#Alfred 'Paper Boi' Miles

[batterknowsbetter]

“Hey, Al, whatever happens, just know that I love you very much.”

[mannytoodope]

Darius: I got you on some Stereolab goods

Paper Boi: Stereolab? All right, man.

Darius: Al, this is gonna be amazing.

Paper Boi: I'm feeling it, man. Let's do it.Oh, man!

Darius: Poor thing. He's probably just sick. Hmm. All right. Come on, I think it's this way.

[foundfamilyhq]

[lesbyers]

they ask me what watching s3 of atlanta felt like and i said not everything feels like something else

[hellomagicalsouls]

so just started Atlanta. Donald Glover has crazy eyes, not sure how to explain but he does yanno???

is it worth it to continue watching? only on first ep. always loved Donnie since community days

[offscreendeath]

[cipher-fresh]

[ID: A meme captioned “Name a character who went through more pain than him” with a simplistic black figure of a human, one used on warning signs. A collage of warning signs is shown behind him. Underneath, a screenshot of Miles O’Brien from Star Trek /End ID]

[impyssadobsessions]

DPxDC Ficlet/Snippet Pen Pals

I had to write it out a bit XD My head still swarming with the idea. >w<

Damian made it to his room. Part of him wanting to collapse on his bed and sleep in, despite how childish that seemed. Another part eyed the envelope Alfred had left on his nightstand. He had almost forgotten about his Pen Pal. Daniel Fenton. Damian snorted, despite neither one of them giving out their real names, Daniel wasn't hard to find. Last year as a safety protocol, he had located the recipient of his letters and found out everything he could. A boy his age, fourteen now-thirteen then, with physical features that would mistake him for his brother. His siblings teased he had found his own sibling this time, which was not the case! Daniel had a family, two researchers of the paranormal and an older sister. Besides his parents strange profession, Daniel was an average teenager. One, Damian would think would bore or infuriate him- he did infuriate him actually, but instead he was interesting to talk to. Most of their letters were nothing more than small talk. They share their aggravation of their older siblings. Apparently, his older sister was very nagging as he put it. However, when Damian discretely mentioned his own, Daniel did suggest quite a successful prank to pull on them. Other letters, were more helpful and meaningful. Being miles and states away, the average boy was able to call Damian out without a qualm and give comfort without being asked. Only after talking with Daniel, did Damian ever wonder what it would be like to grow up in an average home. Damian grabbed the letter from the bedside table, opening it up. He could at least look at it before bed, and think of a reply tomorrow. He would never admit, but he had missed writing to his Pen Pal. Daniel mentioned struggling in school last he heard from him. Which was odd, as his grades were above average before. Maybe he should check into his school, again. It wouldn't hurt to update his profile- Damian's eyes widened once he unfurled the sticky letter from itself. The paper was filled with his friend's penmanship, blurred and feather from being exposed to moisture. However, that is not what made Damian hold his breath. It was the glowing green stain smeared across the page over Danny's signature. It couldn't be. Why would... Inspecting closer, Damian saw blood like material in the green. It was red, as if the green substance was keeping it fresh. Like... Damian furrowed his brows and ran out the room with letter in hand. He was going to get to the bottom of this. He was going to find out what happened to Daniel James Fenton.

[bruciemilf]

wait I have got to hear your thoughts on bruce being lottie!!

Rewatching Princess and The Frog has got me in a chokehold! But basically, the AU as of now;

It's a well established, well know, well respected fact from the White House to the Bayou; If you ain't Wayne rich, you ain't rich at all.

But you won't catch Thomas Wayne bragging and boosting and yapping about hot cars, or big mansions, or pearly white yachts.

Thomas' pride and joy is one tiny, fawn eyed, overly energetic boy that made Gotham collectively swoon.

"And I want a princess when I grows up!" Bruce is just prancing around in his pink prince costume, adjusting a paper crown that Alfred made, " Or a prince! Can you get me a prince, papa?"

"You know the deal, Bruce; You wish it, daddy grands it; Ain't that right, Martha?"

Martha Kent chuckles in that warm, knowing way of hers. Her friend is infamous for the way he spoils his boy. But the Waynes are good people. And not just because they keep her farm afloat.

"Yeah, you're good on that front. But you know, sweetheart; It doesn't matter if you marry a prince or princess. As long as they make you smile, that's all that matters."

Lois, just a bit older than Bruce, makes a disgusted noise, " I don't want no prince or princess. I just want Princess money."

Bruce squeals, " But a PRINCE. I'd love to marry a Prince. We'd have a big big wedding and the sweetest cake in the world, and everyone would have fun, -- Clark! You gonna be at my wedding, right?"

Clark, dressed up in his blue overalls and paper sword, to fit the knight Bruce always calls him, nods, with a smile that doesn't match his words, " Course I will, Bruce. If you'll have me."

Now. Bruce is so very good at forging fantasies. But when a princess from a far away island rumoured to be populated entirely by women comes into town, it doesn't look like make believe at all.

"Women only? Lucky."

Lois doesn't have the time for dreams; She's a bonafide, concise, straight to the point realist. Taking truth by the throat and brings it to light.

And often enough, truth isn't pretty. And ugly truth, as Parry said, right before booting her right out of her job, doesn't sell.

Luckily, Clark's folks were nice enough to give her a delivery job cause Clark can't drive worth a damn. Still. If she's gonna watch him contain another dreamy sigh for Bruce, she'll blow chunks.

"Did you see her in them papers?! That's the prettiest woman I ever did see!"

Mr. Wayne growls behind his newspaper (that Lois could've written better than fucking JIMMY) and Bruce doubles down, " Um. After mama."

Mr Thomas smiles. "Hm. Guess you're finally getting that princess, huh, Brucie?"

Even in adulthood, Bruce squeals like a strangled kitten, " Where's Clark? Can't have the perfect wedding without the perfect best man!" Lois bites her lip and stacks up the peaches in Mrs. Wayne's Cafe.

After all these years, she just refuses to let that old place go. Lois has to respect that. Martha gives her a sympathetic look, warms her up with a mother's love. " How's work, Lo?"

"It's work, Mrs. Wayne. Thank you for that big order for the masquerade ball. At this point, you're the only ones keeping that farm alive..."

"Give those apples some credit," she winks, but squeezes Lois' hand, " If you ever need anything..."

"Thank you. But I don't take handouts."

"Pride won't buy you food, honey. But I guess I gotta wait for you to open your own newspaper. Then I'll make you rich. You'll see."

Bruce is just hugging and squeezing on Clark's arm, ranting a mile a minute about his wedding colors, his cake flavor, the honeymoon, all while nuzzling Clark's toned arm.

And Clark does what he does best; Hide behind a smile.

Alfred sighs, " If he wasn't mine, I'd whack that boy's head with a pan."

"You'll do no such thing, or so help me!"

"Save it for the after party, Tommy dear," Martha chuckles, " But I gotta understand, -- this Diana lady's making waves. I never even seen a woman talk to the mayor before. Let alone yell at 'Im."

"That's cause Tommy Elliot only wants women under his desk," A roll of the eye, a coil of disgust fanning resentment In her gut, Lois takes the box. "Sides, little miss princess probably ain't better than he is. "

The problem with always looking back is you're never ready for the forward.

When Lois bumps up in something tall, solid, and warm, she thinks its Clark. Except neither she or Clark smell like vanilla ice cream and clean air and blue oceans.

Clark certainly doesn't have long, majestic hair gracefully dancing in the winds. He doesn't have blood red lips, or strong blue eyes.

Clark's eyes were summer sky blue. Not a blue Medusa herself couldn't stone.

And he certainly doesn't make her heart stop with a smirk.

"Well," Diana Fucking Prince says, voice satin and velvet, "I don't know about being a better. But I could change your mind about that."

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Christmas fic please?

☺️

The Blue Hour This is somewhat of a sequel to my other 18th-century fics 'When the Heart is Full the Tongue Will Speak" and "The Prison Ship," but it also stands alone. Valley Forge was arguably the worst winter of the war. Alfred's having a bad time. Matt tries to help. He has something for Alfred. This was supposed to be longer, but I had to say fuck it and put it in the queue, or it wasn't happening, so I'm so sorry for inflicting it on you. Apple pie reference is from the HC that Alfred's pie recipe comes from a nice Pennsylvania Quaker lady who took him in in the late 17th century when he was little after the Massachusetts witch crazes. This isn't a happy fic, but it is deeply loving. Also on ao3

Valley Forge, Christmas 1777

Alfred’s legs didn’t feel quite real as he approached the clearing. It was silent here. No animals. No people, either. Even the last chickadees, so faithful through the winter, had disappeared behind him as the previous winter sun faded from a depressing grey to pitch dark. He was a bit numb and more paranoid as he rounded a copse of trees and found himself staring at a pristine clearing. He recognized this house, grey stone with a heavy slate roof. There was no glass in the windows, but cheery, flickering firelight escaped through whatever slight cracks there were in the shutters. He hefted his rifle, bayonet attached, closer and approached, wary. The forest held its breath, and the fire crackling became louder as he approached. There was smoke from the chimney but no shadows of movement inside. He gripped his rifle. He should go home to his haphazard tar paper and log shack, but it was dark now, and Valley Forge was 30 miles behind.

He pushed open the door with a bang, rifle to his shoulder, and heard a surprised shout. A figure twisted, axe in hand, poised to hook it into Alfred’s neck and remove an arm at the shoulder like a branch from a trunk. Then, a note of laughter, and he was embraced.

Warmth hit him. First, Matt’s entire body was warm, and his clothes were fire-toasty. Then the smell of roasting meat floated, so solid it was almost visible, into his senses. Then, dizziness. Dizziness struck like a blow to the head. Alfred might have passed out on the floor if Matt hadn’t already had his arms around him.

Matt squeezed with more strength than Alfred had ever known his baby brother to have. The rifle was tugged from his hands, and he was suddenly sitting, sodden clothes and boots pulled off, feet stretched towards the fire. He might have vomited if he wasn’t so hallowed out. Matt was gone for only a moment, but Alfred grabbed a hold of him as soon as he was back.

“Have you changed your mind?” He grasped Matt’s sleeve with a shaking hand. “Did you come to your senses?”

“Have you?” Matt said, derisive even as he pressed a mug into Alfred’s hands. “Drink that, and the world will stop spinning.”

“Matthew---” He didn’t let go of Matt’s sleeve. “You haven’t come to—.”

“Bend the knee?” Matthew’s eyes flashed, and Alfred was all too aware of the axe on his belt and the rifle against the wall. “No. I’m not.”

“What are you doing here then?” He let Matt go and sipped on the contents of the mug—broth, salty and rich beyond belief. Matt was right. The world did stop spinning.

“It’s Christmas.”

“Is it?”

“It is,” Matt said with a watery smile. “I take it you got my note.”

“Pie at sundown,” Alfred recalled. “I got it. I could hardly believed you remembered that.”

“First apple pie you ever made me. I’ll remember it til the sun goes dark.” Matt was before him with a blanket and a stack of clothes. “Finish drinking that, put these on and then we’ll talk.”

They were his own clothes, what he’d left in the chest of drawers in Boston after he’d slipped his guards and disappeared across the border and into Quebec. He wanted to toss them back. They were the clothes of a crown subject, a boy with a British boot on his neck. Not the free man he wanted to be. That he was, but he hadn’t had a fresh shirt since his baby brother had dragged his corpse out of his shallow grave on the Hudson. He could wash it as often as he liked, but the linen was still wearing thin. His former things were practically new, the linen fresh and clean, the wool still warm. Alfred ran a hand over the fabric, still so chilled he hardly considered his pride as Matt turned away to tend to the bird slowly roasting over the fire and dressed. He glanced over his shoulder when Alfred slipped the shirt over his head. There hadn’t been a mirror to look at himself in months, and he didn’t want to. He knew his ribs were stark; he could feel them. Matt looked that kind of devastated that, if he hadn’t turned away, might have made Alfred cry.

“Have you had a decent meal since I saw you?” He didn’t look over his shoulder again until the shirt was over his head, and he’d buttoned the blue waistcoat over his chest. Everything was so ill-fitting now.

Alfred ignored him. “Does Father know you’re here?”

Matthew snorted. “It’s Christmas; he’s so deep into the officer’s nog when I left he won’t realize I’ve gone unless I’m not there for epiphany morning with tea going. So I shot a turkey and pissed off south to find you. Looks like its a good thing I did too.”

“I’m fine.” Alfred scowled. “There’s a camp of thousands of men 2 miles from here with nothing but rice and vinegar for Christmas dinner. Next to them, I’m all right.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt said, and it damn well looked like he meant it, narrow shoulders bowed as he sat heavily onto one of the overturned logs he obviously meant to use as a kitchen chair for the occasion.

“You could feed a lot of people if you stayed. You’re a good hunter.”

“Don’t,” Matt said. “We’ve had this conversation. Look at you. You know I wouldn’t survive another war like this. You’re kissed by God himself and you look like death.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Rice and vinegar, eh? Yeah well. Try some turkey and see if it compares.”

“Why do you keep coming to see me if you won’t pick a side, Matt? You’re committing treason and you know it.”

“You’re my brother.”

His shrug was simple, unemotional. The sky was up, the Earth was down, the snow was cold, and Matt would haul and shoot a turkey and walk four days just to sneak him a decent meal. He teared up. Maybe it was the cold, the deprivation or just how much he missed home and heart and heart. Throat working, shoulders shaking even if he wasn’t crying, he grabbed Matt by the shoulders and squeezed for a third time, kissing him on the forehead about a dozen times and just feeling something so desperately affectionate he had to ride it out like dizziness.

“I missed you.” He said.

“You too.” Matt had clamped himself around Alfred, playing as if he just held on; he wouldn’t feel how much weight he’d dropped since summer. After a long moment, he made Alfred sit on one of the logs and tossed the rucksack while he struck flint and steel and put tinder to kindling. “Have you been sick? You look terrible,”

“Everyone is.” He said. There was no point in hiding it. “You know what it’s like. A moving army is a healthy army. A camped army is a sick army.”

“Why do you think I like the woods so much? I could run from the British as easily as from the typhus.”

“Yeah, well, they’re my people. I can’t leave them.”

“Do you have scurvy yet?”

“Gettering there.” He poked his tongue at his teeth. He had all of them, but he was always so tired. It couldn’t be far away.

Matt pivoted and took an orange in each hand, shoving them at Alfred. “Father... he’s in the habit of buying two.”

“I can’t take these!”

“Think of them as reparations.”

“Won’t you get scurvy?’

“I get lime juice twice a day. Just take anything you want out of my pack and eat it. Take the rest tomorrow. I’ll get a rabbit on my way back if I get hungry.”

“Why do you have to go back?”

“Stop asking me that. Pick something for me to make out of what’s in there, all right? Anything you want tonight, and you can take the rest tomorrow.”

“I want you to stay.”

Matt leaned against the wall by the hearth, arms crossed. “And I don’t want to die. So stop asking. That’s the agreement. Stay alive. Not stay with you.”

“You should be my right hand. It should be me and you against the world.”

“You’re the one fighting with the world, Alfred. I already have. I lost. Pick a vegetable, eat an orange, have some wine and stop trying to sentence me to death because you’re lonely again.”

He was tearing up, and so was Alfred. They looked away from each other, and Alfred went to the pack.

He opened food like he had once opened pewter inkwells at the apothecaries, looking for the blue ink he liked better than the quickly fading walnut; there were cranberries, potatoes, apples, stalks of celery, onions, cabbage, carrots, mushrooms, honey cakes, tea, coffee, a jug of wassail and a smaller bottle of Madeira. Smaller quantities of sugar, flour, oats, rice, raisins and rye. There were more of his clothes that he hadn’t taken when he’d fled Boston nearly two years prior. And under all that, a length of blue cloth with shining brass buttons. 

“Mattie.... What is that coat?” 

His brother froze. He’d been dragging his knife down the side of the roasted bird and onto a rough-hewn platter. For one long moment, Alfred thought he might burst into tears. 

“It’s for you.” He said. 

“Whe did you get it?” 

“General Montcalm.” He said. “It was too big so I hid it under the floorboards. Thought I’d wear it too the victory parade someday. It’s... it’s your colour now, isn’t it?”

“It— Yeah it is.” 

“I hope its luckier for you than it was for me.” He said quietly. “I hope Lord Bonnefoy is better to you too.”

“Mattie.” Alfred said quietly. 

Matt was standing there, eyes shut against tears, until he looked up at Alfred with those same big, hopeful eyes he’d always had before all this. Full of all the softness and warmth of Canada that may not have existed elsewhere that winter. Words stuck in his throat, and suddenly, so homesick he wanted to burst, Alfred opened his arms. Matt gave up on carving the bird, put down the plate, and allowed Alfred to pull him in again. If Matt had grown, it was only a little, and Alfred could still easily rest his cheek on Matt’s crown, which he did for a long moment.

“Thank you.” He said. 

“It was meant for you,” Matt replied. “You’re... tall and capable like that. It will fit you, even when you fill it out again.” 

“You’ll grow.” Alfred said. “Someday. And then we'll be fine."

Someday. 

[jessaerys]

alfred "al" miles....

paper boi paper boi always bout that paper boy if you aint on your grind then you flexin yous a hater boy paper boi paper boi always gettin paper boy if aint makin money then you aint a money maker boy

[batterknowsbetter]

[mannytoodope]

[dont-be-so-shy]

@aliteralchicken remember when i told you back when the batman (2022) first came out that i was going to write you battinson batfam headcanons and then never did? so i got over my writer’s block and wrote a lil something something but i can’t find the original post so here you go:

Go somewhere, Alfred said. Do something fun, Alfred said. 

Selina was busy in Blüdhaven and Jim had taken a trip to the mainland with his family, so he’d been forced to listen. 

Haly’s Circus was bright and shining, and even from a distance and inside his car, the cheers were audible. 

The noisy camp land near Amusement Mile, wide open space filled with fancy cars and dressed-up socialites along with the middle-class, all walking among the striped tents and caravans and acrobats doing tricks along the sides of the dirt walkway. 

As Bruce steps into the biggest tent, filled with acrobatic equipment and blue banners hyping the Flying Graysons. 

---------------------

Gravel crunches under the wheels of Dick’s Porsche, but he doesn’t hear it above the sound of the album Nevermind blasting from his speakers. “Smells Like Teen Spirit” clicks off as Dick parks his car in front of the door of the manor, eyeing the steps with trepidation. 

Finally, he brushes his hands off on his jeans𑁋a nervous habit from his days in the circus𑁋and uses his key with the Aquaman chain charm to unlock the heavy wooden doors. 

The door slides open silently on its hinges and Dick steps into the low-lit space, glancing around for Alfred, who had the uncanny ability to sneak up on literally everybody. Instead he spots a flash of purple from behind the stair rails. 

Dick looks higher and𑁋there! A young boy, maybe twelve years old, is peeking at him from between the banisters, wary. 

Dick makes sure to look back down, hiding his eyes under his hair, and heading to Alfred’s favorite table in the dining room on the second floor𑁋using the opposite stairs. 

Wayne Manor, gothic as it is, makes it supremely easy to sneak around on the cold floors and slip into the nooks and crannies of the walls to follow others. But Dick lived here for seven years, so he knows the young boy with slanted brown eyes is following him down the familiar corridors lined with Wayne family portraits. 

Dick lets himself stop at the youngest one, still years old; one of him aged fourteen, Bruce, and Alfred. Alfred has a strong hand on both Dick and Bruce’s shoulders, Bruce has his shoulders pulled up nearly to his ears, and Dick is grinning eagerly, smile ear to ear with his dark hair curling around it, concealer covering the yellow bruise on his cheekbone from one of Black Mask’s goon’s guns to the face. 

He turns away from the portrait, it always inspires a spark of sentiment in him, reminds him of the past, which reminds him that there’s still a young boy following him down the halls of his home. 

In the kitchen attached to the dining room, he finds Alfred preparing dinner. “Got room for one more?” 

Alfred looks up and his crow’s eyes deepen as he smiles. “Master Richard! How good of you to come for a visit!” 

“Hi, Alfred.” Dick says wistfully and leans in for a hug. 

After Alfred has returned to fileting the fish and Dick has been assigned to the cutting board where he’s chopping potatoes, he asks, “So. Who’s the kid?” 

The kid in question is pretty good at sneaking, but his shadow falls into Dick’s peripheral vision. 

“Ah.” Alfred begins delicately, “Master Jason. About two weeks ago, Master Jason helped the Batman take down a school for children engaging in criminal activities and since he was an orphan, Master Bruce took him in.” 

Alfred is eyeing him surreptitiously, perhaps wondering if Dick is angry. Dick isn’t, but he is able to keep his face calm and not let it break out into a smile. “So Jason is his ward now?” 

“Yes, Master Richard.” He leans closer, as to not let Jason hear, “But just between you and me, your father already has the adoption papers ready.” 

“Huh,” Dick says, washing his hands and heading towards the kitchen threshold. He surprises Jason, making him twitch-jump and smiles widely. Jason peers at him warily from the shadows. 

“Hi, little brother.”

[soddinghelp-blog]

Striking Back

1899

Being a news girl who spends her days hawking newspapers on the dirty streets of Manhattan. You barely make enough to scrape by day to day. So, when your paper suppliers Pulitzer and Hurst decide to raise the buying price of newspaper bundles from 40 cents to 50 you decide to join the brewing strikes.

America x reader 

Chapter one.

The sun rose in the smoky hazy sky of Manhattan and Joey was curled up asleep on the steps of an old building. You let out a sigh of relief, you had been searching all night for him.

You gently shook his boney shoulder. Joey blinked open his eyes. “Hey. You have any food?” he asked hopefully. He had large brown eyes and dirty blonde hair. The clothes he wore were dirty and miles too big, Kid Blink’s old clothing that were too small for him. You ran your grimy fingers through tangled hair. You knew the answer was no, you had not a crumb on you. “I’ll... I’ll get you something. Just stay here” you promised.

Joey nodded dumbly and was asleep again. You rose unsteadily to your feet. You patted your pocket; you took comfort as you felt the shape of the rusty penknife against your palm. If you were lucky, you wouldn’t need to use it.

Ever since the strike started. You had no income, not a penny in your pocket for food or board. And as you said to Kid Blink last night. “If we don’t win this strike real soon, we all starve.” Kid Blink looked you, his face hardened. “Beg, borrow, steal. If we yield to this price hike we definitely will starve” You knew at 60 cents a bundle you need to sell 100 papers per day just to break even.

You had been pacing the streets for a while now, looking for a good target. Someone rich looking, someone who was naive enough to not flee at the sight of your grungy appearance. Someone-

Your ears pricked up as you heard a cheerful whistle, you turned to see a man striding along, dressed to the nines in Vicuña Wool and Japanese denim. He was swinging a Harrods bag.

Someone... like that...

He had a young face, a happy face, a face that looked like it had never seen hardship. Cheerful blue eyes framed with gold rimmed glasses. Oh yeah, this guy was a trust fund boy.

You eyed the Harrods bag. Whatever was in there could be sold and the money could buy some desperately needed bread. Your hand drifted down to your pocket, where the knife was. You weren’t gonna actually hurt the guy, just scare him. Still robbing people, even rich trust fund boys seemed wrong.

Joey’s gaunt face flashed through your mind, that put any hesitation out of your mind.

You stepped into his path, flicking out the blade, sunlight glinting off its wickedly sharp edge. “Hey. Nothing personal, just give me the bag” you said flatly. The carefree look had now fled his face replaced with startled confusion. It was only then you saw he was reaching for the gun holstered on his side, concealed under his jacket. You panicked. Throwing yourself forward onto him. You didn’t mean to, but your weight had driven the knife into his stomach. Taking advantage of his pain and shock you grabbed the Harrods bag with bloodied hands and scrambled to your feet.

---------  

You and Joey were sharing a fresh loaf of French bread in the alley when Kid Blink showed up. Kid Blink was a rough looking guy, all scarred up, with hard marble like blue eyes and brown hair that was chopped haphazardly. He wore an eye patch over one eye, he never spoke of how he lost his eye. Kid Blink face of the strike, the guy you don’t want to cross. He took one look at the fresh bread and said, “Who did you rob and what did you take?” his tone was steel, his glare was accusatory. It took a lot to of effort not to flinch away from that unforgiving gaze.

You shrugged trying to seem casual. “Some rich guy. Glasses, blue eyes, blonde hair. Probably six foot” You ignored the second part of the question. Kid Blink didn’t need to know everything.

He shoved you backwards, sending you stumbling. “YOU IDIOT. You robbed Pulitzer and Hurst’s top investor. Alfred Jones…” for a moment he seemed too furious to speak. “If he’s seen your face and knows you’re with the strike then You’ve just doomed us all.”

It was your turn to get angry. “ME?! I’m not the one drenching paper stands that don’t support us and burning delivery carts! YOU THINK HURST AND PULTIZER WILL BE HAPPY WITH THAT?!” you roared back, sauntering close to Kid Blink. Joey was watching both of you nervously, cheeks stuff with bread. “At least I didn’t STAB THE TOP INVESTOR” Kid Blink snapped. He then snatched the half-eaten bread out of your hands and stuffed it into his mouth. You sat down on an overturned crate.

“If you are right, and this guy was Jones.” You said slowly “He was the who suggested the price hike. He was never gonna be on our side to begin with….in fact… You should be thanking me for stabbing that sonvabitch”. Kid Blink rolled his eyes. “This isn’t the time for wise cracks. Still, we’ll see how this whole thing plays out in the press. Before we make any moves”

You startled, feeling confused. “Press?”

“Oh yeah, I can see the headline now “innocent man attacked by gutter rat””. He said smirking. You took off one shoe and hurled it at his head, Kid Blink ducked as it the wall behind him with a clack, “this gutter rat has given you dinner you stupid sot!” you shot back.

If there is demand this can be turned into a series.

[lifewithaview]

Atlanta (2016) The Big Bang

Earn Marks (Donald Glover), a Princeton dropout and young father trying to break into the Atlanta music scene with his cousin, Alfred 'Paper Boi' Miles (Brian Tyree).