cooling systems cfd

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Data Center HVAC cooling systems. In this video, we look at data center HVAC designs with a focus on the cooling systems and air management strategies used, as well as design analysis with Computational Fluid Dynamics (CFD) on SimScale ( We cover raised floor, hot and cold aisle, hot aisle containment, cold aisle containment, CFD simulations, CRAC units, heat exchangers, chillers, free cooling, water and air cooled chillers as well as cooling towers.

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How water cooled chiller works Prt1 – How water cooled chiller works Prt2 – How Air cooled chiller works – How Absorption Chiller works – How Heat Pump works: Primary & Secondary system: Fan Coil Units: VAV Systems: CAV Systems: VRF Units: HVAC Basics: Heat Exchangers: Pumps: How a Chiller, Cooling Tower and Air Handling Unit work together –

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sentinelchicken · 5 years ago

Photo

A6-EPZ, one of Emirates’ Boeing 777-300ERs, gets loaded up and reprovisioned at its gate at DFW’s International Terminal D. ⁣ ⁣ On the Boeing 777, the distinctive screwdriver tail cone shape was done for aerodynamic efficiency with the APU exhausting out the left side. However, there are some bends in the the APU exhaust duct that raised the costs of fabrication and the APU’s noise is higher than most large aircraft, compounded by some harmonic resonance at the exhaust opening on the left side. ⁣ ⁣ When it came to the 787, Boeing went back to a cone-shaped tail cone but computational fluid dynamics assisted in optimizing the shape to get the same aerodynamic benefits as the 777’s tail cone but with simpler APU exhaust duct geometry that also reduced the noise of the APU on the ramp when it was running. ⁣ ⁣ So why does the Boeing 777’s APU exhaust to the left? Because there’s more likely to be rampers on the right side of the aircraft for longer periods of time loading and unloading the cargo holds. Anyone on the left side would be there for a shorter period of time- catering trucks and lavatory servicing vehicles who would be exposed to APU noise for shorter periods of time.⁣ ⁣ #Avgeek #aviation #aircraft #planeporn #KDFW #DFW #dfwavgeek #airport #planespotting #airlines #Boeing #777 #Emirates #A6EPZ #instagramaviation #splendid_transport #instaaviation #aviationlovers #aviationphotography #flight #AvGeeksAero #AvgeekSchoolofKnowledge #AvGeekNation #TeamAvGeek (at DFW Airport) https://www.instagram.com/p/B4WDCjIhMot/?igshid=189wprxwd5hlj

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the-etranger · 4 years ago

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Data Center HVAC - Cooling systems cfd

New Post has been published on https://computercoolingstore.com/data-center-hvac-cooling-systems-cfd/

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pumpkinqueen-bonecollector · 4 years ago

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Data Center HVAC - Cooling systems cfd

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fandomstuckdiversity · 4 years ago

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Data Center HVAC - Cooling systems cfd

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acid-bvrn · 4 years ago

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Data Center HVAC - Cooling systems cfd

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junker-town · 5 years ago

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The secret life of Floyd Lippencott Jr.

Jere Alhadeff

To hide his career from his father, drag racer Bob Muravez assumed the name Floyd Lippencott Jr. But he couldn’t outrun the truth.

BURBANK, California — The old drag racer is huddled inside his cozy backyard garage, the place where he has long spun his wrenches on carburetors and crankshafts.

For Bob Muravez, it’s a messy laboratory of sorts. He has spent years there, under autopsy-room-bright lights, grease trapped deep down inside his fingernails, modifying versions of the dragsters that once ruled the racetrack.

His walls are a photographic record of his best checkered-flag memories. Long-wheel-based dragsters hurtle along straightaways in a blur of motion, their fat racing slicks furiously spinning, raising smoke and dust like demons incarnate.

The photos depict a world of super-fast cars and cocky young men hungry for speed, where winners and losers were separated by fractions of seconds, at speeds so fast racers needed parachutes to slow down. Before he retired in 1971, Muravez won more than 600 sanctioned drag racing events across the U.S., becoming one of the most recognizable names in his burgeoning sport. In Muravez’s fastest run of his career, he reached 249.59 mph in just 5.89 seconds.

Yet at age 82, the old drag racer is most famous not for his speed, but for his secret.

For five long years, between 1962 and 1967, Muravez protected perhaps the most closely-guarded mystery in modern sports: An alter-ego who took full credit for his thriving racing career.

Every time he hopped behind the wheel for another wicked-fast run down the track, the wiry 140-pound Muravez became Floyd Lippencott Jr., the name he assumed to hide his real identity from an unlikely foil: His own father.

Ralph Muravez was a Czechoslovakian immigrant and self-made businessman with a third-grade education, a demanding taskmaster who founded a local washing-machine empire. Along with his Maytag repair shop in Burbank, he owned 5,000 washing machines in apartments across Southern California.

In 1958, as part of his retirement strategy, Ralph handed over majority control of the operation to his sons, Bob and older brother Ralph Jr., known as Bud. Ralph wanted to spend his retirement years enjoying the good life, visiting the world’s exotic ports aboard his 42-foot motorized sailboat.

He was his own Sinbad the Sailor, Bob recalled. But when it came to his son’s racing, he was more like Captain Bly. The last thing he wanted was to lose his rebellious younger son to a fatal dragster wreck. “In his eyes,” Muravaez recalled, “he was building something good for the family and he didn’t want to come home to find that one of his only two sons had died on some racetrack.”

The father issued his son an ultimatum: Quit racing or leave the family business.

Muravez devised a solution that would be unthinkable in today’s hyper-connected world of smartphone cameras and competitive press. With the aid and consent of reporters, photographers, publicists and even drag racing officials, Bob Muravez invented an entirely new identity.

Photographers never took his picture without his face being covered with a helmet and mask. Floyd never did interviews. Bob did those later. Joked Muravez: “Floyd did the driving and Bob did the talking.”

The National Hot Rod Association even issued Muravez a professional driver’s license in Lippencott’s name, the only one without a picture. In the winner’s circle, friends-turned-imposters donned his protective fire suit and kissed the trophy girl while a smirking Muravez stood in the background.

Left: Muravez collection, Right: L&M Films

Decades later, wearing a white T-shirt, blue jeans and a thick mop of hair, Muravez could still be mistaken for one of those lanky car-crazy kids racing as a teenage rite of passage. Yet the need for speed has dissipated for Muravez, like air seeping from a leaky tire. He hasn’t had a speeding ticket in 40 years.

Now he uses the garage to relieve the stress of running the Maytag repair business his father started during World War II. He’s more often concentrating on honey-do projects than fixing dragster engines.

But Floyd Lippencott Jr. motors on. Both Muravez and Lippencott were inducted into the International Drag Racing Hall of Fame. And Muravez scribbles down two names whenever he’s asked to sign his autograph.

While Muravez no longer races, his mind still lives in the cockpit. He’s nervous by nature, hands fidgety, bolting his food like he’s rushing to start another race. “I’m a drag racer,” he said. “I’m either idling or going full throttle.”

The years have brought Muravez perspective, but some feelings never pass. To keep both his racing career and his alter-ego alive, the old drag racer admits that he paid a steep price.

Muravez came of age in the 1950s, a lifestyle captured by the film American Graffiti, when he and his buddies lived for their street rods. They’d cruise around the parking lot of Bob’s Big Boy, attracting looks from both the popular girls and less-popular cops, both of whom hounded them incessantly.

Muravez loved both cars and women. Before he was married in the 1970s, he was engaged seven times, and bought seven rings.

And yet, while he nurtured a James Dean persona on the street, his home life followed a different script. There, his demanding immigrant father called the shots. Ralph wasn’t a drinker, he was just mean, unvarnished. He was also a respected businessman.

In the Muravez household, Bob was relegated to second-son status behind Bud, a golden-haired boy who excelled in school and was his father’s favorite. As a child, Bob spent years confined to a sanitarium while suffering from tuberculosis, which also afflicted his mother Edith. He also struggled with dyslexia, a yet-to-be diagnosed condition that confused his hard-charging father.

Family friend John Moore calls “Uncle Ralph” a product of his time. “Ralph was hard-nosed. Lots of men of his era were like that,” he said. “I think Bobby felt overlooked as a boy. His father was busy building his business and he had one healthy son — there just didn’t seem to be time for Bob.”

Ralph lost his own father at a young age. One of five children, he entered the U.S. through Ellis Island in 1908. Not long afterward, his alcoholic father went out one night to play poker and never came home.

Relatives say the experience hardened Ralph towards his own two sons. “He mistreated those boys,” recalled cousin Glenn Clifford, now 84. “He could be cruel.”

To survive the Depression, Ralph sold Hoover vacuum cleaners door to door in Beverly Hills. In 1944, he opened a Maytag sales and service shop in Burbank. An old photograph shows him posing jauntily, leaning against the last in a line of retired washing machines. A sign reads “Keep Out. WASHING MACHINE GRAVEYARD. Let them rest in pieces.”

Muravez collection

Ralph loved boats. He built them and took them out on ocean trips, often with Bob in tow. Whenever the boy became seasick, the disgruntled father would drop him off at the nearest point onshore and order him to walk back to the harbor.

Bob worked in the repair shop from age 10. Ralph’s brand of you’ll-do-as-you’re-told discipline was stifling. “My father would always say, ‘When I tell you to do something, you start doing it before I even finish,’” Muravez recalled.

Bob would accompany his father on service calls, carrying the tool box with its hoses, screwdrivers and pliers, learning the washing machine repair trade. Wearing his Maytag hat, Ralph imposed rules that were Depression-era tough. “He’d say, ‘Don’t ever let me hear you say, ‘I can’t.’ If you tell me you don’t want to do something, fine, but never tell me you can’t.’”

In 1954, when Bob was 16, the old man asked if he wanted his own car. Here was a wide-eyed teen growing up in post-war Southern California, at the time of Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers, when politicians dreamed of going to the moon. The automobile had begun to dominate American life. Seemingly every new product featured sleek aerodynamics, from lamps and toasters, to bullet bras and cars with snazzy hood ornaments and elongated rear fins.

You bet he wanted his own ride.

Ralph called a Hollywood automotive dealer, who told him about a used car for sale. Days later, father and son pulled up outside the Beverly Hills estate of actress Betty Grable.

In the garage they marveled at the sort of car that might frequent a teenage boy’s dreamscape: a white, six-cylinder 1953 Corvette convertible with red interior and a mere 1,800 miles on the odometer.

The kid saw it this way: His father never hugged him. There were no parental pats on the back. That just wasn’t Ralph.

The Corvette was as giving as the old man would ever be. And it was perhaps the greatest gift anyone could give Muravez — a chance to go fast, a chance at status.

Of course he’d take it.

Muravez had just died and gone to automobile heaven.

That Corvette changed everything.

It took an awkward kid forever on the periphery and put him centerstage, behind the wheel of a sleek, sexy performance car.

The Corvette became Muravez’s calling card. He show-boated around town, and joined a local car club called the Road Kings, where members paid dues and worked on race cars.

Muravez also street raced.

He settled grudge matches mostly at night, on lonely River Road near the Forest Lawn cemetery, or on the gritty concrete bed of the LA River beneath the Sixth Street bridge. Those quarter-mile contests were replete with kids giving the go-signal at the starting line, and onlookers ready with buckets of water to douse engine fires.

It wasn’t long before an unwanted observer began to appear in the racers’ rearview mirror: a Burbank cop the boys knew only as Officer Stanley. On weekends, he’d lurk in the gas station parking lot across from Bob’s Big Boy, in the heart of a two-mile teenage cruising stretch.

“He’d write you up for anything, even a bad lightbulb on your license plate,” Muravez recalled. “We didn’t like his attitude.”

When he was 19, Maravez joined fellow Road Kings member and future drag-racing star Tommy Ivo in a teenage prank to spite the dreaded policeman. Muravez snuck beneath Stanley’s patrol car and tied a rope around the rear axle, affixing the other end to a nearby pole.

Then they hopped inside Ivo’s T-bucket roadster, revved the engine and took off past the gas station. Stanley gave chase, but not for long. The pole stopped the cop car dead, and Officer Stanley lurched forward, breaking the steering wheel. “We hid Tommy’s car in the garage,” Muravez recalled. “And we didn’t bring it out for a very long time.”

Left: Steve Reyes, Right: Jere Alhadeff

But by then, those Burbank glory days were nearing their end. One night, Muravez ducked into a back alley to ditch a pursuing black-and-white. The cop later stopped him, warning that the next time he ran, he’d shoot. “That scared me,” Muravez said.

By that time, Muravez had amassed an astounding 28 speeding tickets. His license was suspended for a year. His father took away the Corvette.

At home, tensions mounted. By the summer of 1957, Bud was married and Ralph was fixated on his younger son, who had graduated high school the year before. “We butted heads,” Muravez recalled. “He didn’t think I had any direction. I didn’t like him telling me what to do.”

Eventually, Muravez moved out. He slept inside his hand-me-down 1956 Chevy Belair convertible, and later sold the car to afford living expenses that included $8 a week to rent a room over a friend’s garage.

He got a job working at a buddy’s family machine shop and was doing well. He’d even gotten a few raises. Nearly a year after Muravez left home, Ralph approached him about coming back to the Maytag shop. They reconciled in part because they recognized a shared flaw: Their stubborness.

“He realized where I was coming from and I realized where he was coming from,” Muravez recalled.

Still, Muravez never fully returned home. He only saw Ralph when he showed up at the repair business. And while the young Muravez no longer had a car, the kid still had an incurable adrenaline addiction.

Those days, along with a lot of other Burbank kids with hot cars, Muravez hung out at Ivo’s garage, where he performed grunt work like wiping down tires, washing engine parts and polishing cars.

“He was a footloose and fancy-free kid who tripped over his own feet when he walked,’ recalled Ivo, now 83, famous for his light-hearted putdowns. “But he loved cars.”

Muravez went to the racetrack as Ivo’s gofer. He’d run his Corvette there before, but now he was ready to launch a new chapter of his racing career in earnest.

His relationship with his father was seemingly mended. Ralph had come to terms with his son’s wild side.

That peace would not last long.

Muravez loved the drag strip scene, with its camaraderie and testosterone-laden competition, being able to put pedal to metal without a cop car in sight. Racers were a colorful, braggadocious crowd, boasting nicknames like Sneaky Pete, Wobbly Wheels, Snake, Mongoose, Zookeeper and The Hunter.

Soon, Muravez built his own dragster and started winning races.

Then he got lucky.

In 1961, he began driving for John Peters and Nye Frank, a Santa Monica, California, team that owned the sport’s top racing car. In the years before, they’d developed a twin-engine dragster later known as the Freight Train for its sheer ferocity and the way it belched locomotive-like smoke while crossing the finish line.

What followed catapulted Muravez’s racing career: Peters took a foolhardy kid and helped turn him into a professional driver. Said Peters: “We won a lot of races.”

One old photo offers a closeup view of Muravez in the Freight Train’s cockpit, looking as much like an aerospace test pilot, or cosseted Hazmat worker, as an ambitious risk-taker seeking new speed records.

He wore circular goggles, a dual-cylinder breathing apparatus and facial heat shield to protect him from the spatter of hot oil thrown off the up-front engines by the brutal G-forces. And that helmet? Well, that wasn’t going to protect him much in the event the good Lord decided that he’d flirted with nearly-inhuman speed too many times. If that unfortunate eventuality occurred — if the engine exploded, or he flipped that dragster — nothing could save him.

Back then, as the saying went, drag racing rules were written in blood. “Gee, another guy got killed?” a driver would say. “Sorry to hear that. When’s the next race?”

In the late 1950s and 1960s, the mounting death toll in the sport led car builders to innovate, like adding a parachute when they learned mere brakes could no longer slow down a speeding dragster, and shoulder and lap harnesses to keep drivers from being thrown out of tumbling cars.

While Muravez was serving as one of drag racing’s guinea pigs, he still worked five days a week at the Maytag shop, racing on nights and weekends. Ralph barely took an interest in his son’s career, and never once saw him race.

Leslie Lovett, National Hot Rod Association

Then in March 1962, Muravez won his first major championship race in the so-called Top Gas category — in which dragsters used the same gas as street cars — at the Bakersfield Fuel and Gas Championships.

Well, that got Ralph’s attention.

By then, Ralph had given each of his sons a 40 percent share of the business and dreamed of sailing on his boat, stopping just long enough to cash his profit-sharing check.

A dead son would ruin that dream.

Within days of Muravez’s first major racing victory, Ralph approached his 24-year-old son and gave him a choice: Either quit racing or lose his share of ownership in the family business.

Choose family over dreams.

Appease the father.

So Muravez made one of the most difficult choices of his life. In June 1962, he abandoned his passion. He continued to go the races as part of the team, but served only as a crewmember, not as a driver.

For the next five months, without Muravez behind the wheel, the Freight Train did not qualify for a single race, despite being piloted by such famous names as Mickey Thompson, Tom “the Mongoose” McEwen and Craig Breedlove. Several drivers complained that the powerful race car pulled dangerously to one side, and there was talk of scrapping the dragster altogether.

Muravez begged to differ. One night after the Freight Train failed to qualify at Lions drag strip in Long Beach, Muravez accepted a dare from driver “Wild Bill” Alexander to slip behind the wheel himself. He took the dragster for what he called “a nice easy pass” down the quarter-mile track.

Seconds later, when the run was done, he heard the distant roar of the crowd. He lit a cigarette from the dragster’s glowing disc brake. Back at the pit, he learned that he’d set a new world speed record of 185 miles per hour.

That settled it: Muravez would go back behind the wheel, against his father’s wishes. He soon captured the National Hot Rod Association’s 1963 Winter Nationals trophy, under the name “John Peters.” The Freight Train was the No. 1-rated Top Gas dragster in the nation.

A drag racing legend was born.

One day, a young sportswriter named Steve Gibbs was filing a story for the weekly racing publication Drag News on the race results at the San Gabriel track.

Muravez asked that he not use his real name. “When he won the race, I thought, ‘I’ve got to make up a name,’” recalled Gibbs, who later became competition director of the National Hot Rod Association.

The author of one of his college textbooks came to mind — Lippencott. Gibbs couldn’t recall the first name, so he improvised — Floyd. In a final flourish, he added a Jr. “I had no idea the name would become a major piece of drag-racing trivia,” he said.

Muravez immediately ran with the alias, even adding a middle initial “J,” later explaining that it stood for “genuine.” “I was a lousy speller,” he laughed.

Convincing people to keep his secret wasn’t as difficult as Muravez — Lippencott �� imagined.

He often bought pictures from moonlighting photographers, so they were eager to keep him happy.

And frankly, he added, racing officials didn’t care what name he used, as long as he continued to draw fans to the track.

Just to be safe, Muravez made sure there were no cameras around when he slid behind the wheel of his dragster. After races, he did interviews with his helmet and facemask still on.

In February 1963, Muravez won the Winternationals in Pomona, California, his very first race since returning to the sport as a driver. With Muravez in the game, The Freight Train was finally back.

In the winner’s circle, his roommate, Rex Slinkard, donned Muravez’s leather racing jacket and stepped up to accept the top award, his arm around the trophy girl. The real driver laughed in the background, knowing his secret was safe for yet another race.

Floyd J. Lippencott Jr. continued to win races, hundreds of them. But perhaps one too many.

In May 1967, after winning the Springnationals competition in Bristol, Tennessee, Muravez made a mistake: Flush with victory, sitting inside The Freight Train’s cockpit with his helmet and facemask off, he was approached by reporter Keith Jackson from ABC’s Wide World of Sports. “You’re really popular,” Jackson said, thrusting a microphone in his face.

“Yeah, we have a lot of fans in the South,” Muravez answered.

On the long drive home, he realized what he’d done. While his father was not a regular viewer of the show, Muravez had nonetheless put his face on national television. There was still a chance Ralph would somehow see it on the boat’s TV while out on a weekend fishing trip.

Left: Eric Ricman, Hot Rod Magazaine; Right: Muravez collection

“I thought, ‘What am I gonna do?’” Muravez knew the segment wouldn’t air for a week, so he hatched a plan. He borrowed the TV from Ralph’s boat — saying his was broken — so his father wouldn’t catch the Saturday sports show while out on the water. Not only was Muravez’s racing career now in jeopardy, but so was the tenuous relationship between father and son.

But Muravez couldn’t control every factor. Ralph liked to relax after a fishing trip with a few boilermakers at Burbank’s Elks Club bar, where a drinking pal broke the news that his son Bob had actually been racing as a professional driver for six years — all behind his back.

At first, the old man wouldn’t believe it, until the friend returned with an Orange County Raceway program that pictured his son.

The next day, Ralph stormed inside the Maytag repair shop showroom, surrounded by two dozen new washers and dryers.

It was early in the day and there were no customers. Just Ralph and his two sons.

The old man was furious. He was already going through a painful divorce, and now this. He thrust the racing program at his younger son, after making an X with a pen like it was Exhibit A in a trial.

There was Floyd Lippencott Jr. — Muravez — staring up from the page.

Ralph and Bob faced each other.

“Have you been driving all these years?” the father asked.

“Yes, I have,” the son replied.

“You’ve been lying to me,” Ralph said. “You’re no son of mine.”

When Bud spoke up in his brother’s defense, their father banished both from the business. He threw a hammer through a window and reached for another before both sons stopped him.

A neighboring merchant called the police. It was a messy scene. Ralph finally roared off in his 1959 El Camino, but not before threatening both boys.

“I built this business,” he said. “And I can destroy it.”

He vowed to never speak to either one for as long as he lived.

He kept his word.

What happened next was a family car wreck.

Ralph and Edith finalized their divorce. He wanted to keep sailing. She wanted to stay close to her family. The boys battled for control of the family washing machine business while the father made threats. He eventually remarried a woman half his age and moved into the bungalow the family had kept for years on Catalina Island. He later became Avalon’s assistant harbormaster.

He started to get drunk regularly.

“He was tired of it all,” Muravez recalled. “His world was crashing in around him and that’s how he dealt with it.”

Bob’s wife Sharon is more harsh. “Ralph was a bastard,” she said.

Without Ralph’s looming shadow, Muravez kept racing, but he did not retire Floyd Lippencott Jr. He even added the letter “e” at the end of the name to make it look fancier, more French. Years later, he played along with humorous public campaigns sponsored by racing cronies that promoted Lippencott as a candidate for California governor and U.S. president.

At the track, Muravez liked to taunt competitors. “Have a good race,” he’d say. “But if you beat Floyd, you beat nobody. He doesn’t even exist.”

Muravez retired from drag racing in 1971 when the National Hot Rod Association discontinued the Top Gas class of competition. He briefly returned to take part in exhibitions over the coming decades, but the final flag had fallen on his racing days.

He married Sharon in 1974 and raised two sons, Michael and Peter. He was always careful not to be overbearing like his own father, to let them pursue their own lives.

After his brother sold his share of the business to pursue an equestrian career, Muravez continued to run the shop under its original name, “Ralph’s Electric.”

Muravez spotted his father a few times over the years. When his paternal grandmother died in 1975, Muravez saw Ralph at the funeral, but kept his distance.

One day, Bud passed his father on the Avalon boat dock.

“Hi Dad,” he said.

Ralph ignored him.

In the early 1980s, a possible truce loomed. A drinking pal of Ralph’s walked into the Maytag repair shop, saying the old man would like to see his sons. So Sharon sent Ralph a letter with a picture of baby Michael. “It was a very welcoming letter,” she recalled. “I went into detail, extending an olive branch.”

A week later, they got their response — a handwritten letter. “It was full of hate, saying ‘I no longer have a son and therefore I have no grandchildren,’” Sharon said. It included a copy of a letter Bud’s wife had sent after having the couple’s first child, with the same invective response.

Sharon Muravez

“I thought, ‘You bastard! How dare you?’” Sharon said. “I threw the letter at Bob. I was upset, but he kept things inside. He just accepted it.”

The two rarely, if ever, mentioned the letter again.

Ralph died in 1993. Muravez was never told of the funeral. He doesn’t even know where his father is buried. Both Bud and Edith are gone, too.

Now, there’s just Bob. And Floyd.

“Ralph died a bitter, lonely, broken, miserable person, alone in his motorhome or camper or whatever the hell it was,” Sharon said. “There was nobody around him, nobody who cared about him. Bob could have been there.”

These days, when Muravez talks to groups, the audience gasps when it hears how Ralph disowned his own son. But Muravez slowly came to terms with the pain through stoicism.

He understood that old family stubbornness. Amid that last faceoff in the Maytag shop, before Ralph threw the hammer through the window, Muravez knew something very important had come to an end. “I realized at that moment that there was nothing I could have done or said to bring back my father’s final words to me.”

They hurt, of course, but Muravez also felt a sense of liberation. He no longer had to do something he truly loved in secret.

The lies were finished for good. Ralph could control his son no more.

While the father never forgave the son, the son has forgiven the father.

“I carry my father right here,” Muravez said, pointing to his head. “I understood him. I was the second-born son and I knew what that meant to him. He believed that the father was the ruler of the family, no matter what.”

Inside the garage where he bonds with friends like a teenage gear head, Muravez still quotes Ralph’s homilies. He considered what was left unsaid with his father.

He likened the loss to seeing colleagues die in dragster crashes. “The racetrack is like a war zone,” he said. “You tell a friend, ‘Be safe,’ and he goes out and dies. You wish you could have said something.”

For years, Muravez has kept a slip of paper inside his wallet, which he consults whenever he is overcome with a sense of loss — of long-ago racing friends, and Ralph.

“The clock of life is wound just once,” it reads in part. “And no man has the power to tell just when the hands will stop, at late or early hour.”

There are also words Muravez tries to forget. For years, he kept Ralph’s spiteful last letter in his office safe.

So where is it now?

Inside the garage, he moves his hands as though crumpling an imaginary piece of paper, and tosses it over his shoulder.

He flashes a look of hurt and sadness. “You only have one father in life,” he says.

Suddenly, he has to go. There is work to do.

Those machines aren’t going to fix themselves.

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