#Biscayne news

[shakira-fan-page]

New photos of Shakira in Key Biscayne, FL. (Apr 14, 2024)

[bounder205]

[doo-wop-city]

Stella Star At Biscayne, Part 2 of 2

Here is part 2 of my visit at the Biscayne Motel, deep in Wildwood Crest!

See Part 1 Here This is Doo Wop City’s 99th Stella’s Gallery post. Keep watching for Doo Wop City’s Stella’s Gallery 100th Post Spectacular! In the meantime, enjoy this entry, then click HERE to see all Stella’s Gallery posts, and enjoy all the mid-20th century fashion and architecture! Biscayne Family Resort is a long stretch of Louisville Avenue and spans several buildings of different,but…

[nicholasbritel]

My cemetery's in Key Biscayne. It's one of the prettiest in the world. The sky is blue, palm trees, rolling hills. The one is Los Copa's really sh*t. [sigh] What a pain in the ass you are. And it's true: you're not young, you're not new, and you do make people laugh. And me? I'm still with you because you make me laugh. So you know what I got to do? I got to sell my plot in Key Biscayne so I can get one next to you in that shithole Los Copa, so I never miss a laugh. Robin Williams and Nathan Lane as Armand and Albert in The Birdcage (1996) dir. Mike Nichols

[13atoms]

Handsome and a Genius (Spencer Reid x F!Bau!Reader)

Inspired by that one scene in x files where mulder stands like a himbo looking handsome and being the future of beauty. you know the one I mean

Summary: Spencer’s overactive brain draws more attention than it ought to on a case, and you see him in a new light. 3k words.

Contains: hostile witnesses, spencer being clueless (but an absolute babe), friends to lovers. (No offence to Florida im sure it’s very nice, reader is having a bad day, and I am far too British for that kind of heat)

The sticky Florida air had long since plastered your clothes to your skin, leaving you short of breath and with the unpleasant feeling of damp hair against your scalp. The whole team had groaned at the revelation their next case would be in the outskirts of Miami, and as soon as the plane door opened you understood why.

You were hot, and grumpy. The salty, swampy air made you feel disgusting as you approached witness after witness. There was a serial killer operating in and around mobile home parks in the area, with the two most recent murders taking place in Royal Biscayne Trailer Park, both over a week ago. While the rest the team spread out across the other crime scenes, you and your partner had been dispatched to this one.

It was a world away from Quantico: sun-bleached, dense, full of plastic and palms instead of concrete and maples. Nonetheless, the principles remained the same no matter where you were. Take everything in, speak to everyone, suspect everyone. Stepping in and out of trailers gave you very little relief from the heat, although respite from the sun pounding down on you was a welcome break.

Dr Spencer Reid stood a short distance away, shielding his eyes with his hand as he contemplated the sea of trailers around him. He’d stared around as you drove into the park, something faraway in his eyes as he memorised every detail from the safety of the SUV.

Now he stood close to you, heads inches apart as he whispered so that only you could hear. He faced one way, you the other, and you could focus on his words knowing that Spencer was watching your back.

“These things all come equipped with the same locks, at least each model does. If you recognise the trailer home, you know how to pick it. It’s fairly trivial, for someone with some basic industry knowledge.”

You hummed through pursed lips, surveying the small crowd who had gathered to gawk at a pair of FBI officers on their turf.

“And that would be true of all of the trailer parks… we know he’s got a common MO.”

“Exactly.”

“You reckon someone in the industry, then? A salesman? Maintenance guy?”

Spencer rolled his neck, stared up at the sky for a moment. His curls were long at the moment, damp at the name of his neck, a little frizzy in the humidity.

“Not necessarily.”

“It’s quite specific,” you agreed, “anyone operating as a common thief around here would have the knowledge too. We could be talking about a classic escalation – burglar to home invader to murderer?”

His eyes snapped from you to his phone.

“I’ve asked Garcia to check out any patterns in robberies, home invasions… the locks are hardly scratched. We know he wears gloves, cleans his tools. This guy knows what he’s doing.”

You nodded, surveying the street again. The sun was glinting off of white plastic, making you squint. You worried for Spencer, the heat and the light wouldn’t be doing his headaches any good.

“You want me to take that?” Spencer was saying, and you snapped your attention in the direction he was gestured.

There was middle-aged man a little way forward of the crowd, shoulders hunched, hands entwined. Nervous. He had the tan of someone who lived here year-round, not a big believer in suncream, with tanlines when he removed his hat and glasses to speak to you.

“I’ve got it,” you murmured, and Spencer nodded.

It was an unspoken part of your partnership, that Spencer liked when you started conversations with witnesses. You liked that he trusted you, trusted your skills, never questioned whether you’d done the right thing when you spoke to people.

Instead he remained a short distance away, climbing up the front steps of someone’s home for a higher vantage point to survey the place.

“Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you. You said you’re with the FBI?”

The man had a tip, and it was an interesting one. A rumour spread throughout the HOA about someone trying the locks at night, the sound of metal against the doorways, silhouettes against frosted glass. A few people even had security camera footage, though nothing identifiable. It was great. You gave him your card, told him to get the footage to you asap.

It must be terrifying, you realised, to hear that kind of noise in the night. To be so close to danger, after a neighbour had been killed. The local sheriff’s department seemed frustrated by the interest the case was garnering – frankly you were amazed the story wasn’t bigger. There was no small amount of comforting involved in the conversation you had with the witness, and soon enough a few more people stepped forwards from the crowd. All seemed middle-aged, likely transplants to the sunshine state, and equally shaken.

When everyone’s stories had finished, they stood in silence for a moment. You frowned, noticing their gazes slightly misaligned.

Spencer.

He was stood at your shoulder, sharp gaze flickering across each face of the gathered residents.

“This is my colleague, Dr Reid. A few of you have already met, I believe.”

“You know,” he began, “the socio-economic factors influencing the way we think about crime in mobile home communities are fascinating. Often trailer parks are stereotyped negatively in the media, and because they are generally cheaper to live in than traditional housing estates, and that can foster a sense of shame or isolation for residents. Transient populations can also make community policing and security difficult, and anomalies in the patterns of everyday life become more difficult for people to subconsciously spot.”

You held your breath, and tried not to look worried at the reaction of the small crowd. Instead, you focused on Spencer. He was speaking with his hands a lot today.

“But I think the assumptions we tend to make about trailer parks completely overlook the very nature of living so close to your neighbours. There is a sense of community in living so closely, as evidenced by the conversations we’ve been having today. I’m not sure whether the killer understands that, or is exploiting the former theory that places like this allow for more deviations from the way we implement traditional security in communities. An unsub might hold some sort of resentment towards trailer parks, or some specific resident in his past, or perhaps he’s simply exploiting how incredibly easy it is to simply walk up to a mobile home and slip the lock open with a humble mass-produced lock pick.”

He was greeted with a sea of blank faces, littered with the occasional frown. Finally he looked to you. You caught the furrow of his brow, the way his shoulders hunched into himself, the clutching of his elbows to his body.

Oh, Spencer.

“That’s really interesting!” you tried to say, but Spencer was already backing away.

“Anyway, I’ll, um, leave you to it.”

“Thank you, Dr Reid,” you called after him, as he fled, disappearing into the shade of a nearby trailer.

 Your heart ached for him a bit, but you pushed that aside. Instead, you had a sea of potentially offended retirees to keep on side.

“God, what I’d give for a brain like that,” your witness laughed, his linen shirt straining under the movement.

You couldn’t help smiling, a little relieved the tension had broken.

“It’s not often someone has a face like that and a good head on their shoulders,” one of the older ladies piped up.

You found yourself looking over your shoulder at Spencer, his profile sharp as he looked down the road, deep in thought.

“He’s certainly a rare breed,” you agreed fondly.

A number of the crowd were following your gaze, and someone in you wanted to snap them out of it. Stop them from staring.

“He actually has an eidetic memory. Once he’s seen or heard something, he remembers it perfectly, forever. It’s incredible.”

“Oh, my goodness! I can hardly remember my own email password!”

“I wouldn’t mind if he hung around me and talked like that all day, even if I didn’t understand a word of it. Though perhaps he could use a haircut…”

There was a chorus of agreement and various coo-ing which seemed to occupy the entire scale from grandmotherly to entirely inappropriate. You couldn’t help staring at Spencer a moment longer, wondering if he was truly oblivious, or simply pretending to be.

A rare breed.

You were certain you’d never met anyone else like him. Certain you felt like a better version of yourself in his company. That you’d trust him with your life, that you searched every room you entered until you saw him. Watched the elevator doors each time they opened, all morning, until Spencer walked in.

You were certain you’d felt giddy the first time Spencer insisted the two of you would work together, alone.

 “Imagine knowing that he’d remember everything, forever…” one of the women was saying, her eyebrows raised in a way you didn’t particularly enjoy.

You cleared your throat, and hooked one hand over the badge at your waist.

“Unless anyone has any further leads, we’d better be on our way…”

The group silenced, and watched you dutifully. You passed out a few more cards, reiterated how dedicated the team was to stopping this killer, and gave out a few promises that there would be a police presence after dark throughout the trailer park.

When the request for any further questions was met with more glances towards Spencer, you thanked your witness, and made a beeline for the car. After only a few seconds Spencer was beside you, jogging to catch up.

“All done?” he asked, and you smiled at the question.

“I think so.”

You started the engine and both waited with the doors open for the car to cool down. The department’s penchant for black SUVs was not helpful when the sun was so vicious. Feeling the heat themselves, the group of residents had dispersed into a few groups, wandering into one another’s homes to continue gossiping.

“God, I’m disgusting,” you lamented, “sorry for the sweat-smell. I might actually take a cold shower when we get to the hotel.”

Spencer was already waving you off, leaning into the car to mess with the AC. Through the open door you saw him groan at the heat, swiping a curl from his face.

“I’m afraid to raise my arms. It’s so humid, I’m not sure why anyone would retire here. High humidity aggravates a number of chronic conditions, especially respiratory ones, which are common in older people. Not to mention the skin cancer…”

“And it ruins your hair,” you teased.

Spencer faked a gasp, and reached for a damp, limp section of his hair.

“I mean, look at it!”

You laughed, and rolled your eyes at him, nothing but fondness settling warm and tight in your chest.

Surveying the road in front of you for one final time you saw a few curtain-twitchers, but no new faces. You climbed into the car, wincing at the heat. The seatbelt buckle was burning hot, and you swore as it burned your fingers.

“I always forget about that,” you grumbled, slamming the car door closed.

“You know, if you fasten your seatbelt after you get out, it stops the metal getting hot and burning you,” Reid offered, and you rolled your eyes at him again.

“Gosh, doesn’t it get exhausting being right about everything?”

Spencer went quiet, and all you heard was the click of his own belt. After a few moments the car was cool and bearable, and your lungs felt like they could finally move again. The sat-nav happily talked away, and you started stealing worried looks at your partner once you’d returned to properly-maintained roads.

“What you said out there was really good, do you mind if we go over it again once we get to the station? I think it’s worth exploring.”

“I shouldn’t have said it in front of them.”

He was right, but you didn’t have to heart to say anything. That was the thing which made your heart twinge about Spencer – he was so insecure, and yet so self-aware, it was the worst of both worlds. Being an expert in body language was a double-edged sword.

“I don’t think they minded. Did you hear those old ladies talking about your big brain?”

Spencer didn’t laugh. He turned himself towards the window, curled up with his hand beneath his jaw.

“They were very impressed. So was I, for what it’s worth. I think we’ll make some really good progress on this profile tonight.”

He hummed agreement. Watched a vista of blurred blue and green and white going past the window. The radio was turned down to a low hum, you could hardly hear it. Silence pierced its way through and sound of mumbled songs and road noise.

“Are you okay?” you asked finally.

“I’m okay.”

You sighed. Tapped the steering wheel. Sped a little to get through an intersection on amber.

 “Spencer…”

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to ruin that for you I just… sometimes I think of things and it’s like I have to tell you.

“Spencer I’m not mad at you! Not at all! I think we’re both just tired, and too warm…”

He didn’t say anything.

“Honestly, I was worried you’d heard what those ladies were saying about you and gotten upset. It was inappropriate of them…”

“I didn’t hear anything. What did they say?”

Your gaze was focused on the road, but you met Spencer’s eye in the rear-view mirror as he watched your face.

“Just that you were a handsome young man. And that they wanted you to get a haircut, which I firmly disagree with…” you teased.

Spencer touched his hair self-consciously. He was still quite curled up, leaning away from you despite his interest in the conversation.

“That’s nice of them, I suppose.”

“‘Nice’ is an interesting way of putting it, but I’m glad you’re not upset about it.”

“When I was a kid, I read a book at the library about how to tell if you’re attractive. It was for women, all about makeup and stuff, but there was a section about what made guys hot. I could never figure it out, I just always thought I looked like an alien.”

The sudden change made you sit up straight, heart in your mouth as you rolled to a stop behind a queue of traffic.

“I think everyone feels like that sometimes. Being a teenager is really hard.”

 “I… yeah. I suppose so.”

“I always felt so jealous of the people who walked around looking perfect every day, confident that they were not. It just never came naturally to me.”

“Really? I assumed you were one of those girls in school who I’d be too afraid to talk to.”

You scoffed, and for a moment were struck by how little you really knew about one another. The way Spencer looked at you, looked it everyone, it felt as though he had an x-ray into every tiny detail of your life. How could he know, though?

“Of course not,” you laughed nervously.

You weren’t sure if you’d prefer Spencer knew the truth, or kept believing whatever he’d made up ini his head. You weren’t sure what any of this conversation meant. Traffic was moving. The precinct was two turns away.

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

He was teasing you. Finally he leant back in his seat, shoulders square to it, legs stretched out in the passenger footwell.

“Either way, I’m glad you can talk to me now. I’d miss it if you didn’t.”

“You might be the only person on this planet with that opinion.”

You took a moment to glance across the car at him, and caught a flash of a smile. He was joking. You released tension from your shoulders you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“I’m sure that’s not true. You’re a handsome genius, just like Barbara said.”

“Her name was Barbara?” Reid laughed.

You shrugged, and took the final turn into the precinct parking lot.

“I’ve got no idea.”

Even with the SUV in park, the aircon no longer blasting away, neither of you moved. Not for a moment, at least. A moment of peace before the chaos all began again. Just the two of you. Wherever you were, with Spencer was your favourite place to be.

“You’re the same, you know. A genius. And handsome…”

You frowned.

“Pretty! Beautiful. You know what I mean.”

“Handsome?”

In truth, you didn’t care about the words. Not at all. Not when your heart was pounding at the realisation Spencer had his gaze fixed on your lips, his eyes soft and pupils blown wide.

“Beautiful,” Spencer repeated, “You know, in a lot of languages, handsome can be translated for men and women. The word itself doesn’t have a gender. Guapa, for example, in Spanish…”

You let him talk, on and on. You decided you wouldn’t kiss him yet, while your hair was matted in sweat and Spencer’s face was brushed with sunburn and embarrassment.

“Bella is more popular in South America, though, or bonita. My favourite is Japanese, though. Kirei. To be beautiful both inside and out…”

Only a few more moments passed before Morgan arrived and banged on the glass with a wide grin and a sweat-beaded brow, announcing a break in the case. You were sorry for the interruption.

[hyper-trash-panda]

Teaser: Bad Boys - Legacy

Fandom: “Bad Boys” movie franchise

Storyline: Continues the franchise after “Bad Boys: Ride or Die”

Timeline: Three-ish years following ROD

Warnings: Guns I guess?

In the fifth installment of the Bad Boys franchise, Miami is under siege as a potent new drug dubbed Helios has flooded the streets, leaving a trail of chaos and mass casualties. The narcotic's rapid spread threatens to overwhelm the city, pushing Mike Lowrey and Marcus Burnett to the brink as they scramble to uncover its source with the help of their next in line: Former Marine Reggie and recently acquitted fugitive Armando.

The Miami skyline raced by in a blur as Mike Lowrey's Porsche 911 rocketed down the sunlit streets. Traffic parted reluctantly in the car's wake, horns blaring as the sleek vehicle wove through lanes with reckless precision. Mike's jaw was set, his eyes narrowed behind his Ray-Bans with determination as he ignored the pounding in his chest.

Beside him, Marcus Burnett clutched the door handle, his knuckles white, eyes wide with a mix of fear and frustration. He braced himself as they narrowly missed a delivery truck, the tires screeching in protest.

“Mike, man, slow down! I didn't sign up for the Daytona 500!" Marcus's voice was strained, each word laced with anxiety as his stomach churned, his breakfast threatening to make a return visit.

Mike didn't glance over, his eyes locked on the road ahead. "We're late. And if you hadn't stuffed your face with that stack of pancakes, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

Marcus groaned, leaning his head back against the seat. "I told you, my metabolism ain't what it used to be! I needed a good breakfast to get me through the day."

"You needed a good breakfast? Or you needed to sample the whole damn menu?" Mike shot back, swerving around a taxi that had stopped abruptly. The sharp turn caused Marcus's stomach to lurch, and he swallowed hard, regretting the third helping of bacon.

"I swear, you always gotta bring up my eating habits when we're in a life-threatening situation," Marcus muttered, clutching his stomach.

"Oh, your life gone be threatened alright if you so much as drool on my leather seats." Mike snapped.

From the back seat, Reggie, Marcus's son-in-law and new recruit to the Miami PD, leaned forward, his brow furrowed in concern. "Uh, sir, this speed is unlawful given that we're not in pursuit of a suspect. According to Miami's police code of conduct, officers are required to maintain—"

"Reggie, shut up!" Mike barked, cutting off the younger man. "We're late, and I don't need a lecture on driving.”

Reggie, still trying to process the banter, cleared his throat awkwardly. "Sir, I'm just trying to follow protocol."

"Protocol's for rookies," Mike snapped, turning his attention back to the road. "And last I checked, you're riding with the best. So buckle up, kid."

Marcus shot Reggie a sympathetic look, though he was clearly not thrilled about the situation himself. "Mike, he's got a point. The kid's just doing what he's been trained to do. Besides, we're supposed to be setting a good example as his shadowees."

Mike glanced at Marcus, an eyebrow raised. "Shadowees? The only reason he's even allowed to shadow us is because you're sweet on the receptionist who pushed the paperwork through."

Marcus bristled, his voice defensive. "I'm not sweet on her. I'm just polite and charismatic—something you wouldn't know nothing about."

"I wonder how 'polite' Theresa would be if she found out just how 'charismatic' you've been." Mike shot back, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Hey, now!" Marcus's eyes widened, his voice dropping to a hushed tone. "Ain't nobody being anything but polite. Don't start something you can't finish, Mike."

Before either could respond, the radio crackled to life, cutting through the tension in the car. "All units, be advised, we have a 10-80 in progress near Biscayne Boulevard. Suspect vehicle is a black SUV, heading northbound. Requesting backup."

Mike's eyes lit up with sudden interest, and he gunned the engine, the Porsche surging forward with impossible speed. "Well, would you look at that. Sounds like our kind of party."

"Mike, you can't just—" Marcus began, but his words were drowned out by the roar of the engine as Mike made a sharp turn toward the boulevard.

"Can't what, Marcus?" Mike snapped, his voice edged with impatience. "According to Poindexter back there, we ain't supposed to drive like this unless we're chasing a suspect."

Mike smirked as he pushed the car to an even more reckless speed. "I'm just trying to set a good example as a shadowee."

Reggie fumbled for his seatbelt, his eyes wide as he prepared for whatever chaos was about to unfold. "Sir, are we engaging?"

"Hell yeah we are!" Mike grinned, his tension replaced with the adrenaline that only a high-speed chase could bring. "Bad Boys for life."

Marcus sighed, his stomach knotting even tighter. "Bad Boys for life," he muttered, knowing there was no turning back now.

The Porsche hurtled down the streets of Miami, the roar of its engine echoing through the concrete jungle as the radio crackled with updates from the chopper overhead, its pilot providing a bird's-eye view of the chase.

"Suspect is heading northbound on Collins Avenue, approaching the airport," the dispatcher's voice crackled through the speakers.

"Well, isn't that convenient," Marcus muttered, gripping the dashboard as Mike took another sharp turn, the tires squealing in protest.

"There he is!" Mike pointed ahead where a black SUV was weaving through traffic, trying to shake off its pursuers. "We're in this now, Joker. Time to show 'em how the big boys play."

Marcus squinted at the SUV speeding ahead, his heart pounding as he took in the chaotic scene. Civilians scattered, cars swerving out of the way as the chase tore through the city.

"Alright, Marcus, shoot out his tires!" Mike ordered, eyes locked on the target.

Marcus's eyes widened in disbelief. "What? Hell no! There are too many civilian vehicles out here, Mike. You trying to get someone killed?"

From the back seat, Reggie interjected with a nervous glance at the manual in his hand. "Actually, according to the handbook, we're supposed to request the driver to pull over through the intercom first—"

"Reggie, I don't care what the handbook says!" Mike barked, cutting him off. "Marcus, shoot out the damn tires!"

Marcus shook his head adamantly, his hands clenched tight. "I'm not shooting in the middle of all this traffic. Do a pit maneuver or something!"

Mike's grip on the steering wheel tightened as he scowled. "I'm not messing up the new paint job on my car for this fool."

Marcus shot him a disbelieving look. "So you'd rather I risk shooting a civilian than scratch your precious car?"

Mike huffed, frustration mounting. "You won't hit a civilian if you put on your damn glasses before you fire."

Marcus opened his mouth to argue, but Mike was done with the back-and-forth. He turned his head slightly to the back seat. "Reggie, shoot out the tires."

Reggie's eyes widened. "Is that an order, sir?"

"Damn right it is!" Mike snapped as he hit a button, opening the sunroof of the Porsche.

Reggie swallowed hard, then reached out, taking the gun Mike handed him with disciplined hands. Standing up through the roof, he positioned himself for the shot, his military training kicking in as he steadied his aim. The wind whipped around him, but Reggie's focus was unshakable.

With perfect precision, he fired two shots, the bullets hitting their mark and blowing out the SUV's back tires. The suspect's vehicle swerved wildly, its speed dropping as the driver struggled to regain control.

Reggie dropped back down into the car, his breath coming in short bursts, adrenaline pumping through his veins. "Tires neutralized, sir."

Mike flashed a grin as he maneuvered the Porsche closer to the now-crippled SUV which careened wildly as it barreled toward the passenger pickup area of Miami International Airport. The tires left dark streaks on the pavement as the driver fought for control. Smoke began billowing from under the hood, the engine pushed beyond its limits.

"Pull over and stop the vehicle!" Marcus's voice boomed over the intercom, but it was clear the SUV had no more fight left. The engine coughed, then with a final groan, it blew out, sending a cloud of smoke into the air. The SUV slowed to a crawl, finally rolling to a stop right in front of the airport's sliding glass doors.

Mike brought the Porsche to a screeching halt in front of the smoking SUV, his eyes sharp and focused. "Showtime, boys," he said as he threw the car into park.

In unison, Mike, Marcus, and Reggie exited the vehicle, guns drawn and pointed at the SUV. Civilians in the area scattered, some ducking behind pillars and parked cars as the trio approached the suspect's vehicle with the practiced precision of seasoned cops.

"Hands where I can see 'em!" Mike barked as they neared the driver's side.

The door creaked open, and a man stumbled out, coughing and waving his hands in surrender. Before he could even think about making a run for it, Marcus was on him. He grabbed the suspect by the collar, yanking him from the SUV and slamming him onto the hood of Mike's Porsche with a force that made the man wince.

"You're under arrest, jackass," Marcus growled, snapping a pair of handcuffs around the man's wrists. "Don't move unless you wanna get to know my bullets real well."

As Marcus secured the suspect, more officers arrived on the scene, their flashing lights adding to the chaos. Marcus handed the suspect over to a pair of uniformed cops, then turned back to Mike, who was still watching the scene with a careful eye.

"Alright, suspect's in custody," Marcus said, wiping his hands on his pants as he approached his partner. "Not bad for a morning's work."

But Mike wasn't listening. His gaze had shifted, his focus drawn to the figure standing just beyond the smoke, his silhouette becoming clearer as the cloud dissipated. Although it had been over three years since he last saw the man, Armando hadn’t changed since; standing there with his duffel bags slung over his shoulder, a bemused expression on his face.

Mike holstered his gun and approached his son with an apologetic smile. "Sorry I'm a little late for pickup," he said, trying for a light tone as he gestured back at the chaos behind him. "Got stuck in some traffic."

Armando stood there, his face a mask of indifference. Without a word, he rolled his eyes and walked right past Mike's open arms, heading straight for the trunk of the Porsche. He tossed his bags in with a casual ease, as if this kind of thing happened every day.

Mike lowered his arms, the smile fading as he watched his son's retreating back. He sighed, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

As Marcus walked over, having finished briefing the other officers, he took in the scene and couldn't resist. "Well, at least the kid's punctual," he joked, clapping Mike on the back.

Mike shot him a look that could melt steel. "Not now, Marcus."

"Hey, just trying to lighten the mood, man." Marcus raised his hands in mock surrender, though the grin on his face said he wasn't all that sorry.

Mike shook his head, glancing back at Armando, who was now leaning against the Porsche, waiting. The distance between them felt like miles.

"Let's just get outta here," Mike muttered, brushing past Marcus to head toward the car.

[amagnificentobsession]

“What a pain in the ass you are. And it's true: you're not young, you're not new, and you do make people laugh. And me? I'm still with you because you make me laugh. So you know what I got to do? I got to sell my plot in Key Biscayne so I can get one next to you in that shithole Los Copa, so I never miss a laugh.” 😭😭😭

The original Crowley and Aziraphale ♥️

What does it matter? Take it all! I’m 50 years old, there’s only one place in the world I call home, and it’s because you’re there. So take it. What difference does it make if I say you can stay or you say I can stay. It’s ours.” ♥️

[savterifuckedup]

a lil (~500 words) smth with canon compliant s3 mosercest

he's seeing him again. nothing too surprising, not after the oscar incident, but dexter was hoping to turn to a new normalcy where there would not be a ghost of his brother, born from guilt and longing to be known.

brian is considerate and gentle, quite understanding, too. he's almost always silent in the peripheral when dexter's not alone, and he likes to make faces to everybody but debra: for her, he saves his best glares.

dexter has taken to finding comfort in this, in his stubborn dead brother who refuses to stay drowned at the bottom of biscayne.

but now it's midnight, and the ceiling of dexter's bedroom has never been so helpful in his scheming.

“penny for your thoughts, little brother.”

his gaze slowly travels to the wall brian is now leaning against, perched on one leg. he looks younger that way, less... burdened.

“you're in my head, so why bother asking?” after a pause, he gingerly adds, “big brother”, the new flavour leaving an unexpected aftertaste that's both sour and intriguing.

brian smiles, as is his habit. he pushes off the wall slowly and makes his way to dexter.

“indulge me?”

dexter scoffs and starts moving to the side, but stops midway and looks up.

“yeah, no need to give up space for not-so-material-me”, and to that, dexter can only nod.

“i'd really like to have you here, with me. it'd be far more efficient to look for freebo together, and it'd guarantee less attention drawn to both of us.”

he shrugs, never hiding his regret of not having the dream life he could've had.

“honest, straightforward. i like it. but tell me, dexter, how did it feel to kill oscar?”

brian is already on the bed, crosslegged, but he leans towards dexter, his face revealing the predator within.

“freeing maybe? to have finally strayed away from that shitty code harry made up for you?”

their foreheads are touching now; dexter can imagine brian's smell enveloping him, his cold forehead pleasantly cooling on miami nights. he reminds himself it's not real.

“wrong.”

the smile before his eyes gets wider, sharper. brian moves.

“you sure? i beg to differ.”

in a moment, he straddles dexter, making himself comfortable on his chest. the only sound dexter lets out is a non-committal hmm; a sound brian laughs at.

it's not real, but it's something he needs, dexter realises to his own surprise. he feels a lump in his throat, reveling in this physical inability to breathe normally that renders brian sitting on top of him so deliriously real he can almost tell his exact weight. he remembers the weight of the body he had to carry to brian's apartment, but it's not the same; it's new.

“why?..”

“am i doing this? you see, little brother, your imagination has always been somewhat limited, so you must be truly  craving... this. perhaps even carnally?” brian tilts his head ever so slightly. “don't you think?”

dexter closes his eyes. craving...

he allows himself a second to pretend the cold hand on his cheek isn't part of the game his sick brain is playing.

[madlori]

National Parks progress

I haven't posted about this in awhile. I'm going to pass the halfway mark in May (they keep making it harder, though, four new National Parks have been added since I started this ten years ago).

Here's where I've been. I have a trip planned for May, those are in italics.

Cuyahoga Valley

Great Smoky Mountains

Mammoth Cave

Congaree

Grand Canyon

Petrified Forest

Big Bend

Guadalupe Mountains

Carlsbad Caverns

White Sands

Saguaro

Shenandoah 

Acadia 

Joshua Tree 

Badlands 

Wind Cave 

Theodore Roosevelt 

Hot Springs 

Channel Islands

Biscayne

Everglades

Dry Tortugas

Glacier Bay

Wrangell St-Elias

Kenai Fjords

Denali

New River Gorge

Indiana Dunes

Voyageurs

Arches (May 2024)

Canyonlands (May 2024)

Capitol Reef (May 2024)

Mesa Verde (May 2024)

Black Canyon of the Gunnison (May 2024)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

North To The Future [Chapter 12: Iris]

The year is now 2000. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, discussions of sex, sexual content, violence, discussions of suicide, Taco Bell.

Word count: 7.1k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

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“It was New Year’s Eve,” you say, you know.

“New Year’s Eve, 1993.” Aegon checks the crimson-stained fistful of paper napkins he’s had jammed against his nose. His face is bloody and swollen and bruising; splotches darken from ash towards indigo as seconds tick by on the wall clock. Aegon winces under the stark florescent lights, stripped of all his shadows and secrets like a suspect being interrogated. A few tables away—far enough to give you the illusion of privacy, close enough to overhear any plots of escape—Aemond is clicking away on his BlackBerry, something you’ve never seen in person before. He is also dissecting, with great skepticism and plastic utensils, a Mexican pizza and Nachos Supreme. You aren’t sure what he had in mind when he asked for a restaurant within walking distance, but it certainly wasn’t Taco Bell.

“What happened?” you ask Aegon gently. It’s bad. It has to be bad.

He tops off his Mountain Dew with the bottle of Captain Morgan spiced rum that he added to his tab when the three of you returned to Ursa Minor for Aemond’s luggage: a single green Louis Vuitton suitcase that he had asked Dale to stow behind the bar. You have an order of Cinnamon Twists on your tray, but no appetite; you only sip tentatively at your own Mountain Dew, the ice cubes clinking in the paper cup. The Taco Bell employees watch reticently from their refuge on the other side of the cash register, like skittish animals in a zoo enclosure. The table that Trent mutilated is still wrapped with duct tape.

“Aegon?” you prompt.

“I went to a party.” He drags his fingers through his white-blond, blood-stained hair. It is wet from the snow, chaotic, untamed. His perpetually errant lock rests on his bruised cheekbone. “I was fucked up. I mean, everyone there was fucked up, but I was…combative, I guess. Do you know what a speedball is?”

“No,” you answer honestly. They don’t exactly run segments about things like that on 60 Minutes.

“It’s cocaine and heroin mixed together, and I’d never tried it before. I broke a window, I was shouting, I think I punched somebody. The people hosting knew my dad, so as a courtesy to him instead of calling the cops they called the house. My parents weren’t there. They were on a yacht out in Biscayne Bay, waiting for the fireworks to go off at midnight. Helaena was away at a boarding school in London.” He looks at you, his watery blue eyes slick and fearful.

“Aemond was the one who picked up the phone,” you realize.

“He was home with Daeron. He was sixteen, he didn’t even have a real driver’s license yet. He only had his learner’s permit.” Aegon guzzles down his Mountain Dew, adds more rum, stirs with his straw, takes another few gulps. “Aemond didn’t want me to get in trouble again. My parents were always screaming at me, they were always upset, and obviously Aemond had to live with that. He figured he could pick me up, drive me home, drag me upstairs to bed and my parents would never know the difference.”

You remember the twelve shallow scars blown across his chest like shrapnel. Car accident, he had told you. A long time ago.

“I fought him,” Aegon says. “I fought him all the way to the car, I fought him once I was inside. The security guys working the party handcuffed me to the armrest on the car door, but still, I was fighting. I was trying to get the key from Aemond. I dislocated a wrist and didn’t even realize it until later, my hand was swelling so badly the metal cuff was cutting into my skin. Aemond finally got my seatbelt on. And he was so preoccupied he forgot about his own.”

More rum and Mountain Dew, more self-medication. More cold, iron-heavy dread filling up your chest like seawater hemorrhaging into a sinking ship.

“We got on the MacArthur Causeway. Aemond was yelling at me to shut up so he could focus. He was trying to remember how to get home. It was dark, there were streetlights passing by overhead. There was moonlight on the waves in the channel. I finally broke the armrest off the car door and I…” He shakes his head, like no matter how true it is he still can’t believe it. He looks down at his open palms. “I grabbed the wheel.”

“You what?”

He flinches at the memory. “I grabbed the wheel and yanked it. Aemond was trying to push me away, but it was too late. We swerved into oncoming traffic and hit a minivan. Our car rolled over once, twice, I think four times total. The windshield shattered, glass went everywhere. That’s what happened to Aemond’s eye. He wasn’t even aware of it. I kept wondering why he wasn’t screaming like I was. He got knocked out on impact. He was in a coma for ten days. The doctors said he should have died.”

But he didn’t. And yet the guilt Aegon carries is so goddamn heavy. “What about the van?”

“It went off the road and into the channel. Everyone inside drowned. A mother and two kids.”

“You’re a killer,” you breathe, remembering the tattoo under his left collarbone.

Aegon agrees: “I’m a killer.”

You stare at him, paralyzed by wordless, icy horror.

“Everyone knows,” Aegon says, eyes wet, voice hoarse. “Everyone back in Miami knows. I couldn’t stay there. I couldn’t see Aemond’s scar, I couldn’t see the resentment on my parents’ faces every day for the rest of my life. I wasn’t just the fuckup eldest son anymore. There was nothing darkly, chaotically amusing about me. There was just plain darkness.”

“They didn’t…you weren’t…you never got arrested or anything?”

“No.”

“…Why?”

He shrugs, like it’s just the way the world works, gravity or nitrogen. “Aemond never told anyone how it happened. People knew, but he wouldn’t say it. And when the cops opened an investigation my dad made it go away.”

“How could he make something like that just…just…disappear?”

“The Microsoft office in Miami generates hundreds of millions in tax revenue each year. He threatened to get it moved to California or Texas. And maybe he threw in a holiday bonus for the police department, more money for pepper spray and flashbang grenades or whatever. All I know is that the lawyers descended and I never had to answer a single question about that night, and toxicology reports showed up claiming that mother driving the minivan had a blood alcohol concentration of 0.35.” He smiles, weakly and miserably. “People like me don’t face consequences, Appletini. They roll off our backs like rain and flood into the gutters to drown the rats.”

You can’t find your words. There’s nothing to say, or perhaps there’s too much to say; your thoughts are churning sickly like waves in a storm. From several tables away, Aemond glances over at you, his sapphire eye glinting under the unforgiving artificial light.

“And now you’ll hate me,” Aegon says with grave acceptance. He can’t blame you. He won’t even try to talk you out of it. “Just like everybody else.”

He’s been punishing himself for six years. And he’ll never stop. “I don’t hate you.”

His blood-stained brows knit together. “You don’t?”

“No.” I should, that’s true, and I would if it was anyone besides him. But I just don’t. And I have a few secrets of my own these days.

“I can’t believe that.”

“Read for yourself.” You offer your palms to him, sliding your hands across the table. At first, Aegon doesn’t understand, he doesn’t remember. And then he smiles, genuinely this time. Aemond is now watching intently and with palpable confusion.

Aegon traces the lines of your left palm with one weightless fingerprint. “It says you’re too good for this place. Maybe you’re too good for anyplace.”

“Do I finally know everything?”

“No,” Aegon says simply. “There’s over a decade of impassioned self-destruction in my rearview mirror. I could never explain all of it, and even if I could I wouldn’t want to. You have to accept that, or you have to move on. But now you know the worst of it. I hope that’s enough.”

You’re still thinking it over when Aemond forces down the last of his uninspiring Taco Bell dinner and approaches, toting his suitcase behind him. “Alright. Let’s go.”

“How did you find me?” Aegon asks.

“You gave the hospital a fake phone number and address, and then never paid your bill. They sent it to collections. I got a call asking if I happened to know where you were currently staying in Juneau.”

Aegon sighs deeply and rubs his eyes with both hands. “Goddammit.”

“What about the other cities?” you say. “Aegon mentioned that he saw you in Phoenix and San Francisco.”

Aemond looks at his brother as he answers. “The journals.”

Your stomach drops. Jesse. He’s just like Jesse. “The…?”

“He left all these journals in his room. There were lists of cities in them. Cities crossed off, cities circled. Potential places to hide out, I figured.”

“But…but…” Aegon sputters. “There must have been a hundred different names on those pages—!”

“Yes,” Aemond replies coldly. “One-hundred and twelve, actually. And every weekend, every break from school, every chance I got I picked one city and went there hoping to find you.”

Aegon sinks down into his chair, dismayed and guilty and small like a child. He says in a whisper: “I can’t work for Dad.”

Aemond is disgusted. “I don’t need you to help run the company. I need you to show Mom that you’re okay.”

“Oh, right, because Dad already found a new heir.” He studies Aemond. “MIT?”

“I graduated last year.” And you weren’t there, his tone implies.

“Fantastic. And I bet Dad didn’t even have to buy your way in with a brand new shiny gym, complete with an Olympic-sized pool and a rock wall.”

“He did not, that’s correct.”

“You went to MIT?” you ask Aegon, mystified. You can’t imagine that going well.

Apparently, it didn’t. “Briefly.”

“Three weeks, I think?” Aemond says.

Aegon frowns, slurping his rum and Mountain Dew. “Five.”

“You can have tonight,” Aemond tells him. “We can stay in your apartment. You can say goodbye to your girlfriend, or…whatever she is. And then we’re flying out in the morning.”

Aegon perks up, a lawyer seizing upon an exonerating technicality. “I can’t leave until they’ve captured the Ice Fisher.”

“The who?”

“He’s a serial killer. He’s been murdering people in Juneau for months. Right?” Aegon turns to you for confirmation.

“Right,” you say.

“I can’t leave her alone. It’s not safe. What if she gets killed as soon as I jet off to Miami? That would be a completely avoidable tragedy. I have to make sure she’s okay. I’m trying to turn over a new leaf here.”

Aemond’s remaining eye blinks slowly. “This is a bizarre stalling tactic. Ineffectual, yes, and yet I have to applaud your frenetic ingenuity.”

“Ask them,” Aegon pleads, gesturing to the Taco Bell employees behind the cash register. “The Ice Fisher is real. They’ll tell you.”

Warily, Aemond goes to the counter. He exchanges a few words with the employees—who gape impolitely at his gnarled scar and glittering sapphire eye—and then returns, eyebrows raised. “Well, that was unexpected. How long has this Ice Fisher been terrorizing Juneau?”

“Since October,” you tell him.

“Hm.” Aemond toys with his BlackBerry, gazing out the windows at the dark windswept night. He says to his brother: “How did you manage to end up in the one town in Alaska with an active serial killer?”

“Luck, I guess.”

“Bad luck,” Aemond clarifies.

“No,” Aegon says, looking at you. “Just luck.”

“And once the murderer is arrested, you’ll leave without any complaints?”

Aegon’s face is a mask, consciously expressionless. “Yes.”

“Alright. Then here’s how this will work,” Aemond begins. “You can stay for now. And I’ll stay here with you. You’ll turn over everything to me: id, keys, cash. You won’t go anywhere without me knowing about it. And in return, I’ll make a few calls and see what I can do about this Ice Fisher situation.”

“You don’t need to worry about me disappearing,” Aegon insists. “I told you. I can’t leave until the Ice Fisher is caught. I’m not going anywhere. I’m stuck.”

“Nonetheless.” Aemond’s eye is a primordial, savage blue. “You will do as I say. Or I will drag you home to Miami, serial killer be damned. This isn’t my city. These aren’t my people. Juneau could sink into the Pacific Ocean and my life wouldn’t change one iota.”

They’re that determined? They’re that capable?

One of them, yes.

Aegon is compliant, almost tame. It is a strange skin for him to wear. He shows Aemond his palms in surrender. “I understand completely.”

“Good,” Aemond says, and you bag up your leftover Cinnamon Twists to take home before following him and Aegon to the door.

The three of you walk together back to Ursa Minor. Heather’s Chevy Suburban is still in the parking lot, so you know you can get a ride home with her. This is convenient; your Jeep is at home in your parents’ driveway, and Aegon is drunk. Before you can step inside the bar, Aemond stops you, pulling you aside as Aegon waits several yards away on the snow-covered sidewalk.

He asks, low enough that Aegon can’t hear: “What has he used since he’s been in Juneau?”

“Rum. And whipped-cream flavored vodka.”

Aemond nods. “What else?”

You hesitate.

“I can’t protect him if I don’t know what to look for.”

“Heroin,” you confess. “But only once that I know of.” And in those words is a truth that you hate: you’ll never know for sure what poisons Aegon is dulling the immutable, needlelike pain of his existence with. You will only know what he chooses to show you…and what he is too far-gone to hide.

Aemond closes his eye for a moment. “Yes, that sounds about right.”

Aegon stands in an isle of streetlight luminescence, his hands in the pockets of his parka. He watches you: wanting to speak to you, wanting to do much more. And he doesn’t move until Aemond grabs the back of his coat like the scruff of a kitten and hauls him off towards the apartment building.

~~~~~~~~~~

When you’re done at the vet clinic the next day, you bring Sunfyre to Aegon’s apartment. You figure he could benefit from some cheering up. When you arrive, Aegon is just getting out of the shower and changing into his street clothes, his hair messy and wet, the scars on his pale chest eclipsed by his black and white striped long-sleeve shirt. After much debate—which primarily consisted of Aegon keeping his brother awake with an acapella rendition of Cotton-Eyed Joe until 4 a.m.—Aemond had agreed to allow Aegon to go to work. It wasn’t for the money, Aegon said, which Aemond would confiscate from him anyway. It was so he wouldn’t let his crew down by quitting with no notice. Still, Aemond accompanied him to and from the docks like a parent taking their kindergartener to the bus stop. The golden retriever bounds into Aegon’s outstretched arms, tail wagging manically.

“Hey, buddy!” Aegon gushes, flopping down onto the scuffed hardwood floor to roll around with him. “I missed you so much! Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?!”

“What is that?” Aemond asks, glowering as he reaches for the refrigerator handle.

“This is Sunfyre. He’s my dog. And he’s the best boy in the whole wide world, aren’t you, buddy? Aren’t you?! Yes you are!” Sunfyre barks in concurrence.

“You can keep a dog alive?” Aemond opens the refrigerator. “All you have in here are Lunchables and Coca-Cola. And...coffee creamer, for some reason.”

Aegon, still sprawled on the floor and scratching Sunfyre’s ears, shrugs. “Then go to the Foodland. You have credit cards.”

“Foodland…?”

“Ohhhh.” Aegon cranes his neck to grin up at you. “He’s never been to a grocery store.”

“Really?” you ask Aemond, who is grimacing, annoyed but also…uneasy. Embarrassed, even. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him rattled. “How is that possible?”

“I’ll tell you how,” Aegon says, squishing Sunfyre’s cheeks together. “Private chefs, personal assistants, five-star restaurants…”

“This town is a graveyard where culture goes to die,” Aemond mutters. He slides his BlackBerry out of his pocket—he’s wearing another black suit today—and begins typing.

“We can go to Foodland,” you offer. Aemond narrows his gaze at you suspiciously. He doesn’t understand why you would want to be accommodating. It’s really not that complicated; the more comfortable Aemond is in Juneau, the longer he’ll be willing to stay. And he seems like a useful friend to have.

Aegon stands, giving Sunfyre one last pat on the head. “Sure. As long as we’re back by 7.”

Aemond puts his BlackBerry away. “What happens at 7?”

Aegon smiles. “My band is performing.”

“Your what?”

“You’ll see,” Aegon says, and grabs his parka from where he had tossed it haphazardly on the couch earlier. Trent, you think, helpless and dismayed. If the band is at Ursa Minor, that means Trent will be there too.

The Foodland is fairly bustling; there is a blizzard forecasted to hit Juneau tomorrow, and locals are stocking up on essentials to last them through the storm. As Aegon fills a basket with Doritos and Dunkaroos, you follow Aemond to the fresh produce section. He picks up a single bunch of broccoli and sets it in the cart.

You laugh, ripping off a translucent plastic bag from the dispenser. “It goes in here.”

“Oh. That makes sense.” He secures the broccoli in the bag, then begins filling another bag with Braeburn apples.

“Wait, wait…you can’t just throw them in like that…you’ll bruise them. Here.” You take the bag and show him. “You pick up each apple, check it to make sure it’s good, no brown squishy spots, and then place it—gently—in the bag. Now you try.”

Aemond successfully procures a dozen satisfactory apples. He’s wearing an eyepatch made of black leather, which is unusual. It’s the first time you’ve seen his wounded eye obscured since you met him.

“Awesome. Be warned though, fruit is super expensive here. Those apples are probably going to be like twenty bucks.”

Aemond smirks. “I think I’ll manage.” He checks his BlackBerry and clicks out a quick reply.

“What are you emailing people about?” It feels odd to even say the word email. It sounds like something you’d hear on Star Trek or the X-Files.

“Napster.”

“What’s Napster?”

“A peer-to-peer file sharing application.”

“Oh, yeah, totally.” You have no idea what that means. “Is Targaryen Enterprises going to invest in it?”

“Probably. But that’s still confidential at this stage in the negotiations.”

“So you’re going to be in huge trouble when they find out you let me in on the secret.”

Aemond smiles, not in a friendly way but not entirely mocking either. “Who could you possibly tell? You’ve never met anyone who matters, and you never will. No one except me and Aegon. And we’ll be gone before you know it.”

You consider him, hushed and regal and stoic and yet…somehow, undeniably…dangerous. “Why did you put on your eyepatch before we left the apartment?”

“I try to wear it if I might be around children. The eye frightens them. And if I take the sapphire out, it’s just a gaping hole. That’s even worse.”

“But you don’t wear the eyepatch all the time.”

“No.”

“Why? Too…piratey?”

“No. Nerve damage.” He signals vaguely to the ruined half of his face. “The eyepatch rubs. It can set it off. And once it gets rolling, there’s no stopping it.”

And because you’re a vet, you know exactly what nerve damage is: numbness, or burning, or blinding electrifying pain, or all three in a rotation like a wheel. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “Aegon, he…he’s never forgiven himself for it. I don’t know if he’s ever said that to you, but it’s true. I think he would take the pain for you if he could.”

“He wouldn’t,” Aemond says bitterly. “He wouldn’t even come home.”

And I don’t think he ever will. I think he’d skydive out of the plane without a parachute first. “Can you tell me what it’s like? Miami? I’ve never been.” I’ve never really been anywhere.

“I can do better than that. I can show you.” He opens his wallet—black leather, just like his eyepatch, gleaming and heavy—and slips out several small photographs. There’s the beach, and palm trees, and the city skyline, and several luxury cars, and a building with a glass spiral staircase and tall white walls speckled with bewilderingly abstract pieces of modern art.

“Oh, is that a museum?”

“That’s my parents’ house.”

“Right,” you reply, wide-eyed.

Aegon appears with a basket so full he has to lug it around with both hands. “Guess who I saw in the snack aisle,” he says to you, heaving his basket into the cart.

“Watch the apples!” Aemond hisses.

“Who?” you ask Aegon.

“Our favorite former-football star.” Icy, stunning fear seeps from your skin all the way down to the bones. Trent. “Congratulations on getting rid of him, by the way.”

You try to keep your voice level. “I got rid of him?”

“Seems that way.” Aegon plucks a banana off the display shelf, unpeels it, and takes a bite.

“You’re paying for that,” Aemond says.

Aegon continues: “Trent’s been super happy recently. Creepily happy, actually. I keep asking him what’s up but he won’t tell me, he just flashes that big stupid grin. Well just now he finally dropped a hint. He’s having luck with some girl he’s really into. Says things are finally looking up for him in the love department. And if he’s not talking about you, Appletini, it’s got to be someone else.”

“That’s wonderful news,” you say, barely hearing yourself. It's me, you think, petrified. It’s me that Trent thinks he’s going to end up with, and how the hell am I going to tell Aegon that?

“Who’s Trent?” Aemond inquires.

“Just a guy,” you reply. “A big, Hulk-like, not terribly intelligent guy.”

“You should probably check him out,” Aegon informs his brother. “I find it hard to believe that he could be a killer—he’s violent sometimes, but not, like, murderously violent—but he’s the only real suspect we’ve got.”

Aemond’s jaw is rigid, contemplative. “Hm.”

Aegon finishes his banana, tosses the peel under a table stacked high with boxes of donuts, and pushes the cart towards the checkout counter. Aemond takes off after him. “Hey, what did I say about the banana—?!”

Trent, you think despondently, staring blankly at rows of glossy apples: red like blood, green like life. I have to tell him about Trent.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Bitch!” Heather proclaims when she spies you, arms thrown wide open. She embraces you, the golden sequins of her shirt snagging on the loops of your turquois sweater. “Whoops, sorry Grandma.” She untangles herself. Joyce, Kimmie, and Brad wave from the usual booth. Rob and Trent are warming up on their instruments. Aegon meanders unsteadily over to join them, downing a rum and Coke assembled by a yawning Dale. You wonder how much Aegon owes on his tab now. It has to be a thousand or more. Maybe Aemond will pay it before he leaves. Before he drags Aegon back home to Miami screaming like stormwinds.

From behind his drumkit, Trent beams at you, showing all his teeth. You shudder when you remember the bruise they left on your neck. Nonetheless, you smile back noncommittally; the last thing you need is to prompt him to make a scene.

Heather gestures to Aegon. “British Kurt Cobain.” Now she points at Aemond. “Albino Fabio.”

You burst out laughing. “Yeah, basically.”

“What’s up with the…?” She taps her own left cheekbone. The scar, she means, The eye.

“It’s a long story. Aemond is Aegon’s brother, he’s here to convince him to go home.”

“I’d like to think I’m a pretty non-judgmental person, but their parents really should have invested in a baby names book. Where’s home?”

“Miami.”

“Well fuck, I wouldn’t mind jetting off to Miami. Think Aemond would take me instead?” But she’s joking, of course. Heather loves Juneau. She would never put it so sentimentally, but she does. Kimmie adores being a big fish in a small pond; she wouldn’t make such a splash anywhere else. Joyce needs the quiet. Only you were cursed with this greedy restlessness that is inked to you like an invisible tattoo; only you inherited this nameless craving for more.

“You should ask,” you tease Heather. “Ask Aemond really, really nicely. And make sure you nuzzle up against him so he can feel that you’re not wearing a bra.”

She gasps. “You can tell?”

“Heather, everyone can tell.”

She grins mischievously. “Good. That’s the point.”

You order drinks together—a Sex On The Beach for Heather, a blackberry Bacardi Breezer for you—and then part ways. Heather joins the growing crowd that is gathering to watch Boat #27’s imminent performance. You sit next to Aemond at the bar. He’s sipping a Caipirinha, taking slow, shallow, meditative tastes. He’s staring at the band, but you’re not sure if he’s really seeing them. Aegon gulps down another rum and Coke—his second in about five minutes—and staggers as he tests the microphone. His white-blond hair falls untidily over his eyes. No one seems surprised to see the mottled bruises or split lip on his face. It’s the sort of thing to be expected from someone like him; drunks wear ill-gotten injuries like diamonds and pearls.

“It’s not good for him,” you tell Aemond. “You being here.”

“Nothing’s ever been good for him,” Aemond says. “I remember being twelve years old and my whole life was trying to stop him from jumping out of a window or in front of a car. When we locked up all the pain pills he found bottles of Vitamin A tablets and swallowed about five hundred of them before we kicked the door down. We got his stomach pumped, brought him home, and the next day he tried the same thing all over again with my mother’s EpiPens.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, agonized.

“I’m not here to torture him. I’m here to help. I want to help my mother move on with her life. I want to help Helaena and Daeron get their brother back. And I want to help Aegon become a better man. It’s possible, I think, if he’ll work for it. But it’s not going to happen as long as he’s running between cities and from one addiction to the next. He’s got to come home. He’s got to face what he’s done and learn how to cope with it.”

The band has begun their song. It’s Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls, a peculiarly subdued choice. Aegon sings with his eyes on you and his calloused fingertips scaling the fretboard of his battered green electric guitar.

“And I’d give up forever to touch you, ‘cause I know that you feel me somehow.

You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be, and I don’t want to go home right now…”

“Hm.” Aemond’s face—half-immaculate, half-mutilated—holds a quiet, intense curiosity that might even be a dash of awe. “I’ve never seen him play before.”

“Really?”

“Really. He’s not bad.”

“He’s perfect,” you murmur.

“So you’re in love with him too.” Aemond nips at his Caipirinha. “I feel so sorry for you.”

You glare at him, flushing and furious, the kind of flame-red rage you can only conjure for someone when you know they’re right. Aemond is aware of this, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. He is as cool as his Caipirinha: frosty and still and sharp like glass. His sapphire glints, his scar grows darker in the twilight dimness of Ursa Minor. You miss the Christmas lights; you miss what could have been if Aemond had never walked with his light and yet decisive steps into Juneau. You swallow your Bacardi Breezer like reckless, venomous words.

When the song is over, Trent begins making his way through the crowd towards you. You hop off the barstool and evade him, weaving from one end of the packed room to the other. He gets drawn into a conversation with Matt and Gary, but he’s still scanning the sea of faces for yours.

If he finds me, it’s going to all come out into the open. He’ll say something, or I’ll say something, or Aegon will say something, and then it will be out of my hands. I have to tell Aegon first. He has to hear it from me.

Aegon finds you, smiling in that warm, dreamy, tipsy sort of way. “Hey, Appletini—”

“I have to talk to you.”

Immediately, it startles him: your voice, your face. “What’s wrong?”

“I just have to talk to you about something. Right now. Where can we go?”

“Uh, uh…” He glances around, and then he points to the staircase. His disobedient lock of hair is a white stripe across his cheek. “The roof?”

“Okay. Yes, good.”

“Great.”

You go to the coatrack together to fetch your parkas, then make for the steps. Aemond is there to meet you, towering and lithe and silver like lightning.

“Please, Aemond,” Aegon says. “We need ten minutes.”

“You can’t have it.”

“Ten fucking minutes,” Aegon snaps. “It’s a rooftop patio, it’s not in use during the winter. For Christ’s sake, we’re not going to jump off of it or anything. There’s nowhere for us to run. She’s not leaving Juneau. I have no money, no license, no nothing. You have all of that. Don’t you get it? There’s nowhere for us to run.”

Aemond’s BlackBerry starts beeping. He whips it out and reads the message. “Fine,” he snarls, like a verbal shove hard enough to bruise. “Just go. Ten minutes.” And as you and Aegon ascend the staircase, you catch a glimpse of Trent watching from across the crowded bar, knocking back a Heineken and simmering with some pattern of layered emotions that you can’t read.

Outside, the night sky is muted with cloud cover: thick, dark, starless. The moon is a vague blur of eerie ethereal light, a reflection of a reflection. And sometimes, you think you might be something just like that.

“What is it?” Aegon asks. And his face destroys you: seeking but not suspicious, concerned but not fearful. He would never see this coming. Not now. He trusts me too much. He thinks too highly of me. Much, much too highly. And isn’t that what love always does to people? Cold Arctic wind spirals around you both, tearing at your hair, wrenching tears from your eyes like doomed fish from a lake.

“I hooked up with Trent.”

Aegon’s face doesn’t change. He’s heard it, but he hasn’t felt it yet. “Like…a long time ago?”

“No. After the New Year’s Eve party.” After I found you in your apartment.

The first wave of it hits him: in his shoulders, in his eyes, in his tremulous voice. “And when you say hooked up, you mean…what? Second base?”

“No. I mean everything.”

“Everything,” he repeats numbly.

“Yes.”

He takes a step back from you, covering his mouth with one hand. He stares down at the snow around his Doc Martens combat boots, shaking his head and saying nothing. That’s worse than shouting. You had been prepared for shouting.

“Aegon—”

He puts his hands up like he’s barring a door. “I need a minute, I need a minute.” He inhales, exhales, rubs his furrowed forehead with his thumb and index finger. “Why—?” His voice breaks off. He tries again. “Why would you do that?”

“I was angry, I was so goddamn angry at you. And I’m not trying to make excuses, I’m just…I’m just trying to explain. I was so desperate to feel something other than what I was feeling that I made a mistake. A horrible, humiliating mistake. Now Trent thinks I really like him and that’s bad but what’s worse is the fact that now, right now, I have to tell you the truth. I’m so fucking sorry. And I would change it if I could but I can’t.”

Aegon looks at you. “You weren’t…you know…” He flinches like somebody’s struck him. “Afraid of Trent?”

“It was at my house, my parents were around—”

Again, he stops you, holding up his hands. “I can’t hear the details, I just can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat in a whimper. It’s almost inaudible in the roar of the wind.

It seems like forever before Aegon speaks. When he does, there’s no fury. It is a controlled, calm surrender. “Okay.”

“Okay? That’s all? Okay?”

“It’s my fault, right?” he says. “It would be pretty fucked up of me to blame you for something that only happened because of what I did. So okay. Don’t worry about it. We’ll deal with Trent together. We’ll figure something out. We—”

You rush to him and Aegon catches you, shocked but welcoming, harboring. You burrow into him as he strokes your hair and shields you from the frigid wind, soothing you with soft, sighing words, his damaged lips warm against your ear.

“Shh, shh, you’re okay, Appletini. I’m not mad. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

“Yeah,” you agree, biting back sobs. “Right now I am.”

But what about when you leave, Aegon? What about then?

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re lying in bed—showered, somber, oversized T-shirt and blue flannel pajama pants—and staring at the celebrity posters on your wall when the phone rings. You frown at it as it sits on your nightstand, a beacon of both hope and despair. Trent. It’s probably Trent.

Downstairs, your mom is engrossed in a riveting book club meeting. You can hear the attendees debating the merits of A Walk To Remember through the floorboards. You snatch up the phone before one of your parents can answer and invite Trent over for tea and Tongass Forest Cookies.

“Hello?” you say, with great annoyance.

“Hey, Appletini.”

“Heyyy!” You bolt upright in bed. “What’s up? Why are you whispering?”

“Aemond’s asleep on my couch. I think if I keep him awake again, he might disembowel me.”

You smile. “So why risk it?”

“I had a weird feeling. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“My mom’s book club is getting extremely heated downstairs. I’m currently in bed and staring at my numerous Ricky Martin posters. I’m fine.”

“Just fine? Not better than fine?”

You twirl the phone cord between your fingers. You remember what his bare skin felt like against yours, what he tasted like, the way your fingers twisted in his hair. It’s all you can think about; you can’t stop. Maybe it’s better not to. After all, time is running out. “I want you,” you say simply.

There’s no question of whether Aegon will agree. He goes straight to the logistics. “I think that would definitely wake up Aemond. And even if he didn’t have my keys I’m not…uh…in driving condition.” Not sober, he means.

“I have a Jeep.”

“I’ll look for you in ten minutes.” He hangs up. You wave a bashful hello to the book club attendees as you race by them and out into the driveway, clutching the bear mace that hangs from your purse just in case the Ice Fisher happens to be lurking nearby. You don’t even remember your parka.

As you idle under the streetlight in front of Aegon’s apartment, he comes running out of the building in his black Nirvana T-shirt, green flannel pajamas, open parka, and hastily thrown-on boots, the laces untied and flapping. You get out to meet him in the backseat, locking the doors with a distracted press of a button. Both of you kick off your boots and toss them onto the floor. Neither of you speak; there’s no need for it.

You yank off Aegon’s parka and T-shirt as he drags you into his lap, one hand pressed into the small of your back and the other cradling your face, kissing you with vicious desperation. His split lip, still healing, is rough against yours; the bruises on his face are shadows under the murky streetlight glow. You knot your fingers in his hair, drawing him in closer, closer, never close enough. He tugs your shirt over your head and finds nothing underneath but bare, needy flesh that aches for him like lungs burn in the cold.

As his hands wander, he murmurs against your throat, breathless and urgent: “I missed this. I missed you.”

“Show me,” you beg him. You can tell how hard he is; you can recall exactly what it will feel like once he’s inside you, filling and safe and deeply, immensely good. You grab his hands and put them on the waistband of your pajamas. “Aegon, please, I need you so fucking badly. Show me how much you missed me.”

He throws you down across the backseat, cushioning your head with one hand so it doesn’t hit against the door. Then he positions himself between your thighs, panting as he hooks his thumbs under the elastic of your pajamas. They’re gone in an instant, your legs bare and shaking with the rush of adrenaline. Aegon is pushing your thighs apart so he can kiss his way up the inside, his rough wounded lips pressed to your vulnerable skin. You can feel the heel of his palm kneading you through your panties, simple blue silk that is soaked for him; he’s about to take them off.

“Yes,” you moan, almost unable to stand it. The Jeep windows are clouded with sweltering fog. “Yes, yes, oh god, Aegon, yes—”

There is a deafening sound, a breaking, a crashing; someone is screaming, and it takes a moment for you to realize that it’s you. The Jeep door rips open, startlingly cold night air flooding in and ravaging your bare skin, slick with the sweat of now-vanished lust. Something grabs your hair and—with horrifying, relentless force—drags you out into the snow. There are shards of glass littering the ground from the broken window. One of them cuts into the side of your right thigh, spilling blood that is more black than red under the dim beam of the streetlight. Aegon is shouting, and someone else is too, a rumbling voice that at first you can’t place. Then you look up and see him. Trent stands above you, one hand still gripping your hair, the other holding a rock as big as a human skull. He’s calling you a slut, a whore, a bitch. His hand is bleeding from when he used the rock to break the Jeep’s window so he could unlock the door. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“Trent, Trent!” Aegon is screaming, standing in the snow with bare feet and wearing only his green flannel pajama pants. His hands are outstretched, but there’s nothing he can do. “Trent, let her go. Let her go—!”

“You?!” Trent roars. “She’s been cheating on me with you?!”

He yanks you by your hair again and you shriek, punching at his knuckles and trying to curl your legs beneath you so you can stand and then—

And then what?! your mind howls like the wind. You can’t run away from him. You can’t fight him off. You probably can’t even put a mark on him. So then what? So then WHAT?!

“You’re not mad at her,” Aegon says, trying to stay calm, trying to reason with him. “You’re mad at me, Trent, you’re mad at me, it was my idea, I talked her into it, I’m the one you’re mad at, so let her go and then we can—”

“You bitch!” Trent thunders down at you. You try to bolt away and he jerks you back again by your hair, a scream tearing from your throat. You’re trembling all over; you’re drenched in snow and blood. “You fucking bitch—!”

“Let her go!” Aegon is out of ideas. He charges Trent, having no chance at all and knowing it. And just as he reaches him—

For the second time, there is a sound that seems to split the world in two. You cover your ears; you pinch your eyes shut. Trent’s hand releases your hair, and when you fall into the snow—your arms buried up to your elbows in it—you scramble for Aegon, sobbing and shivering uncontrollably. He pulls you against his bare chest, his eyes huge. You turn to see what he’s gaping at. Under the streetlight is Aemond with a revolver in his right hand. At first, it’s aiming into the sky. Then he brings it down to point at Trent.

“You want to get out of here,” he says in a low, blade-sharp voice.

Trent—not out of defiance, you think, but rather out of sheer, witless disbelief—doesn’t move.

Aemond pulls down the revolver’s hammer with his thumb. “Or, if you prefer, we can all find out what your brains look like.”

Trent, sufficiently mobilized, stumbles through the snow to his truck, climbs inside, and speeds off into the night. Aemond dumps the rest of the bullets out of the revolver and into his palm, then stows them in the pocket of his black sweatpants.

Aegon reaches into your Jeep to get his parka, throws it over you, and zips it closed. Then he yells to Aemond, waving at the revolver: “What the fuck, they let you on a plane with that?!”

“Private jet.”

“Oh, right. Obviously.” Aegon cradles your face with both hands. “You okay, baby? You okay?” You nod forcefully, too cold and shell-shocked to speak. He doesn’t believe you. “Come on, let’s get you inside, let’s get you warmed up, let’s take a look at that leg—”

“That’s the guy, right?” Aemond says. “The one you think might be the killer.”

“Yeah,” Aegon replies distractedly, still focused on you.

“What’s his name?”

“Trent,” you say, finding your voice. “Trenton Desormeaux.”

Aemond stares out into the night, his pale eye fixed on the place where Trent had stood just seconds ago. He betrays nothing, his face lined with enigmatic concentration. “Hm,” he says. And then again: “Hm.”

[richardnixonlibrary]

#OTD 11/14/1960 Vice President Richard M. Nixon and President-elect John F. Kennedy met at the Key Biscayne Hotel in Florida to discuss the transfer of power to the new presidential administration. (Image: NAID 27580145)

[dailyunsolvedmysteries]

Aliens in Miami?

On the night of New Year’s Day 2024, 911 callers reported hearing what they thought were gunshots at Bayside Marketplace, 401 Biscayne Blvdk. The incorrectly reported gunshots were 50 or so juveniles shooting fireworks at people, with some looting also occurring, police said in a video. Police called a city-wide emergency as officers already at Bayside were not able to contain the situation. That alert, called a “City-wide 3”, tells all active officers in the city to respond to the incident location. That night, four teens — a 14-year-old, two 15-year-olds and a 16-year-old — were arrested on charges ranging from burglary, third-degree grand theft, battery, and resisting arrest without violence, according to their arrest reports. However, speculation on social media tells another story. Rumours that 10ft aliens were actually the real reason that so many police attended the scene. One low quality clip circulating on social media allegedly shows a tall alien creature walking between a dozen squad cars and an area near Miami’s Bayside Marketplace. Mixed in with alleged footage of the alien were videos of people running in panic from the area, with some users conflating the clips with locals running from the creature. To add to the confirmation that it was something bigger happening than some kids with 'sticks' and 'fireworks' rumours of power outages, airports being closed and supposed cover ups were apparently happening. Since the rumours of UFOs Miami police released a statement “There were no aliens, UFOs, or ETs. No airports were closed. No power outages,” Miami Police Department said in an email, adding that citywide officers were deployed for crowd control due to juveniles refusing to leave the area. Even after the police response some are still unconvinced that all the police presence was over some fireworks.

[batsplat]

your sampras/agassi post was life changing... my god

(said post) thank you!! I'm really pleased by the pick up that post has gotten - I don't post much about tennis on here, but it always has and always will be my number one sport and this rivalry is one that's very dear to my heart. incidentally, I got a similar ask prompting a write up of the henin/clijsters rivalry, so when I find the time I'll talk about them in similar depth too. now there's a rivalry that definitely deserves more attention that it gets

but speaking of agassi/sampras, while I have you here... there's one particular match from 1994 I only very briefly alluded to that does also speak rather nicely to the themes of that rivalry. it's the final of key biscayne (aka miami), played at a time when sampras is the dominant world number one and agassi is still on just the single slam. the reason why this match is so notable is that it could very easily not have happened. sampras was struggling with health issues at that point of his career - and before the match was scheduled to start, agassi came upon him lying prone on the locker room floor with severe stomach pain

sampras was not ready to start the match at the scheduled start time. by rights, it should have been agassi's win via walkover. the tournament directors requested that agassi agree to a delay of the match - it's particularly awkward to have to cancel a final, after all, with thousands of spectators present to see the big match (x)

On March 20, when Agassi entered the locker room before the final, he witnessed a very unusual scene: Sampras was lying on the ground, suffering from a stomach ache. There was no way Sampras could be ready to start the final on time, which would make Agassi the Miami champion. However, the world No 1 thought he would be able to play if Agassi agreed to delay the final by an hour. Agassi agreed. “It’s not about winning the tournament; it’s about taking pride in what you do,” Agassi explained later, according to The New York Times. “If I couldn’t beat Pete healthy, I didn’t deserve to win the tournament.”

delaying it by A WHOLE HOUR is just objectively extremely generous from agassi - though of course the expectation was that sampras surely wouldn't be particularly competitive anyway. sampras got an IV drip that managed to at least get him back on his feet and ready to take to the court. so at last, after all the fuss and delay, they manage to get the match started. here's agassi in his autobiography describing the delay:

After dispatching Becker, I’m in the final. My opponent? Pete. As always, Pete. The match is slated for national TV. Brad and I are both keyed up as we walk into the locker room, only to find Pete lying on the ground. A doctor and a trainer are leaning over him. The tournament director hovers in the background. Pete brings his knees up to his chest and groans. Food poisoning, the doctor says. Brad whispers to me, Guess you just won Key Biscayne. The director takes Brad and me aside and asks if we’d be willing to give Pete time to recover. I feel Brad stiffen. I know what he wants me to say. But I tell the director, Give Pete all the time he needs. The director sighs and puts his hand on my arm. Thank you, he says. We’ve got fourteen thousand people out there. Plus the network. Brad and I lounge around the locker room, flipping channels on the TV, making phone calls. I dial Brooke, who’s auditioning for Grease on Broadway. Otherwise, she’d be here. Brad shoots me an evil glare. Relax, I tell him, Pete probably won’t get better. The doctor gives Pete an IV, then props him on his feet. Pete wobbles, a newborn colt. He’ll never make it. The tournament director comes to us. Pete’s ready, he says. Fucking A, Brad says. So are we. Should be a short night, I tell Brad.

now, I reckon by now you should be able to guess where this is going. you can find the full match on youtube (samprasfan1987 one of the absolute goats of historical tennis match youtube), though unfortunately only with german commentary. here's three minute highlights with truly horrendous quality:

and I'd recommend it as a match to experience in its entirety. it's........ it's not the best match you'll ever see. it's not the best match those two have played. it's certainly a match those two have played. but, y'know, the thing about tennis is that sometimes it just isn't the best matches that are the most compelling... sometimes it's the matches where both players are fighting their demons. sometimes it's compelling to watch the demons win

because of course sampras can't do the decent thing and just roll over and die. he just HAS to come out swinging, clearly rattling agassi with how he can actually somehow play proper tennis in his condition. this match is such a fun little case study of what an absolute bitch it is to play a physically diminished opponent. the spectators, the commentator, you the viewer, and agassi himself - everyone knows that agassi SHOULD be winning this match. of course he should!! sampras was lying on the FLOOR an hour ago, he's had to IV his way back to his feet, agassi is giving him the "newborn colt" descriptors. and this kind of set-up does run the risk of making you feel like it's a lose-lose situation. if you win, you only won because your opponent was off your game. if you lose, then you're a fucking moron who couldn't even put away the weakest version of your rival

and it's clearly affecting agassi, who plays poorly at the start of the match. he quickly goes down 2-5*, double break to sampras, not finding his rhythm and reeling off a litany of cheap errors as sampras ticks up his games with typical metronomic efficiency. agassi might be making sampras' life easier, but sampras certainly isn't playing like a man who'd lain stricken with agony a short while earlier. then, however, agassi rallies - finds his game, loosens up, probably because he was already down on the scoreboard. the worst case scenario was already happening. the momentum switches quickly and it looks like sampras might be ailing physically after all. agassi still isn't playing his best - but he takes it to sampras, cleans up the error count a little and takes five consecutive games to win the first set 7-5. which, well. a physically healthy sampras generally does not get broken three service games in a row. not with his serve

so going into the second set, it looks like... well, maybe sampras had only about half an hour of decent tennis in him. now he's run out of steam, it's basically game over, right? agassi can cruise home to take the match and the title - probably shouldn't have let the first set get so spooky, but all's well that ends well. spectators got their show, agassi doesn't fall apart against a guy who might keel over any minute

except... except. first set to agassi, and the pressure's once again on him... once again, he's the guy who's supposed to be winning. sampras is down, might be out - he has no reason not to swing freely in a match he probably should be losing. and unfortunately for agassi, there's no guarantee sampras might not recover again physically somewhat after all. energy levels can wax and wane - if you're trying to manage some kind of physical issue, you might be struggling for a while before suddenly clicking back into gear again. agassi has the momentum, sampras has nothing to lose

you know what happens next. sampras gets better and better. agassi gives up a cheap break early in the second - by the third, sampras does manage to find a strong level. it's basically one way traffic. sampras takes the victory. agassi takes another blow

or, as the washington post would put it in a true all timer sports headline:

lovely

here is sampras' description of that episode:

Meanwhile, in a development I kept secret from everyone, I was battling physical problems of my own, although they were paltry compared to Tim’s. For more than a year, I had been struggling with bouts of nausea and an inability, at times, to keep food or even water down. The situation started sometime in 1993, and was so aggravated by the spring of 1994 that I was unable to make the start time for the final of the important Key Biscayne tournament, in which I was to play Andre Agassi. In a gesture I still appreciate, Andre agreed to postpone the scheduled 1 P.M. start of the final for an hour, while I took an intravenous glucose drip. I had been throwing up all morning, which I blamed on the pasta dinner I’d had the night before. The IV did the job, rehydrating me, and I went on to win the final in three sets. At the time, I wanted to believe that the episodes were somehow related to dehydration.

and his immediate post-match comments:

“I woke up at 7 feeling nauseated, heaving and gagging; I didn’t think I’d be able to go out and play,” Sampras added. “But I feel a lot better now. As the match wore on, the adrenaline started kicking in and I started to think I could win when the chips are down. That sort of showed me I’ve got guts.”

guts that were nearly spilling out of him at one point, one might note

and on agassi's side:

“Once he got in front, he started serving big, and that was it,” Agassi commented. “Part of me was saying there was no way he could stay out there for three sets…. I was wrong.” During the trophy ceremony, tournament founder Butch Bucholz thanked Agassi for his sportsmanship, and the runner-up received a standing ovation from the crowd. 

I'm sure agassi felt better getting a standing ovation for having been made a fool of

and that's the problem, isn't it, hinted at by agassi's own line - playing a diminished opponent forces you to think far far more than you should be. it increases the stakes. it makes you feel like you should be winning. it saps at your concentration. it requires you to resist feeling any sympathy or even pity for your opponent when they're struggling. it makes you wonder if you should be taking advantage of your opponent's condition, make them move around the court more, prolong the points, change your style of play to better suit the situation. it makes you wary of celebrating too much, partly out of respect and partly out of a sense of dignity, messes with your motivation levels. makes you think too much about how people are reacting to the match when you should be focusing on how you're playing it. it makes you try and peer into the future - wondering when their level might drop off, if you just need to hold out until their legs give way... all these extra considerations, eating away at your concentration and mental strength. on the flip side, it can make everything easier for the struggling player: they know they only have limited options to pull off the win, they know they probably shouldn't be winning, so they can opt for simplicity over turmoil

it's a universal dynamic in tennis, happens to the best of us - but this specific scenario does also feel like it just happens to be perfect for this specific rivalry. as always, pete; as always, denying andre. sampras, who could swing freely and fight as hard as he dared and show his guts and emerge victorious. agassi, plagued by doubts, second guessing himself as he lets his inevitable rival inevitably snatch away another victory. from right under his nose. after having been lying prone on the locker room floor in front of agassi's own eyes

as ever, of course, agassi himself puts it best:

But Pete does it again. He sends his evil twin onto the court. This is not the Pete who was curled in a ball on the locker-room floor. This is not the Pete who was getting an IV and wobbling in circles. This Pete is in the prime of life, serving at warp speed, barely breaking a sweat. He’s playing his best tennis, unbeatable, and he jumps out to a 5–1 lead. Now I’m angry. I feel as if I found a wounded bird, brought it home, and nursed it back to health, only to have it try to peck my eyes out. I fight back and win the set. Surely I’ve withstood the only attack Pete can mount. He can’t possibly have anything left. But in the second set he’s even better. And in the third he’s a freak. He wins the best-of-three match. I burst into the locker room. Brad is waiting for me, seething. He says again that if he’d been in my place, he’d have forced Pete to forfeit. He’d have demanded that the director fork over the winner’s check. That’s not me, I tell Brad. I don’t want to win like that. Besides, if I can’t beat a guy who’s poisoned, lying on the ground, I don’t deserve it. Brad abruptly stops talking. His eyes get big. He nods. He can’t argue with that. He respects my principles, he says, even though he doesn’t agree. We walk out of the stadium together like Bogart and Claude Rains at the end of Casablanca. The beginning of a beautiful friendship. A vital new member of the team.

such an impressive act of sportsmanship. so completely unrewarded. god, I LOVE the wounded bird trying to peck agassi's eyes out description. can you IMAGINE how annoying that must be if you're agassi? what a thorn in your side this one guy must be? what does it TAKE to put this bloke away? doesn't even have the decency to lose when he's needing an IV drip to take to the court. always, always, ALWAYS catching agassi by surprise. in their first slam final when agassi should've been the favourite, in that 2001 uso quarterfinal when agassi was in far better form, in their last ever slam final and match... even here, when sampras should have been a shell of himself. somehow sampras finds something, somehow he has an evil doppelgaenger to send out in his stead. no wonder he kept scrambling agassi's brain. what a nightmare to deal with

[crowcaws]

Inspired by a twitter thread i saw, I, Australian and certified dumb of ass, will now list every main American state and what I associate it with/what I think it's about/famous for WITHOUT GOOGLING. These thoughts will be stated as fact regardless of whether or not they are true.

Alabama - Banjos. Reese Witherspoon lives here. Shares a border with Florida for some reason. Fifteen people live here. I'm glad i'm not allowed to google because i feel like i'd find things i don't want to know.

Alaska - Mountains. Balto. State flower is a tree of some kind. The roads are just the tyre tracks in the snow of the vehicles that came before whispering "trust me". Kodiak is here, where Pitbull famously said 'keep fucking around, we'll be on the moon next.' I think this is where Mulder and Scully got fucked up by a brain worm.

Arizona - Desert but not the Las Vegas kind. The granyon canyon. State flower is a cactus. State bird also a cactus. Bella Swan got fucked up in a dance studio here. It seems very scenic.

Arkansas - The name of this state makes me think of rusty old utes and that's it, that's all I've got. "Pickup trucks" or whatever. Grow up.

California - The great Lucille Bluth once said, "I'd rather be dead in California than alive in Arizona" but personally I think i'm with Michael on this one. California has Hollywood and an ok tourist beach. Green Day are from here. San Francisco seems cool though, I like how it looks like a city designed specifically to kill skateboarders and cyclists. State flower is a grand theft auto PS2 disc. Population: more than Australia.

Colorado - Mountains. Elks and Deer and Eagles and Giraffes on ski slopes. Much domestic tourism, have never once heard of anyone from outside the US specifically visiting Colorado though idk. Verdict: America's New Zealand.

Connecticut - The dry weetbix of states. I think of monopoly but I can't remember why. State flower is a dandelion that has been stepped on. Biggest export is men's office attire, specifically brown two piece suits and those short sleeve button ups. I only found out today that there's a C in the middle of Connecticut I always thought it was 'Conneticut'.

Delaware - Delawhere the fuck is this state I have no idea. Probably still cooler than Connecticut. Famous for combination fast food chains and buildings that clearly used to be a pizza hut (you can tell by the roof). Idrk what Cracker Barrel is but I can tell you the employees spawn here.

Florida - Biscayne bay. Manatees. Shaped like a sock, or something else. Famous for hotels, motels, and holiday inns. Would be a fun state if not for the fact that every politician in charge of it is fucking it up so so bad. One of the few places in the USA where you can see the Southern Cross constellation. Miami Dale forever RIP Logan Horseman.

Georgia - peaches. atlantis. brisket. no other thoughts detected, moving on

Hawaii - Famous for killing James cunt Cook which is honestly a deserved and certified W for Hawaiians. Plagued (and I do mean plagued) by tourists, including Australian Prime Ministers ignoring national emergencies.

Idaho - Sleepy. Things don't happen here but when they do they happen so much because nothing happens here. National flower is probably like a daisy or something so so normal.

Illinois - Chicago bean. It's dark and we're wearing sunglasses. WatchDogs the game. Famous for girlbosses who kill their husbands. Population 11 millions.

Indiana - Rainy probably. Honestly I only remember this state exists because of Stranger Things, which I understand this is like someone saying they only remember Australia exists because of Crocodile Dundee but look. Population: At least 10.

Iowa - This is such a place to be from if you're moving to the big city because all the other waitresses at the diner back home said you got a voice worth payin for and you finally stopped letting your papa tell you what to do. Famous for crop duster planes. State flower is long grass.

Kansas - Famous for scarecrows, wheat and the like. Probably fun at Halloween actually. Great place to fake an alien sighting. I just remembered Dorothy is from here. Population: Yes.

Kentucky - Fried chicken. NASCAR. Speedway. Derby. State flower is a blown out tyre on the side of the road.

Louisiana - Very wet but in a pretty way. Birthplace of the Saxophone. New Orleans is officially the strongest reason I would ever be tempted to set foot in this country. New York wishes she was this beautiful. Famous for the Vampire Diaries spinoff The Originals.

Maine - Next to Kentucky. Lobsters are from here which means there's water, but don't ask me where. Famous for The Vampire Diaries. State flower is a rose, beautiful but generic, like a YA protagonist.

Maryland - Rural but in a manageable way. I think of letterboxes with the family last name on it. Grandmas love it here. Hairspray the musical.

Massachusetts - Ohhhh Legally Blonde. Boston. Harvarb Law. The colour brown. When pronounced it's a very nice name for a state actually.

Michigan - I reference 'can't have shit in Detroit' almost daily but I know almost nothing else about Michigan.

Minnesota - Mini Soda. Also a good state name. No idea what's here, deer or elk or beavers. There's no way to know for sure.

Mississippi - I like this state name less but only because it's hell on the lisp i battle to mask. It's named after a river. It's on the coast. Next to Pennsylvania.

Missouri - A lot of M states happening here. This place is famous for nothing. I don't know what the capital city is but it's definitely a place you move to for your job instead of like. On purpose. Population: 3 million. It's in the middle somewhere.

Montana - This state's main export is horse girls, very Saddle Club coded. It's on the Canadian border, but it shouldn't be like that. It should be in the middle. Hannah Montana's dad was all Nashville but he's basically from Toronto. Fucked up if you ask me.

Nebraska - When I think of Nebraska I think of those depressing Walmart carparks where there's nothing for miles except for the Walmart and one lady pushing a flatscreen in a trolley to the dodge ram she parked 600m away from the entrance so it won't get dinged by other car doors, because god forbid her utility vehicle show signs of wear.

Nevada - viva rock vegas (the flintstones). There's a salt lake here but NOT a salt lake city. That's somewhere else. I think there's motorsport here. NO WAIT THERE IS because i saw charles leclerc on the sphere on tv and he was so wide and i laughed so hard i choked on my own spit.

New Hampshire - What the fuck is New Hampshire that's not real. I thought it was like some beach suburb in New York state. What the fuck. Regardless. I bet you could pull up to the side of the road in New Hapshite and buy an avocado no questions asked. Probably like the USA's Byron Bay.

New Jersey - Everyone from here says it's bad. It makes me think of t shirts with a longer sleeve t shirt underneath and 2000s pop punk music. Gerard Way.

New Mexico - High School Musical is set in Albuquerque. High School Musical is also the only reason I can pronounce Albuquerque. This state is famous for High School Musical.

New York - She's talking over the rest of you and for what? Wall Street? Ugh. Kinda like the Melbourne of the USA.

North Carolina - I feel like cowbutch lesbians do numbers here for some reason. You could disappear into the hills with a woman in a tank top and assless chaps here if you were brave enough. Men do live here but they're treated like a new cast member on the fifth season of a sitcom, this one's for the girls.

North Dakota - Dakota is Carolina's femme girlfriend and they're in love.

Ohio - This is like that town in Cars that lightning mcqueen gets stuck in and the tourist cars are like oh we're only here because of a wrong turn. Yeah. You might find fireflies here though. Also Ohio is for Lovers or something.

Oklahoma - Swear word for Christians. Absolutely nothing happens here and if it does i feel like it involves chasing livestock.

Oregon - Prairies. This is where the Prairies are. Famous for the people who died while trying to be Not In Oregon.

Pennsylvania - Famous for The Office. And Dracula jokes. That's all i've got.

Rhode Island - Famous for winning Miss United States with the flaming batons routine in Miss Congeniality starring Sandra Bullock. Very small state. Possibly the smallest one but who's to say.

South Carolina - If north is for the lesbians, south is for the gays.

South Dakota - As above.

Tennessee - Country music and whiskey and line dancing, which is actually kinda hot when goth girls do it. Overall, Tennessee is the USA's answer to Gympie, which is a question that nobody asked. Overall i just think of the colour brown. Famous for Hayden Penterre. Penetentiary. Pendulum.

Texas - A South Australian would say Texas is famous for it's adorably small cattle farms. Lucky for me, i am not South Australian. This is the state that other states call redneck and racist to hide the fact that they are also redneck and racist, perhaps more so. Contains two of the main cities to name boys after. Dave Strider lives here. (Sorry for the Homestuck jump scare so late in the game.)

Utah - Salt Lake City. That bass pro shop monolith was here. In general i think of the colour orange. Home of the Hellmouth Sunbeams.

Vermont - Vermont is a state in the same way the spleen is an organ. Population: Zero.

Virginia - Is this not the same thing as Vermont?

Washington - Famous for Bella where the hell you been loca. Twin Peaks is probably set here idk i forgot all parts of the show that were not log lady. White House. Effervescent.

West Virginia - From the lyrics "Mountain mama. Take me home. Country road" we can determine that West Virginia has Mountains, Milfs, Homes, and Roads. I know nothing else about West Virginia.

Wisconsin - Wiscaaaansin. Whis-cahn-sin. There are definitely elks here. That 70's Show is set somewhere beneath the surface of this place. Population: grandparents and elk. I feel like you could get fucked up by a creature here if you're not careful. It's got trees and lakes and shit creatures love those. I think Yellowstone is somewhere around here.

Wyoming - Great lakes? Great lakes. This state is actually all lake. Idk. I like the name though, the verbiage of it all. Wyoming my way downtown. State flower is an empty wrapper blowing by down the street. Population: 800,000. Definitely a place you could go missing and never be seen again.

[a-brunette-floridians-world]

I rarely post here, but this is too important not to discuss. My home state is now on the verge of losing its state parks. Florida loses around 120 acres of natural land to development every day, 44,000 annually. Now they want to go after our state parks.

The Florida Department of Environmental Protection announced that it will allow construction and urbanization, an unfortunately hideous and common sight in Florida these days, within nine of our state parks. These nine state parks are:

- Hillsborough River State Park, Tampa

- Honeymoon Island State Park, Clearwater

- Oleta River State Park, Biscayne Bay

- Jonathan Dickinson State Park, Stuart

- Dr. Von D. Mizell-Eula Johnson State Park, Fort Lauderdale

- Anastasia State Park, St. Augustine

- Camp Helen State Park, Panama City Beach

- Topsail Hill Preserve State Park and Grayton Beach State Park, Santa Rosa Beach

The department wants to add golf courses, glamping areas, pickleball courts, etc. This proposed plan would destroy delicate ecosystems and strip plants and animals of their habitats, as if there isn't enough strain on our natural ecosystems already. It'll be disguised as "increasing accessibility," it's not.

Now is the time to stand up and say no. On August 27th from 3 to 4, there will be meetings taking place to discuss this proposition. If you live in those areas and want to go, the addresses are available on the Tampa Bay news article linked below. If you live outside of the area, call the Governor's office at (850) 717-9337 and let them know that Floridians are going to oppose the destruction of our state parks.

My family has been here for nine generations. I'm a descendant of the first settlers to Florida, and I'm tired of my home's natural wildlife being destroyed in the name of greed and corporate interests. Enough is enough. I will be attending the Hillsborough River State Park meeting if anyone wants to join me. On top of that, I will be calling the Governor's office. Every Floridian needs to oppose this and save the real Florida for future generations.

Tampa Bay Article:

Credits:

Fight for Those Without a Voice: https://www.instagram.com/v.steiner?igsh=Y3M3YWU1OHh4dzhy

Speak for the Parks: https://www.instagram.com/tannicroots?igsh=aWtkcmx2NzE4Mmly

Spinster Abbott: https://www.instagram.com/spinster_abbotts_st_aug?igsh=MXRxZGp0ZndmaDl2Mg==

Save Our Scrub: https://www.instagram.com/thickpaint?igsh=MTI0MHd2N3pkczBpYw==

F*ck Your Golf Course: https://www.instagram.com/oldfloridavibes?igsh=c3psN2h6dDhiNmk=

Keep Florida State Parks Wild: https://www.instagram.com/oona.seas?igsh=Z3B6ZnNvMmh4cTZt

Don't Tread on State Parks: https://www.instagram.com/offthegridjohn?igsh=N3ZwNXI5Y3JxMnF

[parisbytaylorswift]

1. Acadia National Park, Maine

2. American Samoa National Park, American Samoa

3. Arches National Park, Utah

4. Badlands National Park, South Dakota

5. Big Bend National Park, Texas

6. Biscayne National Park, Florida

7. Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, Colorado

8. Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah

9. Canyonlands National Park, Utah

10. Capitol Reef National Park, Utah

11. Carlsbad Caverns National Park, New Mexico

12. Channel Islands National Park, California

13. Congaree National Park, South Carolina

14. Crater Lake National Park, Oregon

15. Cuyahoga Valley National Park, Ohio

16. Death Valley National Park, California & Nevada

17. Denali National Park, Alaska

18. Dry Tortugas National Park, Florida

19. Everglades National Park, Florida

20. Gates of the Arctic National Park, Alaska

21. Gateway Arch National Park, Missouri

22. Glacier Bay National Park, Alaska

23. Glacier National Park, Montana

24. Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona

25. Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming

26. Great Basin National Park, Nevada

27. Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado

28. Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee & North Carolina

29. Guadalupe Mountains National Park, Texas

30. Haleakalā National Park, Hawaii

31. Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park, Hawaii

32. Hot Springs National Park, Arkansas

33. Indiana Dunes National Park, Indiana

34. Isle Royale National Park, Michigan

35. Joshua Tree National Park, California

36. Katmai National Park, Alaska

37. Kenai Fjords National Park, Alaska

38. Kings Canyon National Park, California

39. Kobuk Valley National Park, Alaska

40. Lake Clark National Park, Alaska

41. Lassen Volcanic National Park, California

42. Mammoth Cave National Park, Kentucky

43. Mesa Verde National Park, Colorado

44. Mount Rainier National Park, Washington

45. New River Gorge National Park and Preserve, West Virginia

46. North Cascades National Park, Washington

47. Olympic National Park, Washington

48. Petrified Forest National Park, Arizona

49. Pinnacles National Park, California

50. Redwood National Park, California

51. Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado

52. Saguaro National Park, Arizona

53. Sequoia National Park, California

54. Shenandoah National Park, Virginia

55. Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota

56. Virgin Islands National Park, United States Virgin Islands

57. Voyageurs National Park, Minnesota

58. White Sands National Park, New Mexico

59. Wind Cave National Park, South Dakota

60. Wrangell—St. Elias National Park, Alaska

61. Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, Montana & Idaho

62. Yosemite National Park, California

63. Zion National Park, Utah