#Bankruptcy barrel

[almostfini]

You know what's Gender TM? Barrel for pants

[handsometabbyc]

Given how Rite Aid couldn't be bothered to fully staff the store nearest me to the point that things were very slow to restock and holiday shipments sat unpacked for weeks in the aisles, I'm not surprised they're filing for bankruptcy.

...I'd say I'd miss it if it's one of the stores that get axed, but like I said it's been a bit shit because of the understaffing. And while It'd be nice to get something that isn't more of the same (or heaven forbid, an auto parts store) it would be kinda funny if a CVS or Walgreens moved in.

[tojisun]

CW: noncon; omegaverse stuff so ruts/heats + power and hierarchical omegaverse dynamics; shift in balance of power; claiming; gn!reader; rambly as hell bc im writing this while sleep deprived but! the worms. they are going through it!!!

alpha soap who, traditionally, goes for omegas but you—

oh, how he wants you.

it was a fortunate coincidence, one that has johnny turning to the lord if only to give his thanks because he knows that none of this would have been possible if he just happened to be even a minute late. ‘this’ being the shift in the wafting scents that filled up the little, and on the brink of bankruptcy, bookstore in the corner of the street.

it’s never packed in the weekdays so johnny often goes there to unwind when his senses are overstimulated, feeling his eyes straining in their sockets and his throat closing up almost like he’s having an allergic reaction—he’s had it checked before and leslie said he doesn’t have any allergies.

patches are advertised but no one in this town ever sees them as priority because of how archaic the town still remains, but also because almost everyone is bonded. don’t mind the fact that scent patches are not only for single folks but whatever.

point is that if johnny was tired, he would find reprieve in the bookstore long enough that he was able to gather his bearings and brave another trek around the city because a mission is still a mission, and overloaded senses just needed to be dealt with as quickly as possible.

today should not have been any different. today should have just been another quick break; another quiet lull as johnny forced the buzzing senses into silence enough that he could think again.

today should have just been another day.

but then johnny was opening the door to the bookstore at the same time that someone was walking out—knobby shoulders bump against his—and johnny’s emotions flare up, eating at the reason straining at his mind. something like a storm explodes in the corners of his head, and johnny really should have realized then what it was.

it was not just oversensitivity. it was not just another bout of overloaded senses. it was—

something warm churns from the base of his stomach, before winding down his body until it pools on the plane of his spine. it felt like molten glass or liquid mercury; dragging. marking.

sticky. liquorice.

johnny breathes in, the air passing through his mouth instead. then, something buttery—like wine aged within the barrel—erupts on his tongue. it tastes like honeyed new wood.

like an alpha in a rut.

he turns, suddenly hyperaware of everything, before lashing his hand out to reach for the stranger before they could leave. the touch not soothing, and it has the alpha growling at johnny. the sound rumbles from the base of your throat, like an alligator’s bellow, and yet it made johnny’s gums ache. they want his teeth to gnaw. to tear. to mark.

you growl again, this time in warning, and johnny has spent enough ruts to understand what you want. you want to leave. to hightail out of the shop and maybe even the city, before crawling into your bed—not a nest, johnny trills to himself, not with how clean your scent is because you’re unmated—to spend your rut alone.

lord, would you fuck your own fist? or fuck a toy for your knot? would you fuck your hole too? fill it up too, or could you only cum if you are the one doing the filling?

whatever it is, johnny promises to overwrite your lonely experience. he’s here now, after all, isn’t he? and don’t alphas need help?

so johnny still doesn’t let go, his strength exceptional especially against an alpha whose rut is beginning to swell. instead, he replies to your growls with a snarl, one that is ripped from the rumble of his chest, before showing off his jagged fangs.

it is an archaic way of challenging an alpha, and he knows that no one follows the tradition anymore, but habit is difficult to change and johnny finds himself posturing against you, a shocked alpha whose raging storm of lust flickered just enough to allow johnny to fully tug you out of the bookstore and into the little winding path away from the streets. you protest, trying to shake him off, but you are so, so weak and johnny is so, so powerful, and he needs to do something before he could even think about letting you go.

johnny’s seen it done a handful of times back at the base. it’s not something price usually dishes out, but it was something everyone knew he could do. and one that he could do well. johnny remembers seeing it for the first time and thinking that betrayal will never even cross his own mind because there is something far worse than having a target on one’s back and that was—

it was to—

force an alpha into submission.

johnny remembers kyle’s interest and ghost’s morbid curiosity. hell, he even remembers his own anticipation when their captain had dragged a traitor to the centre pit by the scruff, his pheromones overflowing and stifling like a heavy fog. johnny remembers how john had made it seem so easy; how he was able to coax a gentler scent out of connors when price had cornered the alpha to the point that he bore their captain’s full weight. then, johnny remembers the marking.

the way their captain’s teeth dug into connors’ skin before tearing, and tearing, until the bite took. until the mangled mess left on connors’ olive skin would be a permanent fixture.

until connors’ alpha scent turned softer. prettier.

(price led connors to his room, and the two stayed there for days. no one questioned or teased because they all knew that bitching an alpha sometimes was better than breeding an omega.

and their captain had all the rights to call dibs on connors.)

johnny remembers all of this as he leads you away. his palms have turned clammy, gums aching once more with need. with ever-growing desire. he hears you hiss at him, snapping that he better let you go and that he fuck off before you do something he’d regret but johnny is deaf to all your threats because they’re empty.

lord, he knows you could even barely stand up straight right now—your knees knock against each other with every wobbly step. but he lets you talk; lets you use your words as shield because johnny keeps leading you away from view.

he sees a secured nook, one that was hidden away from prying eyes—you’re his, after all—and begins to settle.

to prepare for the feast now that the hunt’s over.

he pushes you forward, until all your front is pressed against the wall. your cheek is smooshed, tiny pebbles digging into your skin, and he knows that all of that would be unpleasant later when the adrenaline’s gone, but johnny can’t find it in himself to care. because he follows soon, folding himself over your back before burying his face on the crook of your neck.

you freeze. johnny takes that moment to take a deep drag of your smell.

your scent fills his senses once again, overtaking his coherence and bypassing his rationality to drown himself in the strong aroma wafting from you. it’s too good, too delicious, that it has johnny rumbling, pleased with himself for picking you up all for him because you will be, and are, his now.

the weight of his tongue and the throbbing of his gums echo his thoughts.

his. hishishis—

“god,” johnny croaks out, the first he’s said since this ordeal. “you smell absolutely divine.”

“sir. sir, please—”

“shh,” he says, pulling the collar of your shirt back. “it’d be over soon.”

“no— sir! i don’t— please—”

blood bursts in johnny’s mouth and his alpha sings in pleasure.

mine. mineminemine.

[the-technicolor-yawn]

if I was a time lord i’d be called the heretic and I’d go around wearing a bankruptcy barrel travelling space and time spreading misinformation and lies on purpose

[mariacallous]

I wonder how much longer it’s going to take leftists to realize they’ve really killed their cause in America for the foreseeable future. Not only can’t leftist causes here survive without Jewish people, but I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen people who’ve said some version of, “I used to call myself Progressive, but seeing how the left responded to 10/7 has repulsed me too much to call myself one anymore. My values remain the same, but I’m just calling myself a liberal now.”

Combine that with the recent news that the Progressive Caucus is telling its members to distance themselves from the protestors, but it feels like it’s too little, too late. And the DSA continues to barrel head-over-ass into bankruptcy after they drove out everyone not willing to deep-throat for terrorists.

Thankfully the Democrats have shifted significantly left in recent years and will still implement the progressive causes that appeal to normie voters (altho considering that leftists absolutely refused to ever take a W and give credit where it was due to the Democrats, I suspect they'll be more bearish about taking risks like student loan forgiveness in the future), but the leftist movement itself is pretty much dead, and leftists are in complete denial about this.

I think it depends on what or how we're defining as "the leftist movement".

[ereardon]

The Back Seater and the Baker || Chapter 5

[Bob Floyd x f!OC]

Overview: Bob hasn't seen Haley Nichols since he was fifteen. But when Haley shows up out of the blue with one sentence that throws Bob for a loop – "I'm turning thirty in two weeks, are we still on?" – all of the feelings from their childhood return. Bob never thought that Haley would remember the marriage pact the two made when they were just kids, even if he never forgot. So what happens when Bob falls all over again for his childhood crush? And what will Bob do when he discovers the real reason she came back to capitalize on the pact is to secure her inheritance and save her bakery from bankruptcy? Will he believe Haley when she confesses that she loves him, too?

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x OC [Bakery owner Haley Nichols]

Tropes: Marriage pact

Chapter summary: Haley and Phoenix go wedding dress shopping; Bob and Peanut have a conversation about sex; the Daggers throw Haley a bachelorette party

Warnings: Cursing, angst, alcohol, mention of vomit

Word count: 2.8K

Series masterlist here; previous chapter here

You looked up from a pile of fabric samples. “I can’t pick.” 

Phoenix shot you a look over her champagne glass. “White.” 

You rolled your eyes. “They’re all white, Natasha. It’s a wedding dress.” 

“The venetian lace is gorgeous,” the saleswoman said, holding up a gauzy square. 

“Too expensive.” 

“There’s always satin.” 

She said it like it was trash and not already too expensive. “Let’s see some satin options,” you said. The saleswoman bristled but rushed off when Pheonix trained her eyes on her. 

“Fuck her,” she said and you laughed, settling back into the chair and taking a sip of champagne. “OK you’re drinking, but I’m going to ask you again. Are you pregnant?” 

“I promise I’m not,” you replied. 

She raised an eyebrow. “Find that hard to believe given the timeline.” She meant the fact that the wedding was in a week. 

You shrugged. “We’ve never slept together.” 

Phoenix did a spit take, champagne flying everywhere across the cream carpet. You tried to stifle a gasp that barreled into a laugh until the two of you were dissolved in laughter. “Oh, my God, the boys are gonna have a field day with that one.” 

“Just hasn’t been the time,” you replied. 

“What’s the rush?” Phoenix asked. “If there’s no pregnancy. What’s the rush?”

The truth sat, sour, on the tip of your tongue. Was that where sour was felt on the map of taste buds? Either way it filled your mouth, threatening to swallow you whole. You could tell her. You could tell her and the wedding would be off and you would go home with nothing but a bruised ego and a foreclosure on the way. 

But that option also left Bob heartbroken. It would leave you heartbroken, too. Because as much as you didn’t want to admit it, you were falling for Bob Floyd, all over again. 

“I love him,” you said simply. This time, the truth was sweet. A rush of rainbow on your tongue. A fizzy, familiar feeling. Warmth. “I always have.”

“I’ve watched Floyd go through a lot,” Phoenix said, her dark eyes never leaving yours. “But if this is what breaks him, I’m not sure there’s going to be a way to glue him back together. So don’t break his heart, Haley. He has a big one. Too big. He loves too much and too fast and too well. So God, don’t hurt him.” 

“I won’t,” you whispered. 

***

“You want deviled eggs as an appetizer?” You stared at Bob, mouth agape. 

He nodded. “They’re my mom’s specialty.”

“Oh. That’s um…” 

Bob laughed. “You can veto, Haley. It’s your wedding, too.” 

“Thank God,” you whispered. “I’m sorry, but veto.” 

“Are your parents flying up?” he asked. 

“Um, no, they’re not.” You didn’t have the heart to tell him that your parents weren’t really involved in your life anymore. That no one besides Calvin even knew you were in San Diego. That the bakery was failing. That you were going to marry Bob to solve all of your problems. “Grandma Lee is coming though.” 

You had called her the night before and explained that you were getting married. You hadn’t invited her: that she had done herself. 

If my only granddaughter is getting married, I need to see it with my own eyes, she had said. When you had protested, she added, Do you want the money or not? 

Bob frowned. “Grandma Lee, really? I thought you two didn’t get along.” 

You shrugged. “That was a long time ago, Bobby.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

The two of you were silent for a moment. You felt sweat start to prickle at the base of your neck, between your breasts. For a few days, Bob had ridden the high of a successful mission once they were back on land. It was that euphoria that had colored everything, that had made him agree to the marriage. But you worried that once those rosy glasses faded, he would realize how obscene it was to marry a complete stranger. Someone he barely knew. 

He cleared his throat. “Want to go out for dinner? I was thinking Mexican.” 

“I think we should have sex.” 

Bob looked like he was choking. Every inch of his face went pink and then a deep red, cheeks puffed out, eyes wide. 

You actually leaned forward, pressing one hand to his leg in concern. “Bobby? Are you OK?” 

It took a second, but Bob let out his breath, blue eyes still searching yours frantically. “What did you just say?” 

You removed your hand, anxiety settling into the swell of your stomach. “I mean, we’re getting married,” you whispered. “Shouldn’t we at least do it once?” 

“Peanut,” Bob whispered, his voice rough and sandy and hitting every note perfectly so that goosebumps rose on your arms and legs. “I’ve thought about making love to you a million times.” 

“But?” 

He shook his head slowly. “That’s what I want, honey. I want it to be special. Not something we do to get it out of the way. I want you to want it. I want this to be the last time someone new undresses you for the first time.” Bob leaned in, trailing one thumb over the corner of your mouth, down your cheek, fingertips sliding to the tops of your breasts, grazing the exposed skin where your shirt stopped. “I don’t want anyone else to ever touch you like this,” he murmured. “You’re mine, Peanut.” 

“Bobby,” you whispered, gripping both sides of his face with your smaller palms. “I’ve always been yours.” 

And then your lips were on his, one of your legs slung over his lap until you were straddling him, the heat of Bob’s body burning against yours, his hands groping greedily over your back, pulling your hips flush with his, a small, pathetic whine exiting his lips as his hips tilted up to meet yours. “Haley,” he rasped, pulling back, lips pink and raw. “Honey.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Let me take you out,” he whispered. “Not Mexican food on a couch. Not pizza on the floor or beer at the beach. A real date. Let me take you home and make love to the woman who is going to be my wife.” 

You leaned back, threading your fingers through the hair that was curling up at the tops of his ears. “OK, Bobby,” you replied softly. “You have a deal.” 

“That’s the first time I’ve said that,” he said.

“Said what?” 

“My wife.” He smiled. “It sounds good, doesn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” you murmured, watching the light twinkle in his eyes and feeling a sadness sweep over your organs., “it does.” 

***

“Peanut?” Bob’s voice was far away on the phone. “Are you there?” 

“I’m here,” you said, standing in front of the mirror, smoothing down the sides of your dress. “Where are you? Our reservations are in twenty minutes.” 

“Honey, I’m sorry.” There was a loud bang in the background. “Flight emergency. Bradshaw and I got called back to base.” 

“Oh.” You couldn’t help the disappointment flooding every single one of your pores. You looked around the room at the candles you had bought, and the bag filled with tissue paper on the dresser that had a new set of lingerie in it, specifically for later that night. There was also an entire can of whipped cream in the fridge and a bottle of prosecco. “That’s OK.” 

“It’s not,” he said. “That’s why Phoenix is on her way to pick you up.” 

“Oh, Bobby, I’m not really in the mood to go out without you.” 

“Haley? Sorry the connection is terrible. Listen, I have to go up in the air, I’ll text you when I’m grounded. Bye!” The line went dead. You sighed, kicking off your heels, tossing the phone on the bed just as the doorbell rang, two harsh dings followed by a loud knock. 

“Fuck, coming!” You practically tripped on your way to the door, tossing it open, a frown lacing your features. “Jake?” 

In the doorway, Jake grinned, white teeth blinding against his tan. He leaned one hand against the door frame. “Hi Princess. Grab some shoes.” 

You shook your head, walking inside, and Jake followed you, shutting the door softly. “Not in the mood, Hangman. I’m just going to wait until Bobby gets home.” 

He chuckled and you turned around with a frown. “Sweetheart,” he drawled, “it’s a trap. This is your bachelorette party. Now put on some shoes and get that fine ass in the car. Phoenix is waiting for us.” 

“Bachelorette party?” 

“Didn’t think we could let you get married without one final night of debauchery, did you?” he asked. “Shoes, Nichols. Purse. Condoms if you’re feeling frisky.” 

You groaned, heading into the bedroom and slipping on your stilettos, grabbing your small shoulder bag before reappearing in the hallway. Jake was nowhere to be seen. You rounded the corner into the kitchen where Jake had the fridge open, his head stuck inside. 

He straightened up, holding out the can of whipped cream with a raised eyebrow. “Making pie?” 

“Fuck off,” you muttered and he laughed, placing the can back in the fridge and closing the door. “Let’s get this over with.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Jake replied, holding open the door. “After you, Mrs. Floyd.” Your heart skipped a beat. You looked up at Jake, eyes wide. For a second, the two of you stood in silence in the doorway to Bob’s house, practically frozen. You were worried Jake could see the reservation in your features. 

And then it passed. You stepped out the door into the breezy evening air. “I’m going to ask you one favor.” 

“I make no promises.” 

“No shots with gross names like blow job or slippery nipple.” 

Jake cackled, opening the passenger door for you. “It’s your night. We’ll play by your rules. At least, to start.” 

You slid into the seat of his Jeep and groaned. 

***

Charleston was bachelorette capital, aside from Nashville, so you were more than familiar with the flocks of women parading down King Street in pink sashes and swaying to the beat of invisible pop songs. 

What you hadn’t expected was your own bachelorette party to be made up of five aviators, four of which were men. Coyote, Hangman, Rooster and Payback all sat at a table wearing pink furry boas drinking margaritas while Phoenix did a lap on stage with one of the drag queens. 

“You’re next,” Bradley said, tipping his head toward the stage. 

You groaned. “Absolutely not.” 

Phoenix climbed off the stage, brushing back her dark hair, not an ounce of sweat on her face. “Come on, Princess, you’re the bride, it’s a must.” 

“I’m so going to rat on you guys to Bobby!” you shrieked as a man dressed as Dolly Parton dragged you onto the stage. The brightness of the lights hit you just as the dagger’s cheers filled the air. 

“Hello Darlin’,” Dolly said, thrusting a microphone in your face. “Your friend over there said you’re a bride-to-be, is that right?” 

You scowled down at Phoenix who cheered shamelessly. “Yes.” 

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” “Haley.”

“And what’s your fiance's name?” 

“Bobby.” 

“Well, dear, I think we need to sing a song for Bobby in that case.” She took a deep breath. “If I should stay // Well I would only be in your way.” 

Dolly pressed the microphone beneath your chin. Somehow the words floated out of your mouth as the cheers from the squad grew. Even the heat of the lights softened and you found yourself swaying with the music. For the first time in a long time, there was a courage that bubbled to the surface. Maybe it was the two Long Island iced teas that Phoenix had poured down your throat. Or maybe it was the fact that despite the circumstances, you knew that Bob Floyd was the one. 

Out of everyone, it was Bradley who got so drunk that the six of you were thrown out of the club. That’s how you ended up at Phoenix’s house at three in the morning eating cheeseburgers on the floor wearing a sequined ball gown she had pulled out of her closet and insisted you wear while Payback tried uselessly to scrub the pink paint off of his chest that read Bride Tribe in loopy lettering. 

“It’s not coming off,” Payback whined, tossing another crumpled paper towel on the ground in a huff. 

Jake cackled. “Told you not to write it so big, Nix.” 

Phoenix popped a french fry into her mouth and then laid back, head resting against Jake’s thigh where he sat pressed up against the couch. “He deserves it. Remember when he puked at my thirtieth?” 

“Don’t say puke,” Bradley moaned, looking slightly green around the gills. 

“Party pooper,” Phoenix tutted. 

“What if when I have a baby it comes out wearing glasses?” you asked, the drinks finally hitting you. 

“Have to have sex to get pregnant.” 

“Phoenix!” 

“Oh shit.” She rolled over and buried her face against the shaggy rug. “Sorry!” 

Jake grinned like a Cheshire cat. “Wait, you and Floyd haven’t banged yet?” 

You groaned, tossing yourself against the floor next to Phoenix and kicking her with one bare foot. 

“That’s excellent,” he muttered, practically to himself as Bradley scuttled onto his knees, stumbling up into a semi jog toward the toilet. The sound of the door slamming was followed immediately by violent sounds and you winced. 

“Fuck,” Payback said, shaking his head. “That’s on you, Nix.”

“Why am I to blame for everything?” Phoenix demanded. “It’s Haley’s bach party, she’s the instigator!” 

“Oh my God,” you said, shaking your head. “I see why Bobby likes you so much.” 

“I see why he loves you,” she replied, brown eyes wide. You were stunned. Natasha was many things. The life of the party. Fearless, bordering on reckless. Demanding, in the best way. Formidable. But this was the first time she had shown a sliver of approval. It radiated through your body like microwave rays. “I mean it,” she added.

“Thank you.” 

Just then, your phone rang on the coffee table. You reached for it, pulling it down as Bob’s contact flashed on the screen. “Haley?” 

“Hi,” you whispered, standing up and stumbling into Phoenix’s room at the end of the hall. You sat down on the edge of her bed, closing your eyes. The room was spinning. That was worse. You opened them again, wider, the yellow light from the lamp burning your retinas. God, you needed a taco. 

“Just wanted to make sure you got home OK,” Bob said softly. 

“I’m with Phoenix and the team.” 

“I know,” Bob replied. “I thought it would be nice.” 

You frowned. “This was your idea?” 

“I wanted you to have a fun time,” Bob said quietly. “Something different, a little out of the ordinary. Life is serious, Haley. But you don’t have to be. Not everything is life or death.” 

Bob’s words forced tears to spring at the corner of your eyes. It wasn’t the tequila and it wasn’t the impending hangover. It was the fact that even in your drunken haze, you knew you weren’t good enough for Bob Floyd. A man who cared so much, so deeply. A man who would lay down his life for yours without thinking. 

The man of your dreams. 

“Bobby,” you whispered, the truth sour at the tip of your tongue, begging to be spilled. 

“Get some rest, Peanut,” he said quietly and you swallowed the truth back into the bitter pit of your stomach. “I’ll pick you up in the morning, OK?” 

“Alright.” 

He paused, but the line didn’t go dead. You sucked in a breath. There were two things that you and Bob had yet to do as adults. The first was obvious: have sex. The second, less so. 

You had yet to say you loved each other. 

You did. That was, without a doubt, the truth in a sea of lies. You had loved Bob Floyd since you were a little girl in the low country. You had never really stopped. But it felt different, to say it now. When so much was riding on the two of you. When the future was almost within grabbing distance. 

“Goodnight, Bobby,” you murmured. 

He sighed. “Goodnight, sweetheart.” 

You flopped back against the bed, clutching your phone to your chest. As you closed your eyes, the light beyond your eyelids started to swirl. 

The last thing that crossed your mind before you passed out into a drunken delirium was how devastated Bob was going to be when everything was said and done. 

And how broken you would be, too. 

Tag list (if notifications aren't working for you please turn on notifications for my library page @ereardonlibrary instead)

@wkndwlff @bobfloydsbabe @teacupsandtopgun @blue-aconite @clancycucumber230 @yanna-banana @whisperofsong

@marvelshauntedhouse @that1nerd-20

@double-j @topguncultleader @momc95 @hangmandruigandmav

@minamisulemisa @shawnsblue

@seresinhangmanjake @brehonodea @babyminghao @crthurston

@angelbabyange @taytaylala12 @mizzzpink @mygyn @sadpetalsstuff @averyhotchner @oneelleandaneye @shanimallina87

@wittywhispers @wildlyobserving @eyesthatroll @localhockeygirl @xomrsalliej4787xo @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox

@sexytholland @djs8891 @rxmtoon @darkestbeforethedawn16

@cactajuice @purplevortexx @dempy @lemur46

@louie-bug @arson-tm @valkyrja-siren-blog @avengers-fixation

@fudge13 @phantomxoxo @a-court-of-roscoe-and-baby @not-two-shrimp @horseshoegirl @abaker74 @evans-dejong @storysimp @emma8895eb  @briseisgone @katiedid-3 @beacheybabes97 @mandylove100 @justabovewater20 @londonbeachgirl

[preordainedplace]

we came into town under cover of night, because we were pretty sure the people here were going to hate us once they really got to know us. it was summer. it’s always summer with us. in our lives together, which are sweet in the way of rotting things, it is somehow permanently summer. the moon rose above the trees, older than time, greener than money. you hung your head out the window of our dusty lemon-yellow el camino and howled, and i turned up the radio, because the sound of your voice was already beginning to get to me. the speakers crackled and the music came through: frankie valli and the four seasons. pretty as a midsummer’s morn, they call her dawn. let the love of god come and get us if it wants us so bad. we know where we are going when all of this is done. some people might say that buying a house you’ve never actually seen close-up is a bad idea, but what does anybody know about our needs, anyhow? for us it was perfect. the peeling paint. the old cellar. the garden in the back. the porch out front. the still air of the living room. the attic. everywhere entirely unfurnished and doomed to remain largely so, save for our own meagre offerings: a cheap sofa, an old mattress, a couple of chairs and some ashtrays. maybe a table salvaged from some diner gone into bankruptcy, i don’t remember. neither do you. we drank store-brand gin with fresh lime juice out of plastic cups or straight from the bottle and we spread ourselves out face-up on the wooden floors. an aerial view of us might have suggested we’d been knocked down, but what we were doing was staking our claim. establishing our territories. making good. not on the vows we’d made but on the ones we’d really meant. you produced a wallet-sized transistor radio out of nowhere and you found a sympathetic station: somebody was playing howlin’ wolf. smokestack lightning. o yes, i loved you once. o yes, you loved me more. we entered that old house like a virus entering its host. you following me, me following you. however you like. the windows were high and the walls were thick and sturdy. it was hot as blazes. the guts of summer. always down in the sugar-deep barrel-bottom belly of summer itself. always. in our shared walk down to the bottom, which bottom we will surely find if only our hearts are brave and our love true enough, we have found that it is somehow invariably and quite permanently summer. - john darnielle, tallahassee cd liner notes

[shootonsight]

Tallahassee (2002) Liner Notes

We came into town under cover of night, because we were pretty sure the people here were going to hate us once they really got to know us. It was summer. It's always summer with us. In our lives together, which are sweet in the way of rotting things, it is somehow permanently summer. THE MOON rose above the trees, older than time, greener than money. You hung your head out the window of our dusty lemon-yellow El Camino and howled, and I turned up the radio, because the sound of your voice was already beginning to get to me. The speakers crackled and the music came through: Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Pretty as a midsummer's morn, they call her Dawn. Let the love of God come and get us if it wants us so bad. We know where we are going when all of this is done. SOME PEOPLE MIGHT SAY that buying a house you've never seen close-up is a bad idea, but what does anybody know about our needs, anyhow? For us it was perfect. The peeling paint. The old cellar. The garden out back. The porch out front. The still air of the living room. The attic. Everywhere entirely unfurnished and doomed to remain largely so, save for our own meager offerings: a cheap sofa, an old mattress, a couple of chairs and some ashtrays. Maybe a table salvaged from some diner gone into bankruptcy, I don't remember. Neither do you. We drank store-brand gin with fresh lime juice out of plastic cups or straight from the bottle and we spread ourselves out face-up on the wooden floors. An aerial view of us might have suggested we'd been knocked down, but what we were doing was staking our claim. Establishing our territories. Making good. Not on the vows we'd made but on the ones we'd really meant. You produced a wallet-sized transistor radio out of nowhere and you found a sympathetic station: somebody was playing Howlin' Wolf. Smokestack Lightning. O yes, I loved you once. O yes, you loved me more. We entered our new house like a virus entering its host. You following me, me following you. However you like. The windows were high and the walls were thick and sturdy. It was hot as blazes. The guts of summer. Always in the sugar-deep barrel-bottom belly of summer itself. Always. In our shared walk down to the bottom, which bottom we will certainly find if only our hearts are brave and our love true enough, we have found that it is somehow invariably and quite permanently summer.

[parchmentknight]

PISSPOT LORE (red dead online oc)

jeremiah "pisspot" woerner

he grew up in new austin, with a father of german descent. his mom lived in new austin her whole life and settled with papa pisspot after falling in love with his ability to survive accidents (kicked by horses several times, falling off a two-story building, drowning in a trough). he loves his family very much!!!

pisspot's parents owned a small shop and he wanted to expand to seek a better living and so he started (or is trying to start) a trading business. saint denis and area (bayou nwa) seemed like the best option but he didn't realise how much he hates living in high humidity and wading through the swamps to gather materials... too late now lmao (he misses new austin sooooo bad. he misses having dry socks and not being covered in swamp mud and getting bucked into gators mouths).

his trading company: woerner & warner trading co., est. 1898 (they've sold 3 leather bags so far) (its okay guys the markets gonna work in his favour soon i think) (maybe) (probably not) (so far he has made negative profits and is currently in debt)

doesn't enjoy drinking or smoking. loves racing (attempted arson is his racehorse), owns a mustang called whiskey barrel who helps with the trading business's hauling work. absolutely hates the outdoors, deals with it because i make him. attempted arson vvv

he is haunted by a being that watches him and makes him ride directly into a fence to fly off his horse (its me. im the being. i throw him off cliffs for fun) its okay, he always gets back on. good for him.

he got mauled by a cougar three times and i laughed. im his biggest opp ong

he WOULD be enjoying his life more but i am attached to him and he cannot escape me. i started calling him pisspot after the seventh flying horse incident, also because he is pathetic, wimpy, and struggles to take out his guns fast enough when in immediate danger 🥰🥰🥰

i bought him some nice clothes and i feed him good food (sometimes) because i felt bad for him... he's a good kid. i love him. i make sure he gets enough rest and he doesn't fall completely into bankruptcy and that he doesn't hate himself too much

pisspot fit check. what a handsome lad

[eastgaysian]

hey girl did you know that Some people might say that buying a house you've never actually seen close-up is a bad idea, but what does anybody know about our needs, anyhow? For us it was perfect. The peeling paint. The old cellar. The garden in the back. The porch out front. The still air of the living room. The attic. Everywhere entirely unfurnished and doomed to remain largely so, save for our own meager offerings: a cheap sofa, an old mattress, a couple of chairs and some ashtrays. Maybe a table salvaged from some diner gone into bankruptcy, I don't remember. Neither do you. We drank store-brand gin with fresh lime juice out of plastic cups or straight from the bottle and we spread ourselves out face-up on the wooden floors. An aerial view of us might have suggested we'd been knocked down, but what we were doing was staking our claim. Establishing our territories. Making good. Not on the vows we'd made but on the ones we'd really meant. You produced a wallet-sized transistor radio out of nowhere and you found a sympathetic station: somebody was playing Howlin' Wolf. Smokestack lightning. O yes, I loved you once. O yes, you loved me more. We entered our new house like a virus entering its host. You following me, me following you. However you like. The windows were high and the walls were thick and sturdy. It was hot as blazes. The guts of summer. Always down in the sugar-deep barrel-bottom belly of summer itself. Always. In our shared walk down to the bottom, which bottom we will surely find if only our hearts are brave and our love true enough, we have found that it is somehow invariably and quite permanently summer.

[rv-there-yet]

RV or not RV

It's Super Bowl Sunday 2024 - last year we were happily working our kit and taking a break to enjoy two football teams and Rihanna on TV and the Superb Owl on the web.

It's one year later and for eight months of that year we have been questioning our life choices and Vans Aircraft.

In late June / July Vans issued a Stop Building directive, since they finally took the cracking of laser cut parts (LCP) seriously.

In July Greg went to Oshkosh and got the feeling that yes, there was a problem, but everything was still under control.

We had a serious chunk of money in the build and we wanted to believe in a company with stellar reputation of taking care of its community.

There was very little information forthcoming.

Then, on December 4th, the news Vans had entered Chapter 11 bankruptcy and shit went to poo.

Their bancruptcy is focused on reorganization. They intend to reject our existing contracts. We need to file a claim or we need to agree to new contracts - 32% more on kits, 12% more on engines, 3% more on propellers.

Basically they've got our money and they've got us over a barrel.

In two days time we need to decide whether to stick with the build or walk away.

It's fucked.

[alethiometry]

Rules: list eight shows for your followers to get to know you better.

Tagged by @aeide!

1. black sails. OBVIOUSLY. it's got everything. drama, intrigue, ocean gays, lying little wet rat twinks, anti-colonialist uprisings, caribbean history, grimy period-appropriate costumes, heartbreak, monologues, toby "saturday chillin don't fuckin @ me i'm chillin" schmitz calling himself daddy. everybody slays absolute cunt. it is THEEEE most perfect show ever created.

2. parks and recreation. rewatching p&r is an interesting experience because it was such a product of obama-era liberal america and the optimism just oozes out of every scene. also we don't like crisp ratt anymore. but it's also so genuinely funny and heartfelt and comforting! this show had a massive impact on my sense of humor, as well as i think framed failure in such a positive light: every character failed drastically at something over the course of the show, but through caring for each other were able to pick themselves back up and never let their shortcomings define them. i first watched it at a point in my life where i really needed that, so it has always stuck with me.

3. leverage. my comfort show to turn to when living in a post-capitalist hellscape that continues to reward billionaires for their moral bankruptcy while shitting on everybody else gets too depressing (so… like every day). is it campy and unrealistic? yes. do i care? no. sometimes you need escapism via direct action, heist hijinks, and extreme displays of bisexuality. also aldis hodge is one of the most beautiful human beings on planet earth.

4. supernatural. yeah yeah it's the hehe destiel meme show. but it was also tons of fun to watch every week, the worldbuilding started out fantastic (and then got progressively more and more insane), i think it's really the epitome of "really cool ideas with mostly lackluster execution". the bloody mary episode remains one of my favorite episodes of tv ever, and the fandom drama just keeps giving! i also met some of my dearest friends through the fandom, so maybe the real destiel love memes were the friends we made along the way.

5. twin peaks. the only show that made me so insane i went and got a tattoo of it. impeccable vibes, the experience of watching s3 and then memeing about it on reddit with everyone else who were all equally confused is an experience that will never be replicated.

6. love island uk. listen. fucking listen. i don't want this show to be listed here any more than any of you do, i'm sure. absolute bottom of the barrel brain rot that consumes my life and brings my workday to a grinding halt (thank you timezones) for the 2 months that each season is running. i absolutely have nothing good to say about love island uk other than it's sometimes really funny, usually unintentionally. but iain stirling's voice and those stupid neon pillows/beanbags and atrocious cursive font and catchphrases have wormed their way into my brain and nothing short of a complete lobotomy can remove it.

7. how to get away with murder. this wouldn't even be on here if saff and i didn't go on an insane binge of all six seasons last fall. but since we did… here we are. michaela pratt is an icon and has never done anything wrong ever in her life and i will die on this hill.

8. cunk on earth. this is probably recency bias speaking but oh my god i adore this show. it is exactly my brand of humor and i have so much respect for all the experts and miss diane morgan herself for making it through those interviews without breaking, because i would be fighting for my fucking life. this is the show that i will henceforth be recommending like a madwoman to all my friends.

honorable mentions: american vandal, derry girls, naruto, south park, dexter, elementary, orphan black.

i'm tagging: @winedark @seance @assassiyun @thatsouthernanthem @potsticker1234 @ciaramedba @doomcountry @thychesters <3

[sonnywortziks]

booty shorts that say "We came into town under cover of night, because we were pretty sure the people here were going to hate us once they really got to know us. In our lives together, which are sweet in the way of rotting things, it is somehow permanently summer.

THE MOON rose above the trees, older than time, greener than money. You hung your head out the window of our dusty lemon-yellow El Camino and howled, and I turned up the radio, because the sound of your voice was already beginning to get to me. The speakers crackled and the music came through: Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Pretty as a midsummer's morn, they call her Dawn. Let the love of God come and get us if it wants us so bad. We know where we are going when all of this is done.

SOME PEOPLE MIGHT SAY that buying a house you've never actually seen close-up is a bad idea, but what does anybody know about our needs, anyhow? For us it was perfect. The peeling paint. The old cellar. The garden in the back. The porch out front. The still air of the living room. The attic. Everywhere entirely unfurnished and doomed to remain largely so, save for our own meager offerings: a cheap sofa, an old mattress, a couple of chairs and some ashtrays. Maybe a table salvaged from some diner gone into bankruptcy, I don't remember. Neither do you. We drank store-brand gin with fresh lime juice out of plastic cups or straight from the bottle and we spread ourselves out face-up on the wooden floors. An aerial view of us might have suggested that we'd been knocked out, but what we were doing was staking our claim. Establishing our territories. Making good. Not on the vows we'd made but on the ones we'd really meant. You produced a wallet-sized transistor radio out of nowhere and you found a sympathetic station: somebody was playing Howlin' Wolf. Smokestack lightning. O yes, I loved you once. O yes, you loved me more. We entered our new house like a virus entering its host. You following me, me following you. However you like. The windows were high and the walls were thick and sturdy. It was hot as blazes. The guts of summer. Always down in the sugar-deep barrel-bottom belly of summer itself. Always. In our shared walk down to the bottom, which bottom we will surely find if only our hearts are brave and our love true enough, we have found that it is somehow invariably and quite permanently summer." on the ass

[lazaruspiss]

Lower Gotham: Part One

Cobblepot Steel: The Cobblepot Steel company is one of the oldest corporations in Gotham City. It has been involved in the creation of many of the city's biggest buildings, like Wayne Tower. The company's headquarters have been occupying Lower Gotham since the 1920s. It provides supplies for construction, shipbuilding, trains, and electrical appliances. There's a good chance that every household in Gotham City has something that was manufactured with Cobblepot steel. After being released from prison and going legit, Oswald tried to get involved in the business, but despite his criminal connections and influence, his uncle refused. He didn't want to risk the controversy that usually accompanies his nephew. So, Oswald instead purchased the Iceberg Lounge and has been conducting all his business from there, though not all of it is legal.

Dixon Docks: Port Adams was Gotham Town's original 18th century docklands and went through some modest expansions over the years to continue operation. It lost some of its clientele when the Dixon Docks were built at the end of the century to accommodate bigger boats and cargo. During WWII, the Wayne family had the docks reinforced in case of attacks. Because of the amount of cargo that passes through every day, the Dixon Docks have become a regular stomping ground for the criminal gangs of the city. Shipments often go missing while contraband somehow makes it through. I've done my best to drive back the gangs, but they always come back. The Dixon Docks are too lucrative to abandon. Notes: Contact at the Docks has been invaluable. Stopped three more weapon shipments from entering the city thanks to him.

Fei Hong Supermarket: The Fei Hong supermarket is one of the most important community locales of the Cauldron, if not the whole city. People from all over Gotham City visit the store and it has become an unofficial meeting space for various communities. It's often visited during mayoral campaigns for that very reason. The owner is well known and liked by the community and is a member of both the Gotham City Store Owners' Association and the Cauldron Civic Association. He has spearheaded many projects and I'm glad to say he is a voice of reason and tolerance in the neighborhood. I've cooperated with him a few times to organize events around the neighborhood, which were all great successes. I honestly don't know what the district would be like without him.

Giverny Paint: Giverny Paint was established in Gotham City in the early 1930s and has been a frequent collaborator of Wayne Enterprises. We often use their paint for aircrafts and ships as well as for commercial real estate. During the last heat wave, the company had to completely destroy their supply of paint after learning Bane had snuck in and inserted Venom toxin inside the barrels which were supposed to be used to revamp the Knightsdome Sporting Complex. He was hoping the fumes from the new paint would enter the athletes' blood stream, which Bane would have used as an army of super soldiers. Giverny Paint agreed to destroy the contaminated barrels, even if it meant bankruptcy. Which is exactly what would have happened had it not been for a generous donation from the Wayne Foundation. Since that day, the owner has been sending monthly shipments of paint to the children's center as a thank you.

[glittercyborgprincess]

Chapter 1: Ketterdam - It's in the Blood and This is Tradition

The story started with Joost.

It always did.

There was a moon. A moustache. A girl. A problem. Though, in Ketterdam, you were never too far from one of those.

Joost never signed up to be a part of a story, much less this one. He was simply in love with a pretty lady and had finally believed in something greater than himself. Something bigger than Ketterdam and the secrets laid into its cobblestones. He and Anya were supposed to have traveled south to Belednt–they were supposed to beat the odds and escape the stench of the city. Perhaps become farmers while they saved money to bring Anya back to Ravka.

The thing about fate, though, is that no matter what your pretty dreams were, it haunted you. It laid in wait until the moment you felt the teeniest bit comfortable that you had evaded it. Then it struck like lightening.

Anya’s powers were discovered, and she was trapped in a contract by Councilman Hoede. He promised he would take care of her. He said that he would ensure she didn’t end up in any of the less savory contracts down in the Barrel. Hoede even offered Joost a position with the Stadwatch so that he and Anya could remain together. He was an expert at making promises. Less so at keeping them.

Hoede’s charade had lasted only a few short weeks. Though, who could blame him? Jan Van Eck could be very persuasive when he wanted.

Joost died at Anya’s hand, his mind still trying to compose pretty rhymes for her as he waited for a command that would never come. Anya suffered far more than Joost, her rationality leaving her long before the sea could numb her limbs. She died not long after she escaped Hoede’s estate, her fingers still stained bright orange as she fell victim to withdrawal in the middle of the True Sea.

She wasn’t the first–or the last–Grisha indentured to the Merchant class to earn such a fate. However, she was the first body that had washed back up onto the shores of Kerch. Her death sparked a slew of conspiracies and gossip that the city thrived on.

But before long, new scandals broke and new gossip circled the city. Sightings of a siren off the docks of Third Harbor. A shootout between rival gangs in the Barrel. Rumors of Ravka’s impending spiral into bankruptcy.

Everybody forgot about poor Anya and her jurda-stained hands. Or everybody but Kaz Brekker forgot.

And that was where the real story began.

--

(Prologue's so short you get the whole thing!)

[nickgerlich]

Roll Out The Barrel

There have been a lot of headlines recently about certain chain restaurants having a tough go of it. They all seem to fall into the category of casual dining, and all of them are brands that have been around a long time. Those older remnants from decades past are called legacy brands, and alternately heritage brands.

How crazy it is for me to see brands that were born after me now being called such gray-around-the-temple terms. It’s kind of like hearing one of your favorite bands from the 90s on the classic rock station.

It happens, kids. It happens.

Naturally, some have blamed the economy and the current administration for these ailments. I can concede that to a point, because the economy has caused us to realign our spending. But to a bigger point, some of these legacy brands have simply lost their relevance. Think Red Lobster and TGI Friday’s, both of whom have been in the news this semester.

And now there’s Cracker Barrel, but at least this time it’s not bad news. No, they are being proactive and doing everything they can to fend off that big fade. Founded in 1969 in Lebanon Tennessee, it has 662 locations in 45 states, the vast majority along the Interstate. Cracker Barrel’s target market is diners who are 65 years or older, which means I just crept into their crosshairs this year. Those rocking chairs out front are there for a reason.

I will be honest and say that I am no fan of Cracker Barrel. I try never to patronize any place with the word “country” in its name or tag line, or a cutesy intentional misspelling by lopping off consonants, like cookin’. That all screams unhealthy to me, even if a lot of people find comfort in the food. Still, I heap high praise upon Cracker Barrel for its unique blend of food and kitschy merch, dedicating about half of its square footage to things we don’t need, yet sell quite well.

The problem for Cracker Barrel is that it needs to be attracting new, younger customers to replace the aging Boomers. But it is going to take more than the current offering and format to do it. Exacerbating this is a customer base who criticized Cracker Barrel recently for adding beer and wine, as well as putting a lone plant-based item—Impossible sausage patties—on its menu. Cries of “Woke” filled the socials. It looks like Cracker Barrel is caught between a rock and a hard place.

As I have said before, once you hit 60, you’re really not all that important to marketers anyway, even if they are your core customer. We’re all going to be dead before long anyway, and it behooves marketers to be looking beyond today.

We now find Cracker Barrel planning a major menu overhaul, commitment to youth-oriented socials like TikTok, podcasts, store renovations, digital ordering, and off-premise dining. Whew. That’s a long list of things to do, but they need to do it lest they find themselves filing for bankruptcy protection like Red Lobster and TGI Friday’s.

But this is no small task, given that they must try to retain their core audience, while also attracting new. The landscape is very different from when the current 65-up was maturing. When I was a kid, there was just food, and if you didn’t like it, you didn’t eat it. Pretty simple. Shut up and conform, or get out.

Today, though, we live in an era of dietary preferences, by choice or by physical need. Keto. Vegan. Gluten-Free. Whatever. They all have their place. And remember, it is often that one person in the group who has a dietary preference or need is the one who is driving the bus. Fail to offer something for that one person, and the whole group goes somewhere else.

Look around your local supermarket, and you will see how they have adapted to this. I just returned from my local Walmart for a very uncrowded Saturday morning shopping experience, and I took the time to actually do some deep-dive shopping, looking for all the nuanced products I had missed in previous hurried visits. I was amazed.

Then there’s the economy. While Cracker Barrel is busy trying to stay relevant, they must address this one nagging matter, because we are all still trying to emerge from the inflation wreckage. Providing value is going to be paramount, because folks could just as easily go to Chipotle for a less-expensive indulgence.

I don’t envy them these major tasks, but I am busy collecting these stories for my Spring 2025 Hospitality and Tourism Marketing course. It’ll be offered on-campus to undergrads (sorry, MBA peeps and those from afar), and we’ll be looking closely at the three pillars of this business: gas, food, and lodging. Cracker Barrel’s story will no doubt have its moment in the spotlight. And if they start unrolling changes before we get too far in the semester, I may have to make a visit to the one in Amarillo, if only to see what’s going on.

It’s going to take some major changes, though, before I order off the menu. I’m just not into country fried anything and all those homespun culinary delectables. Get on it, Cracker Barrel. Your future depends on making some changes now, or else you’ll be like TGI Friday’s pondering how you’re even going to service your debt.

Dr “Make Mine Green” Gerlich

Audio Blog