#Benzedrine's monster

[blood-injections]

what if the Phoenix Witch but... horror. horror of the loss of self. body horror. you know how i do all my Creature Witch art? That. but what if she wasn't always inhuman? no, at some point in war and radiation and prayers to make it out alive feathers started sprouting, her bones started shifting and soon she became something completely unrecognizable- and then somehow the creature she turned into became something to be worshipped. and if she remembers who she was at all, if she's mourning that- how do you deal with the malformed Thing you've become being known and loved more than the Person you were?? how can you possibly cope with being forgotten and reinvented against your will? And how do you follow through with it? okay, so you're seen as holy, now how can you possibly become that? since you can't go back. since you cant be what you want to be anymore, since you're not even human anymore, well, you might as well become what everyone sees. but even if you've sprouted wings and are the definition of an angel, how can you be happy as that, when in your extra eyes, you're the most unholy, wretched thing to ever exist? you could try to pretend that you're not a monster, but you can only pretend for so long. you're not human anymore but you are. you've lost your body and your smile but at your core you're still a person even if you don't think that anymore. you're not human but just as miserable. and you're mourning. you're mourning yourself and the world and the life you lived, the life you should still be living. you're a monster but you still have a human heart beating somewhere inside you and you want to become what they all see but you cant do that without shedding your humanity, without becoming the abstraction, the all-knowing, selfless god they see. and how can you do that when even if you don't think so, your humanity is all you have left. and how can you distance yourself from your inherent personhood when you're so scared still?

[life-love-and-lotr]

I have seen some fantastic American Suiteheart headcannons and that inspired me to share mine on how they became a team.

Dr. Benzedrine was city-born and drug-resistant. He just didn't feel their mind-numbing effects. He was able to hide it for a long time, long enough to get a place at university to become a doctor. He got through the majority of his degree, spending his downtime in the slums helping the poor for free. One day, he let slip that he was planning on using the knowledge he gained to help killjoys in the desert, and BLI found out. That was when he was sent to the Vixens. The Vixens were a special branch of draculoids who dealt with drug-resistant citizens by using powerful mind control techniques to turn them into weapons. They made his trigger music and used him and his influence with the poor of the city to get rid of killjoys at illegal concerts. He was able to get his memories back after coming into contact with one of the people he helped.

That was Sandman. He was a juvie who lived in the slums of the city. He had insomnia from a young age and used a drug known to the juvies as sleep dust to help him get to sleep. This came with some really shitty side effects, including anxiety and mood swings that ended up making him isolated and alone. This went on for years and gave Sandman a horrible reputation for being cold and uncaring. One day, it all got too much, and in a leap of utter desperation, he went to a clinic Doctor Benzidrine was holding. He was able to get Sandman off the drugs and gave him better ways of sleeping. He also saw the loneliness and reached out a hand for companionship. Sandman knew something was up when Benzie stopped coming to visit and set off on a mission to get him back. He heard stories of a monster, one who was once a doctor, killing anyone who set foot in a live music venue and knew that it was his best friend in trouble. He got extremely good at fighting, and his specialty was fighting Vixens, who had an unfathomable strength from their mind control. This is what he used to get through to Benzidrine and get him out of their clutches. They made their way to an exit ready to leave the city but not before meeting Horseshoe Crab.

Horseshoe Crab was well known as a desert-born nuisance within the Battery City slums. He dressed obnoxiously in red and gold, a top hat perched on his head. He had a habit of coming in to cause mischief and then leaving before any draculoids could take him in. His incredible luck meant he never got captured and that inspired a wave of city-born children to become rebels in the city. He befriended a young boy who would come to be known as Fun Ghoul and helped his mother ferry city folk who wanted to escape out of the city. It was on one of these trips that he met Sandman and Benzidrine while they were running away and liked them instantly. They brought the real dangerous villains, the ones he could have fun killing. He got them out of the city with his insanely good luck, but not without getting a bad blaster shot to the shoulder. Luckily, a very capable doctor was close at hand and sorted it out in no time. He felt indebted to the pair after this and vowed to help them through the desert for as long as they needed. Which turned out to be for the rest of his life. He didn't mind because it turned out that these two city boys would become the family he never had.

It was around 6 months later when the trio met Donnie. They found him on the side of the road fixing up an old Trans Am for a young sand pup. He recognized Horseshoe from trips he would make to get supplies from the city, but was wary around the other two who were obviously city born. Horseshoe explained the situation to him and somehow persuaded him to become a member of the team. He was the only one with any knowledge of mechanics and could fix anything with ease. He learned to trust Benzie and Sandman when they got ambushed by some Vixens and fought together as a team for the first time

[highendphsrs]

just realized dr benzedrine/shadow man has a flower in his hat instead of a feather like mr benzedrines, also sports a mask (or stage makeup) like the illustrated version of benzedrine. The hat is way shorter and wider brimmed than mr benzedrines top hat. it looks exactly like a boater hat.

Also, I can't really tell if that white squiggly thing on his chest is a bowtie or something else, it almost looks like a necklace or shirt collar-- to me anyways.

It's fair amount of detail for a shadow monster that appeared for like, 0.5 seconds on screen. Even though Pete said America's suitehearts is just a one off thing and was meant to have to plot, wish they expanded on this world in comic book form or something.

[hum--hallelujah]

no wait so what would happen for a monster AU is that while still training in the City Benze gets selected to be a member of an elite experiment — he's already shown himself willing to go out on limbs, applying for residency at the research hospital instead of a proper surgical residency, already tested things on himself when he thought no one was looking (they're always watching) — that goes wrong. and he's the only one who survives and it's because he turned on the rest. so he runs, like he does in every universe, muttering something about starlight and coffins, blood and bite wounds. he's not quite human anymore.

but the elite selection wasn't the only batch of test subjects. another test, the original even, was done on a group of captives, dissidents from the slums and 'Joys brought in from the Zones. instead of just Drac'ing them and being done with it, BLI employed them in their biological weapons program. the entire point of this was to create a living breathing force of enforcers. but it went wrong the whole way down. the first as the last time, only one survivor in the group who got away. it seems to be a theme. that survivor was a desert-born Killjoy who called himself Sandman, and back to the sand with fangs and blood on his hands he went.

when Benzedrine found himself in the desert he also found himself found by Sandman, a creature of the night, rumored to be some kind of spirit haunting the desert looking for vengeance. older 'Joys call him a vampire. what he's actually looking for is a way out for an old friend.

(I think this is gonna end up being just a vampire AU)

Donnie, as in my mainline AU, was caught and turned into a Draculoid. Sandman's theory is that turning him, like all the old vampire stories people like to pass down like folk tales, would undo that. he's just gotta find the guy first, and the masks don't really help. he finds Benzedrine at some point and there's almost an instant telepathy between them. not like, mind-reading, but these senses that they can predict what each other is thinking a split second before they say it out loud. they recognize each other as The Same Kind Of Monster. so they stick together. they both think the other is totally weird but like whatever, they're the most Other things in this desert so what else are they gonna do?

Benzedrine is the more ruthless when it comes to feeding but Sandman finds it easier. he's been out here longer. he's more willing. Benze fights it until he's in a frenzy and then tries to analyze it, figure out what precisely the physiological alterations to them that have been done are, because if he doesn't perform clinical about it he will lose all control. he's constantly teetering on the edge of going full feral vampire, whereas Sandman is chill about it, accepts it (except for in the long days when he can't sleep and he wonders what it means to be human). they're monsters, the both of them

and they're trying to add another to their ranks.

Benze is against purposefully turning someone else. Sandman needs to test his theory. there's another theme there. these kind of tests never end well.

except this one does.

Benze refuses to participate. he will feed but he will not turn someone else (until he does, in fascination, but that's another story for another time that certainly can't end well. there's mercy killing involved at that point.). so Sandman does it and pulls the mask off his former best friend and daydream mechanic, suffering from sudden whiplash as BLI programming is overwritten by vampirism. Donnie doesn't speak for nearly two weeks. it's pretty much withdrawals. and at some point they've gotta find someonething to eat.

enter one H. Shoe Crab, Esq. Donnie's cousin, a vague acquaintance of Sandman's, and the cat about to be killed by curiosity. what can he say, he spent a year tailing Dr. Death Defying's radio crew and pestering the hell out of Cherri Cola and ended up with a fascination for research and radio interviews. 'course, he can't write so it took him a while to find a working tape recorder, but now occasionally he's a source for the radio crew (whenever Cherri isn't belligerently refusing to take the offer of fresh content. they've literally had petty beef for years this is my comic relief subplot lol). he's way too curious for his own good and at some point decides to track down his old acquaintance, Mr. Sandman, former golden child of the crash track and current desert cryptid.

Crabby boy stumbles into the other three's """lair""" (as in my main 'verse, it's an abandoned firehouse, bc I find the layout and designs of those places a super fun setting to have characters hang out in skskskfjs) one day and is met with three sets of should-be normal eyes that flash red in the light. after a LONG, CHAOTIC explanation (mostly done by Sandman, because Benze is Confused™️ and Donnie is not having a fun time getting yelled at by his cousin who thought he was dead) Crab just. makes himself at home. he's like ok so two out of the three of y'all I have history with so obviously we're a crew now. so what you're all weird failed experiment vampires that's fun we should hang out. who's the nervous little guy in the corner? (the nervous little guy in the corner is, of course, Benze, who has all the ferocity of one of those little fluffy dogs with needle teeth)

(Crab is SUCH a little shit in this AU I'm so serious. I haven't had a chance to play with that side of him in my main stream of writing but part of that is because my dude is VOCAL. like he's not mute in this version and he's making that everyone else's problem fr. he's still lowkey a voice of reason at the same time though in some ways though, just... also a total TWERP. let's just say there's a reason Cherri Cola has beef with him)

so I'm thinking if I write this it would be four separate short intro pieces on each character that start out with individual backstories and lead into them all meeting and becoming a crew. it takes a while to figure out the collective dynamic, but once they do they're unerringly loyal and absolutely dedicated to each other. found family at its peak with three vampires and their human buddy/one reasonably normal human and his three vampire besties who are all in some form of existential crisis at all times

none of them want to feed on Crab bc he's THEIR PERSON but also. for added angst potential?

it might become necessary someday

[media-please]

pleaseeeee tell me absolutely anything and everything about your suitehearts au im like its number one fan !!!!!!!!!!

Thanks for the ask!

There is so much I could talk about, so I elect to tell you about the characters! Of course we have Crab, Donnie, Sandman, and eventually Benzedrine as the only humans, but we also have all the puppet characters!

There are quite a few- America's Suitehearts has 258 episodes and counting, so a wide cast helps to keep the show engaging. These are the characters that aren't one-offs (for example, episode 92 features a star that has fallen from the sky. The star puppet was only used in one episode, and so is a one-off).

Big Bear and Yellow Bear- two bear mascot suit (the bears on the Folie cover). The pair got married in the Episode 53 Valentine's Day Special (14th February, 1995), and their child 'Baby Bear' was introduced in Episode 79 (7th November, 1998).

Frosty and Royal Tea- two llama mascot suits (Mania llamas). They take the role of teenage characters- Frosty is the older sibling, studying Law at the local University (yes this is because of the llama lawsuit), and Royal Tea is the younger sibling that spends most of their time bothering people.

The Doctor- a small monster-like hand puppet. He was originally a normal 'doctor' character until Episode 211, Peer Pressure; where he gained his tendency to hunt Mr. Benzedrine down in order to torment him for no discernible reason.

Gully- a small seagull hand puppet (the seagull from the What a Catch, Donnie video). She is a character that is very invested in assuring others take care of themselves, often getting aggressive in her encouragement.

Antony and Winona- two humanoid hand puppets (the couple from the Sugar video), Antony has deer antlers, and often appears in segments warning against bullying. Together, the pair of them often appear in segments about being yourself and loving who you naturally are.

The Dandy- a humanoid vampire hand puppet (taken from the dandy vampires in the Sixteen Candles video). The Dandy is often accused of being a rip-off of the Count from Sesame Street, though he is used to educate on words and eloquence, unlike the Count's focus on numbers.

The Wolves- multiple wolf mascot suits (Love from the Other Side). The Wolves are used as placeholders for any characters with a negative reputation, or a cruel temperament.

8ball- small hand-puppet in the shape of a magic 8ball with thin fabric limbs. 8ball is a nonverbal character akin to the chickens in the muppets. It often runs around causing trouble, like a lovable dog.

Blitz and Bubbles- Doberman hand puppets. Bubbles wears a spacesuit and a bubble-like helmet. Blitz and Bubbles are best friends and are rarely seen apart, often used to push the idea of being there for your friends. They do, however, frequently end up in trouble due to their impulsivity.

Phoenix- bird mascot suit akin to Sesame Street's Big Bird. Phoenix is a wise older character that often deals out advice and morals after characters make mistakes.

All of these characters are native to Feather Fields, the location in which the kids' show is set, unlike the Suitehearts that have been pulled from their world and trapped in this one. I would like to draw all of these characters at some point, and follow up questions are encouraged!

[abellinthecupboard]

Young Love

In my “Memoir of an Unsuccessful Prostitute” I questioned what was it like to be nineteen in New York City in 1957, fresh from northern Michigan farmland, looking for sex and food. First of all the edges of buildings were sharp and if you walked around a corner too close to them you could cut yourself. Even though it was summer the daylight was short and when it was hot you sweated inward. You walked the streets as a shy elephant who within the cruelty of his neurons had conceived a love of women. A black woman said you were too white and a white woman said you were too brown. Another said you were a red Indian (“How exciting”). You became very thin and fell asleep beside fountains, on park benches, in the library where they roused you with a shake. Pigeons avoided you as a breadless monster. The circus women paid in used popcorn, their secret currency. The beatnik girl paid with crabs who tugged at the roots of your eyebrows, your tiny friends. Late one night the moon split in pieces and you could see two yellow shards at the ends of Forty-second Street where a herring sandwich was a quarter, Italian sausage fifty cents. The drug of choice was a Benzedrine inhaler plus three beers, after which you jumped over the hood of an approaching taxi with your invisible pogo stick. You hitchhiked the trail of a letter from a girl back home and New York City became more beautiful with each mile west.

— Jim Harrison, Saving Daylight (2006)

[one-with-the-floor]

WIP Tag Game

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Send me an ask/comment with the title that most intrigues you and interests you and I’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it!

thank you @ineffable-houseplants for tagging me!! don’t ask why there are so many multichaps I haven’t posted I’m working on it I promise

Multichap:

Keep On Doing (aka the cello au)

It Would Take A Miracle

Knight Moves

go away, stop, turn around, come back

a rosary by any other name

Among Us AU

what can’t be imparted (professors!!)

the *other* royalty au

how little you know (how little I show)

Gonna Give Me A Heart Attack

Some Journey

The Seven Ravens

why’s it called dick turpin?

Love Thy Neighbor (or at Least Give Him a Chance) 

Mad Mission

One Shots:

“I don’t even like you” shit shit shit shit shit

Pirate Lesbians!!!

Holy Water Angst Hell

Ducks Definitely Have Ears

Drive My Car

“even so quickly may one catch the plague?”

Monster Smuggling

Untitled Telephone Incident

Send an ask for a snippet!

I think just about everybody I know’s gotten this already, but I’ll give it a shot; @greenfiredragonfly, @benzedrine-calmstheitch, @kreauxlighe, @refraingirl--I’m so sorry if you’ve already gotten this but! if you haven’t! fun wip game!

[filmstruck]

FIEND WITHOUT A FACE (’58) by Greg Ferrara

Captain Al Chester (Terence Kilburn) grabs a glass of water and asks Major Jeff Cummings (Marshall Thompson), “You ever think of trying sleep instead of Benzedrine?” Popping pills freely to keep alert, Major Cummings is investigating the mysterious death of a local man, Jack Griselle, found dead in the woods near his farm. The two military men work at an air force base in Winthrop, Manitoba, Canada. The base uses atomic energy to boost its radar so they can spy on the Russians. But the mysterious death bothers them and the local authorities refuse to allow the U.S. military to conduct an autopsy. The year is 1958 and if you haven’t already guessed that the base’s atomic energy is going to play a big part in all of this, you’re not very familiar with 1950s sci-fi. And if you’re not, welcome to FIEND WITHOUT A FACE (’58), not only one of the best B movies ever made, but a great primer for anyone looking to enter the world of low-budget 1950s sci-fi horror. Back to the base, Colonel Butler (Stanley Maxted) is trying his best to persuade Mayor Hawkins (James Dyrenforth) and Griselle’s sister, Barbara (Kim Parker), to let them perform an autopsy so they can be sure the atomic energy didn’t kill him. No go. But at least it serves as an introduction of our leading man, Major Cummings (Jeff from here on out), and leading lady, Barbara, and if you haven’t already figured out they’re going to fall in love, then you’re not familiar with movies, period. That’s okay, it’s what we’re here for. Jeff drives Barbara back home and then heads back to the base to conduct another radar test. Did I mention the radar tests amp up the atomic energy output to its highest levels? And that each time they do this, the power fades and someone gets mysteriously killed? Well, they do and eventually, Jeff connects the two. This leads to someone finally getting an autopsy and the scene itself is an amazing piece of unsourced lighting as mood, something horror cinema excels at. In the autopsy room, the coroner, along with the colonel, mayor and Jeff, are all lit, quite dramatically, from below. There’s no light whatsoever shining on the corpse they’re looking at, and even if there was they wouldn’t be able to see past the blinding light shining up on their faces. But who cares, it looks right and feels right and FIEND WITHOUT A FACE is the kind of movie that goes with “feels right” every time. That’s just one reason it’s so damn good. Eventually Jeff figures out the source of the killings (but you won’t find out from me, you’ll have to watch the film) and why they can’t see the killer, or killers. Or things. It’s because they’re invisible and when they finally become visible (hint: it has to do with atomic energy) they are some of the best stop motion creations outside of a Ray Harryhausen movie you’ll ever see. Little brains with eye stems using spinal chords as ambulatory extensions, created by the stop-motion team of Florenz Von Nordoff, directing the sequences, and K. L. Ruppel, doing the stop-motion animation. This involved not just moving these little fiends around but showing their deaths, too. And when they die, usually by gunshot, they ooze blood and guts that, for a B movie of 1958, actually upset a few people at the time. In fact, you’ll see far more dark, thick, oozing blood and puss and bile than you will in most horror movies for the next decade. All of this, as well as its remarkably efficient running time of just over an hour and fourteen minutes, results in a fantastic sci-fi horror film that takes many of the same themes from previous films (atomic misuse, monsters of the id, science gone wrong, invading killers) and coalesces them into a kind of end game for the great sci-fi horror movies of the period. The writing is snappy, the acting good, the pacing consistent, the atmosphere perfect and the effects great. When the climax comes it exceeds audience expectations, and fulfils them, too. The monsters get killed, the military is exonerated and the guy gets the girl. But you already knew that. We all did. Except for the fiend. But no loss of face resulted. He never had one in the first place.

[almondarcade]

i'm confused. are there two American suitehearts patricks (I'm sorry. I cant spell whatever.) in your universe? sorry if this is stupid. i'm kinda new

Thats the Doctor!

hes based off of this headcanon i had when i first got into the suitehearts au where theres a Doctor Benzedrine and a Mister Benzedrine and theyre both two separate entities, the Doctor being some sort of shadow monster thingy that looks like Benze but is grey scale (its hard to tell in uncolored pictures, he’s basically just Benze but pointy)

in 20 Dollar Nosebleed it’s “Call me Mr Benzedrine, but dont let the Doctor in” and in the video for Americas Suitehearts he’s called Dr Benzedrine so I dont think the Benzedrine in the video is really the Doctor, I think he serves as more like a stand in since it seems like the Doctor is garbo and from the likes of the video they’re trying to make their universe seem as inviting as possible

suiteheart conspiracies anyone

[blood-injections]

OOOH SHIT THINKING THOUGHTS. FRANKENGHOUL LIKE CURSED BY THE WITCH JUST BECAUSE OF WHAT HE IS. OR OR BENZEDRINE CURSED BY THE WITCH BECAUSE HE THOUGHT HIMSELF MORE POWERFUL THAN HER BY CREATING LIFE AND SHE TAKES PITY ON GHOUL AND TAKES A SHINE TO HIM AND PROTECTS HIM BUT EITHER WAY. ONE OR BOTH OF THEM CURSED BY HER BECAUSE MY PHILOSOPHY OF HOW THE SOUL STUFF WORKS IN DD IS LIKE REINCARNATION AND THE WITCH TAKES THE SOULS OF THE PASSED AND GUIDES THEM TO LIKE A SPACE IN BETWEEN WHTE THEYLL REST UNTIL THEYRE REBORN WHEN SOMEONE IS BORN SO THIS WOULD MEAN DR BENZEDRINE HAS GONE AGAINST THE ORDER OF THINGS AND SO WHAT IS GHOULS SOUL IS IT A NORMAL SOUL THATS BEEN REINCARNATED OR WAS HIS REANIMATION NOT RECOGNIZED BY THE UNIVERSE AS A BIRTH AND IS HE SOULLESS?? JUST AN EMPTY MIND AND A HEART MADE TO BEST AGAIN BY A MAD SCIENTIST? OR IS HE MADE UP OF LITTLE PIECES OF THE SOULS THAT EACH OF THE DIFFERENT PEOPLES BODY PARTS HES MADE UP OF BELONGED TO?? IF THATS THE CASE HES LIKE EVEN MORE OF AN ABOMINATION BECAUSE HIS SOUL IS A PILE OF SHATTERED ECHOES AND MAYBE THE PHOENIX WITCH THINKS IT WRETCHED BUT MAYBE NOT MAYBE SHE SEES THAT AS A ONE IN A KIND BEAUTIFUL NEW THING??!

[punghouls-blog]

💙-

11/2/18

My beloved Joy Ride,

You’ve been found out. I’m sorry it ever had to be this way. 

If you truly have changed, I’m sure Benzedrine will find it in himself to forgive you. But I’m moving on. With or without you. Heading out beyond the zones. Please don’t go back to the tenement if you want to remain in one piece. You know Donnie’s got it in ‘im to rip ya to pieces and you’re just a kid. Don’t deserve it, do you? If I were you, I’d change my name, run back to zone 3, don’t turn back. Find a desert-born and get them to trust you. Don’t ever deceive anyone like you did them. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be alright on my own, even if the Phoenix Witch catches up to me along the way. We all know how she plays this game and I’m certainly not favored for these odds. In the case you haven’t changed your mind, I hope you make it far and I’m sorry we ever disagreed.

Killer King

Somewhere, Joy Ride set down the letter in the dust and ran as fast as he could, grabbing nothing other than his small pocket knife, tears pricking his eyes like the needles that had made him into the monster he so despised. He ran for the deeper zones before anyone could catch him, especially not Donnie or Benzedrine. Like Killer had warned, Don had a serious anger problem and Joy didn’t have it in him to die young. Not yet. Not before he had even fallen in love. Not while he was… Not while he was still a puppet. Joy stopped, ignoring the buzzing static in his left ear and pausing to identify a lighter resting in his jacket pocket. He lit things on fire, small things he didn’t need. It helped him remain calm. He heard a small voice behind him. 

“Hello? What’s your name? Where did you come from? Why are you crying?” The questions rang over and over in his skull, practically searing through his calm stature. “My name’s Fun Ghoul and I’m from Zone 2.”

[hum--hallelujah]

the thing is that Sandman is the most at ease out of everyone in the group with the monster that he is but he's also the one who will tolerate it the least in others. Benze's hunger makes him wary. he'd never do anything but trust Donnie, but the boundaries they make and break and bend weigh on him more when he watches someone else do the bending. even in the everyday, the mundane, he's got the harshest sense of justice out of all of them, even too-logical, too-City-bred Benzedrine. Sandman is allowed to bend the rules, but heaven help the person who does so themselves when he's around.

[pangeanews]

A scuola di scrittura da Chuck Palahniuk. “Il mio unico consiglio è: non annoiate il lettore. Nella storia non è mai esistito un pubblico esigente come quello di oggi”

Chuck Palahniuk il prossimo mese, 21 febbraio, compie 58 anni: è lo scrittore di “Fight Club” – da cui, nel 1999, il film culto di David Fincher – e di vari altri libri (tra cui, “Invisible Monsters”, “Rabbia”, “Dannazione”, “Beautiful You”, tutti editi, in Italia, da Mondadori). L’ultimo libro di Chuck s’intitola “Consider This”, è una specie di manuale per scrivere bene, cioè senza annoiare il prossimo, il sottotitolo è questo: “Moments in My Writing Life after Which Everything Was Different”. Il libro esiste nel mercato inglese da una settimana, questa la dida esplicativa: “Il celebre romanziere di fama Chuck Palahniuk ci conduce dietro le quinte della sua vita da scrittore, con aneddoti dai decenni ‘on the road’ e una potente indagine sul potere della finzione, sull’arte del narrare”. Ergo: “considerate questo libro come un classico in divenire”. Vedremo. Diverremo scrittori leggendolo? Lecito è il dubbio, intrigante l’affronto. Qui abbiamo tradotto in anteprima alcune pagine.

***

Ti è accaduto. Sei a cena da amici, parli di un ciclone. Una risata, un sospiro e la conversazione cede al silenzio. Hai esaurito gli argomenti. Il silenzio è imbarazzante, nessuno ha un nuovo argomento da proporre. Come gestire questo istante di nulla?

Nella mia giovinezza, la gente colmava le pause dicendo: “Devono essere passati sette minuti dall’ora fatale”. La superstizione riteneva che Abramo Lincoln e Gesù Cristo fossero morti sette minuti dopo la loro morte, dopo l’ora fatale, per questo l’umanità deve stare in silenzio per onorarli. Mi dicono che gli ebrei infrangono quei momenti di silenzio dicendo, “Ecco, un bimbo ebreo è nato”. Il punto è: tutti riconoscono quei momenti di niente. I modi per colmare quelle paure, quella palude di silenzio dipendono dalla propria tradizione. Ecco, noi abbiamo bisogno di… qualcosa che nasconda la cucitura tra i diversi momenti narrativi, la paura del vuoto. A tavola basta un blando sorbetto. I film possono andare in dissolvenza. I fumetti passano da una vignetta all’altra. Ma in prosa, come riesci a risolvere una parte della storia cominciando la prossima?

Ovviamente, puoi optare per una descrizione accurata, istante per istante. Ma tutto diventa così lento. Troppo lento per il pubblico moderno. E mentre ci sarà sempre qualcuno a sostenere che il pubblico, oggi, è stato rimbambito dai video musicali o altro, io dico che il pubblico di oggi è il più sofisticato di ogni tempo. Abbiamo attraversato così tante storie e formule narrative come nessun altro essere umano nella storia. Per questo, ci attendiamo che la prosa sia rapida, intuitiva, come un film. Per far questo, basta considerare cosa accade durante una conversazione. Il mio amico Ina cita sempre il non sequitur dei “Simpsons”: “I narcisi crescono nel mio giardino”. Qualunque sia il concetto, riconoscere un vicolo cieco, una impasse, ci permette di introdurre una nuova idea.

Insomma, bisogna creare formule adatte a ogni personaggio. In Invisible Monsters la formula reiterata era “Mi spiace mamma, mi spiace Dio”. Nel racconto originale che è diventato Fight Club era la ripetizione delle regole. In un documentario Andy Warhol dice che il suo motto è “E quindi?”. Indipendentemente da ciò di cui si parlava, dai fatti, poteva respingere ogni locuzione dicendo “E quindi?”. Per Rossella O’Hara è “Domani è un altro giorno”. Bisogna nascondere le cuciture narrative come una striscia di modanatura cela il punto di giunzione tra il pavimento e le pareti. Ciò consente, per altro, di far avanzare la storia avanzando problemi irrisolti, aumentando la tensione.

*

Il modo più facile per indicare il tempo che passa è quello di annunciarlo. Descrivere cosa succede. Scandire il tempo. Noia. Un altro modo è dettagliare queste attività, fatto dopo fatto, fino ai lampioni che iniziano ad accendersi mentre le mamme chiamano in coro i figli per la cena. Metodi adatti se vogliamo annoiare il lettore. Meglio praticare il montaggio. In Slaves of New York di Tama Janowitz l’elemento narrativo che scioglie la stasi è l’elenco dei menù giornalieri in un manicomio. Lunedì mangiamo questo. Martedì questo. Mercoledì quest’altro. Nel film di Bob Fosse, All That Jazz, è la sequenza ripetuta del tipo che si lava i denti, prende Benzedrine e dice allo specchio del bagno, “Questo è lo spettacolo!”. Che tu descriva città, pasti, fidanzati, comprimi tutto insieme. Alla fine del montaggio, arriveremo alla scena, con la sensazione che sia trascorso del tempo.

Un altro modo per dare l’idea del passare del tempo è l’intrusione. Termina una scena, passa a un flashback, alterna passato e presente. Ogni salto temporale ti è permesso, implicando il passato. Oppure, puoi introdurti in diversi personaggi. Ad esempio: quando un personaggio incontra un ostacolo, passi a un altro. È esasperante investire la propria narrativa su un solo personaggio: ogni salto ci fa avanzare nel tempo narrativo.

Altrimenti, alterna i toni. Pensa a Furore di Steinbeck. A volte siamo con la famiglia Joad, narrazione standard, modulata, che racconta il loro viaggio. Altre volte il tono cambia, comincia un capitolo sui flussi di migranti sfollati, la siccità, i proprietari terrieri. Poi torniamo ai Joad, che nel frattempo procedono nel loro viaggio. Poi arriva il capitolo sulle inondazioni, con altro tono. Infine torniamo alla famiglia.

*

A volte, al posto di usare i capitoli, per indicare l’interruzione di un brano e il principio del prossimo, basta usare uno spazio bianco. In Beautiful You ho usato gli spazi bianchi perché volevo imitare la scrittura dei libri pornografici nel mercato di massa. Queste permette all’editore, per altro, di risparmiare in pagine, di aumentare gli eventuali profitti.

Chuck Palhaniuk

L'articolo A scuola di scrittura da Chuck Palahniuk. “Il mio unico consiglio è: non annoiate il lettore. Nella storia non è mai esistito un pubblico esigente come quello di oggi” proviene da Pangea.

from pangea.news https://ift.tt/2Nf0CBt

[songscloset]

Well, I've published a book on Amazon. I'm super stoked about it.

The story is about a barnstorming style baseball team which travels around the solar system playing against other teams in the league. They're on a shoe-string budget, because they're barnstormers and not the Big Leagues, but they love the game and they love the family they've created. There's an alien from the moon Europa (he's octopodal and yes, he's the catcher and I have art of him and it's amazing), and there's an avian (I have no idea where she's from, but it's not our solar system) and there's a gay barbarian who's a human descendant of colonists who settled on a planet in another system, and there are two people, relics of a period when humans had a created servant class of human/animal hybrids. Those species have gained freedom now, and have their own cultures and families, and some of them like baseball, who knew?

The team hires a new third baseman, because their old one left, and it turns out that the young kid they hire has a huge secret, one which could destroy the whole team.

The story follows them as they figure out that the kid, Joe, has a secret, through what happens when the secret comes out.

*** I wrote this book years ago as a NaNoWriMo project, to see how many distinct 'voices' I could write in a single story. This one ended up with ten different characters, each given their own section with their own POV. (All clearly labeled.) The story was a surprise to me, from beginning to end. I didn't start with any plan or plot, I didn't know who the characters were, I just wrote. It was a lot of fun, and in the end, many of these characters are people I really love.

I'd had the spark of an idea when I saw a stranger's shirt with a list of fanciful 'amphitheater' names on it, places in the solar system where an imaginary rock band was putting on shows. That combined in my head with the apocryphal story about Dock Ellis pitching a no-hitter whilst higher than a kite on LSD and benzedrine; he supposedly said that he saw some sort of tentacled monster behind the batters who kept catching the balls he threw.

Later, when I began to think about publishing my writing, I came back to this story. It's finished, for one thing, and it's interesting. It's not like much else that I've seen, though, which is a difficulty.

It's set in space, but it's not about space. It's about a baseball team, but not about the sport of baseball, and the characters don't play a lot of ball on the page. It's about a family, but a found family, not a biological one. It's got aliens, but it's not about them being alien – they're just part of the team and non-human.

Eventually I figured out that it's 'literary fiction': a story about the relationships between the characters and how they grow and change. But even then, literary fiction doesn't seem to have a Sports category, and since it's not really about the sports, I was still left a little confused about where, exactly, it would be marketable.

But I love the characters and the story, and everyone who's read it has said that they liked it as well, so here we are. My first ever professionally published book, nearly impossible to market and dear to my heart.

[adambstingus]

The International Competition Where Master Lock-Pickers Do Battle

This story first appeared in WIRED 13.02 published in February, 2005.

For a lock picker, the world is a different place. Take, for example, a typical suburban house, with a bicycle in the front yard and a five-pin Weiser bolting the front door—a basic pin-and-tumbler lock, employed by millions of home owners.

When most people see that lock, they see security. But a lock picker sees a game. And maybe 15 seconds with a rake pick and a tension wrench. As for the bike Kryptonited to the railing out front? Please. Ten seconds, tops, with a Bic Round Stic ballpoint.

Or take a jewelry store on Main Street. The world sees the shatterproof Lexan windows and stone walls. Sure, you could melt the Lexan with a lighter or turn that wall into lava with a few strokes of a battery-powered thermal lance, but that’s not fair, that’s forced entry. Besides, why bother when you can go through the door? The dimpled 437-rated high-security lock, the one Underwriters Laboratories considers a 20-minute pick job? A 12-year-old with a bump key could hack it in 20 seconds.

To understand how, drive two hours north of Amsterdam, to a small brick building in the Dutch village of Sneek. The Sneek Wigledam Youth Hostel appears to be nothing special, just bunk beds and a bar-and-breakfast space of unpainted wood and colorful furniture—something like an Ikea Gulag. But to a lock sports aficionado, this is Wimbledon.

Arthurmeister, the Master of the Universe

It’s 20 hours before the third annual Dutch Open lock-picking competition will begin, but the room is already packed with 50 or so men and women wielding burglar tools and representing the international steel bolt-hacker diaspora. By the kitchen you’ll find Jean-Marie, a debonair French military “surreptitious entry” instructor in a black commando sweater, chatting with a lock enthusiast about his collection of Abloy disc tumblers. At the door is Barry Wels, the event’s host and a coinventor of the CryptoPhone. He’s hacking an expensive, high-security, dimpled Mul-T-Lock using only a filed key and a steak knife handle. Behind the bar, a pair of locksmiths are speculating about which of the newbies is really an undercover cop. By the pool table, a gaggle of Dutch programmers probes the latches of a combination padlock with a broken tape measure, while behind them a German cyberpunk sells a hand-milled Kryptonite skeleton key to an American satellite engineer: 100 euros – cheap.

Arthur Bhl, the Dutch Open lock-picking champion. Charles Graeber

Standing above them all, with a beer stein in one hand and a cigarette in the other, is Arthur Bhl, a private dick from Hamburg and one of the most successful lock pickers of all time. Even in this crowded, smoky room, you can’t miss him—he’s the one standing 6’5″ in snakeskin boots, with a kidney-length mullet cascading over the broad shoulders of his double-breasted zoot suit. Bhl’s Fabio-the-Barbarian look stands out. So does his record. Although he’s never won a Dutch Open, he’s won most everywhere else, earning him Germany’s ultimate lock-picking accolade: Master of the Universe.

“Arthurmeister!” booms Arthurmeister. Across the room, beer mugs chink at the cry of his name. The Master of the Universe ranking reflects his cumulative lock-picking score—it’s a title that the lock sport commissioners bestow on the world points leader. IfBhl wants to keep it, he has to keep winning. Tomorrow, his sights will be set on toppling the current Dutch Open champion—a slight, mustachioed man in a T-shirt and acid-washed jeans named Julian Hardt. Back in Germany, Hardt works as a rainmaker, piloting his twin-prop to seed thunderheads with silver iodide.

“For me, a lock is an intellectual puzzle, like chess!” Julian the Champ yells in Bavarian-accented English. He yells because two men behind him have started pithing a steel safe with a cobalt-tipped drill. “But when you break a lock, when you crack that first puzzle, when you feel pins click and the cylinder go – it’s like a drug,” he continues. “So then you want to try a harder one!”

Arthurmeister throws an arm around Julian the Champ and laughs as only a Master of the Universe should. “Ja, life is good,” he declares. “But tomorrow, you are mine.”

Hardt smiles in concession. His eyes level at Arthurmeister’s chest hair. “Arthur, tomorrow is tomorrow.” Hardt says. “Why not have another beer today?”

‘Death is a fantastic motivator.’

Marc Weber Tobias is the author of Locks, Safes, and Security: An International Police Reference, a two-volume, 1,400-page compendium referred to here as De Bijbel. Last summer, Tobias’ report on how to use a ballpoint pen to hack tubular locks—locks with circular key interfaces, like those made by Kryptonite—made headlines coast to coast. Much to the company’s horror, Tobias publicly ridiculed their bike lock as an overpriced horseshoe. “Those people are unbelievably arrogant,” he says with a smirk. “I can’t wait to break their next design and destroy that company.”

Tobias shrugs off the notion that by publicizing the vulnerability, he’s creating a crime wave. “People are just mad because they wasted 50 bucks,” he says. “People trust their lives and safety to these locks. But most locks are garbage. Look around, they’re easy to open. Not knowing that doesn’t make you safer.” Tobias rolls his eyes and waggles his head incredulously. “I mean, what do people want—security through ignorance? Wake up.”

This rumpled 59-year-old ur-nerd isn’t in Sneek to compete. He’s staying in this “godawful miniature prison” to give a PowerPoint presentation (“Vulnerabilities of Master Key Systems”) and to videotape the newest attacks against the latest locks. So he’s perfectly happy to offer a few friendly tips to a fellow American who’s new to the sport and struggling to learn the ropes.

“You’re retarded,” Tobias says, watching the neophyte wrestle with the pins. Tobias takes the lock and looks inside to make sure it isn’t broken. It’s fine. “I’ll tell you how they teach it in covert-entry camp,” he says, laying a hand on the poor picker’s shoulder. “First, I stick you in a cage. Then I lock the door.” Tobias straightens and smiles. “End of story. Trust me, it works,” he says. “Death is a fantastic motivator.”

The Master of the Universe Is Ready to Rock

Diamond picks, snakes, rakes, combs, shallow picks, and handmade tension wrenches of black spring steel—the tools are readied for battle. It’s 10 o’clock the next morning in the tournament hall. The competitors sit before their instruments.

The rules are old-school, head-to-head. Each person gets a different lock. Eight minutes to open your lock, then switch locks across the table and begin again for another eight. That’s a round. At the end of each round, whoever has a shorter combined time is the winner. The rounds continue until it’s only two, then one.

It’s locksmith against space engineer, programmer against undercover cop, French commando against American college student. Julian the Champ, who grips the lock in one hand as he picks it with the other, dries his fingers on his pant leg and tries to remain calm. Arthurmeister prepares his vise. Amazingly, although last seen at 4 am manning the keg and shouting his own name, Arthurmeister is downstairs looking fresh in a double-breasted suit and vest, a key insignia on his red silk tie. His meaty hands are shaking and his eyes are bloodshot, but the Master of the Universe is ready to rock.

“Three, two, one, go!” The pickers grab their tools and begin. Most combine the tension wrench with a rake—a tool with multiple heads that can be dragged quickly over all the pins at once. As they work, they stare down at the table or into space. They’re visualizing, using the pick like a catfish uses its whiskers, mapping the dark recesses by feel. It’s a cold hard world inside the keyway. There are special pins, mushrooms, telescopes, wedges. Pins designed to foil people, pins that don’t cooperate. And always, there’s the pressure of the clock.

“This isn’t pressure,” Tobias says. “Try real-world covert entry. Either you pick the lock fast or you get shot or arrested. End of story.”

“Open!” says Julian the Champ.

“Open!” yells Arthurmeister.

It’s Like Chess, But Without a Chessboard

Round after round, the competitors fall away, until finally, inevitably, only these two remain. They sit down across from each other at a table. The spectators and fallen competitors gather around.

A lock is placed in front of the Champ. He scoops it up and squints into its mysterious darkness. It’s a Lips 8042C, a five-pin cylinder with a straight keyway. It’s tough, but fair.

Arthurmeister receives its sister lock, the Lips 8362C. It’s a six-pin high-security model. Several of the pins are mushroom-shaped. Working them with a pick is difficult, made all the more so by the keyhole. It’s paracentric, shaped something like a thalidomide lightning bolt, and expressly designed to hinder the motion of a picker’s tools. In technical terms, the 8362C is a bitch.

Arthurmeister stubs out his cigarette and tightens the demon lock in his vise. Then he rubs his hands and leans over his challenge like a hungry giant. Go! The opponents wedge in their tension wrenches and begin.

Not much is happening at the tables. It’s like watching a chess match, only without the chessboard. But to a knowledgeable lock picker, this is an epic showdown. “Intense!” whispers Tobias.

Hardt works his picks in his cupped hand as if he’s applying lipstick to a hand puppet. Arthurmeister scrapes away at the monster in his vise like a dentist on Benzedrine. The tools of the trade look like toothpicks in his oversize mitts.

“Open!” cries Arthurmeister. He smooths his plumage back and sits upright in his throne, triumphant.

The other lock pickers gasp. Someone claps. Arthurmeister has picked the 8362C in only 20 seconds. It was a rake pick on a supertough lock, an opening that uses luck almost as much as skill.

Meanwhile, Julian the Champ can’t pick his lock at all. The clock runs out at eight minutes.

Julian looks up through his tangled eyebrows. “Oh, Arthur,” he sighs. He sucks his teeth and grimaces like a beaver. They switch locks. The Champ has to beat Arthurmeister’s time or he loses. It’s almost impossible. Julian works at the 8362C intensely, but 20 seconds is not time enough. It’s over. He stands, defeated. His opponent inhales him in a bear hug.

The crowd claps and hoots. “Arthurmeister!” they yell.

“Beer!” Arthurmeister booms back. The Master of the Universe lopes to the bar to celebrate, more, again. And a new Dutch Open champion is born.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/the-international-competition-where-master-lock-pickers-do-battle/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/172952927012

[samanthasroberts]

The International Competition Where Master Lock-Pickers Do Battle

This story first appeared in WIRED 13.02 published in February, 2005.

For a lock picker, the world is a different place. Take, for example, a typical suburban house, with a bicycle in the front yard and a five-pin Weiser bolting the front door—a basic pin-and-tumbler lock, employed by millions of home owners.

When most people see that lock, they see security. But a lock picker sees a game. And maybe 15 seconds with a rake pick and a tension wrench. As for the bike Kryptonited to the railing out front? Please. Ten seconds, tops, with a Bic Round Stic ballpoint.

Or take a jewelry store on Main Street. The world sees the shatterproof Lexan windows and stone walls. Sure, you could melt the Lexan with a lighter or turn that wall into lava with a few strokes of a battery-powered thermal lance, but that’s not fair, that’s forced entry. Besides, why bother when you can go through the door? The dimpled 437-rated high-security lock, the one Underwriters Laboratories considers a 20-minute pick job? A 12-year-old with a bump key could hack it in 20 seconds.

To understand how, drive two hours north of Amsterdam, to a small brick building in the Dutch village of Sneek. The Sneek Wigledam Youth Hostel appears to be nothing special, just bunk beds and a bar-and-breakfast space of unpainted wood and colorful furniture—something like an Ikea Gulag. But to a lock sports aficionado, this is Wimbledon.

Arthurmeister, the Master of the Universe

It’s 20 hours before the third annual Dutch Open lock-picking competition will begin, but the room is already packed with 50 or so men and women wielding burglar tools and representing the international steel bolt-hacker diaspora. By the kitchen you’ll find Jean-Marie, a debonair French military “surreptitious entry” instructor in a black commando sweater, chatting with a lock enthusiast about his collection of Abloy disc tumblers. At the door is Barry Wels, the event’s host and a coinventor of the CryptoPhone. He’s hacking an expensive, high-security, dimpled Mul-T-Lock using only a filed key and a steak knife handle. Behind the bar, a pair of locksmiths are speculating about which of the newbies is really an undercover cop. By the pool table, a gaggle of Dutch programmers probes the latches of a combination padlock with a broken tape measure, while behind them a German cyberpunk sells a hand-milled Kryptonite skeleton key to an American satellite engineer: 100 euros – cheap.

Arthur Bhl, the Dutch Open lock-picking champion. Charles Graeber

Standing above them all, with a beer stein in one hand and a cigarette in the other, is Arthur Bhl, a private dick from Hamburg and one of the most successful lock pickers of all time. Even in this crowded, smoky room, you can’t miss him—he’s the one standing 6’5″ in snakeskin boots, with a kidney-length mullet cascading over the broad shoulders of his double-breasted zoot suit. Bhl’s Fabio-the-Barbarian look stands out. So does his record. Although he’s never won a Dutch Open, he’s won most everywhere else, earning him Germany’s ultimate lock-picking accolade: Master of the Universe.

“Arthurmeister!” booms Arthurmeister. Across the room, beer mugs chink at the cry of his name. The Master of the Universe ranking reflects his cumulative lock-picking score—it’s a title that the lock sport commissioners bestow on the world points leader. IfBhl wants to keep it, he has to keep winning. Tomorrow, his sights will be set on toppling the current Dutch Open champion—a slight, mustachioed man in a T-shirt and acid-washed jeans named Julian Hardt. Back in Germany, Hardt works as a rainmaker, piloting his twin-prop to seed thunderheads with silver iodide.

“For me, a lock is an intellectual puzzle, like chess!” Julian the Champ yells in Bavarian-accented English. He yells because two men behind him have started pithing a steel safe with a cobalt-tipped drill. “But when you break a lock, when you crack that first puzzle, when you feel pins click and the cylinder go – it’s like a drug,” he continues. “So then you want to try a harder one!”

Arthurmeister throws an arm around Julian the Champ and laughs as only a Master of the Universe should. “Ja, life is good,” he declares. “But tomorrow, you are mine.”

Hardt smiles in concession. His eyes level at Arthurmeister’s chest hair. “Arthur, tomorrow is tomorrow.” Hardt says. “Why not have another beer today?”

‘Death is a fantastic motivator.’

Marc Weber Tobias is the author of Locks, Safes, and Security: An International Police Reference, a two-volume, 1,400-page compendium referred to here as De Bijbel. Last summer, Tobias’ report on how to use a ballpoint pen to hack tubular locks—locks with circular key interfaces, like those made by Kryptonite—made headlines coast to coast. Much to the company’s horror, Tobias publicly ridiculed their bike lock as an overpriced horseshoe. “Those people are unbelievably arrogant,” he says with a smirk. “I can’t wait to break their next design and destroy that company.”

Tobias shrugs off the notion that by publicizing the vulnerability, he’s creating a crime wave. “People are just mad because they wasted 50 bucks,” he says. “People trust their lives and safety to these locks. But most locks are garbage. Look around, they’re easy to open. Not knowing that doesn’t make you safer.” Tobias rolls his eyes and waggles his head incredulously. “I mean, what do people want—security through ignorance? Wake up.”

This rumpled 59-year-old ur-nerd isn’t in Sneek to compete. He’s staying in this “godawful miniature prison” to give a PowerPoint presentation (“Vulnerabilities of Master Key Systems”) and to videotape the newest attacks against the latest locks. So he’s perfectly happy to offer a few friendly tips to a fellow American who’s new to the sport and struggling to learn the ropes.

“You’re retarded,” Tobias says, watching the neophyte wrestle with the pins. Tobias takes the lock and looks inside to make sure it isn’t broken. It’s fine. “I’ll tell you how they teach it in covert-entry camp,” he says, laying a hand on the poor picker’s shoulder. “First, I stick you in a cage. Then I lock the door.” Tobias straightens and smiles. “End of story. Trust me, it works,” he says. “Death is a fantastic motivator.”

The Master of the Universe Is Ready to Rock

Diamond picks, snakes, rakes, combs, shallow picks, and handmade tension wrenches of black spring steel—the tools are readied for battle. It’s 10 o’clock the next morning in the tournament hall. The competitors sit before their instruments.

The rules are old-school, head-to-head. Each person gets a different lock. Eight minutes to open your lock, then switch locks across the table and begin again for another eight. That’s a round. At the end of each round, whoever has a shorter combined time is the winner. The rounds continue until it’s only two, then one.

It’s locksmith against space engineer, programmer against undercover cop, French commando against American college student. Julian the Champ, who grips the lock in one hand as he picks it with the other, dries his fingers on his pant leg and tries to remain calm. Arthurmeister prepares his vise. Amazingly, although last seen at 4 am manning the keg and shouting his own name, Arthurmeister is downstairs looking fresh in a double-breasted suit and vest, a key insignia on his red silk tie. His meaty hands are shaking and his eyes are bloodshot, but the Master of the Universe is ready to rock.

“Three, two, one, go!” The pickers grab their tools and begin. Most combine the tension wrench with a rake—a tool with multiple heads that can be dragged quickly over all the pins at once. As they work, they stare down at the table or into space. They’re visualizing, using the pick like a catfish uses its whiskers, mapping the dark recesses by feel. It’s a cold hard world inside the keyway. There are special pins, mushrooms, telescopes, wedges. Pins designed to foil people, pins that don’t cooperate. And always, there’s the pressure of the clock.

“This isn’t pressure,” Tobias says. “Try real-world covert entry. Either you pick the lock fast or you get shot or arrested. End of story.”

“Open!” says Julian the Champ.

“Open!” yells Arthurmeister.

It’s Like Chess, But Without a Chessboard

Round after round, the competitors fall away, until finally, inevitably, only these two remain. They sit down across from each other at a table. The spectators and fallen competitors gather around.

A lock is placed in front of the Champ. He scoops it up and squints into its mysterious darkness. It’s a Lips 8042C, a five-pin cylinder with a straight keyway. It’s tough, but fair.

Arthurmeister receives its sister lock, the Lips 8362C. It’s a six-pin high-security model. Several of the pins are mushroom-shaped. Working them with a pick is difficult, made all the more so by the keyhole. It’s paracentric, shaped something like a thalidomide lightning bolt, and expressly designed to hinder the motion of a picker’s tools. In technical terms, the 8362C is a bitch.

Arthurmeister stubs out his cigarette and tightens the demon lock in his vise. Then he rubs his hands and leans over his challenge like a hungry giant. Go! The opponents wedge in their tension wrenches and begin.

Not much is happening at the tables. It’s like watching a chess match, only without the chessboard. But to a knowledgeable lock picker, this is an epic showdown. “Intense!” whispers Tobias.

Hardt works his picks in his cupped hand as if he’s applying lipstick to a hand puppet. Arthurmeister scrapes away at the monster in his vise like a dentist on Benzedrine. The tools of the trade look like toothpicks in his oversize mitts.

“Open!” cries Arthurmeister. He smooths his plumage back and sits upright in his throne, triumphant.

The other lock pickers gasp. Someone claps. Arthurmeister has picked the 8362C in only 20 seconds. It was a rake pick on a supertough lock, an opening that uses luck almost as much as skill.

Meanwhile, Julian the Champ can’t pick his lock at all. The clock runs out at eight minutes.

Julian looks up through his tangled eyebrows. “Oh, Arthur,” he sighs. He sucks his teeth and grimaces like a beaver. They switch locks. The Champ has to beat Arthurmeister’s time or he loses. It’s almost impossible. Julian works at the 8362C intensely, but 20 seconds is not time enough. It’s over. He stands, defeated. His opponent inhales him in a bear hug.

The crowd claps and hoots. “Arthurmeister!” they yell.

“Beer!” Arthurmeister booms back. The Master of the Universe lopes to the bar to celebrate, more, again. And a new Dutch Open champion is born.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/the-international-competition-where-master-lock-pickers-do-battle/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2018/04/15/the-international-competition-where-master-lock-pickers-do-battle/