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[plynews20]

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[howlingday]

Sun: Remember, dude, this kid is seriously messed up. He TP'd over three hundred homes in less than a year.

Neptune: He scares the hell out of us!

Nora: We just need to talk to someone who knows how toilet paperers think.

Sun: Fine, but just remember that he's not just some kid. If he had the chance, he would TP you both in a second if he had the chance.

Neptune: (Opens door) Last door on the left.

Nora: ...Are you "Paper Snow"?

Pyrrha: I'm She-Tective Nikos, and this is She-tective Valkyrie. We're with the Vale Police Department.

Whitley: (Behind glass wall, Gentlemanly) That's a lovely perfume you're wearing, but I don't think it fits a woman of your caliber. You should try something more... casual.

Pyrrha: ...We were hoping you could help us solve a vandalism case involving toilet paper.

Whitley: And why would I do that? Because I'm such a charming fella?

Pyrrha: Please, we need your help. What can we offer you in return?

Whitley: (Hands behind back, Turns away) Due to the harsh nature of my crimes, they do not permit me the use of toilet paper in my incarceration. I am left only with the bidet. I'm sure you can imagine how bothersome that becomes after a while.

Nora: Are we even allowed to give you toilet paper?

Whitley: (Turns around) No, but it was worth a try, wasn't it?

Whitley: (Steps closer) Tell me something, She-tectives; why police only in Vale? I'm sure you both would make for accomplished huntresses, yes?

Nora: That's kinda personal.

Whitley: Quid pro quo, She-tectives. You want information on your vandals, and I want information on you.

Nora: Look, kid, we have very little time to catch whoever vandalized Prof. Goodwitch's car. Tell us what you know!

Whitley: Are tjose the crime scene photos? Let me see them. (Handed through slot) Mm, yes. Very nice. Not bad work. Not bad at all. These toilet paperers are professionals, or at least one of them is.

Nora: So you think there was more than one?

Whitley: Tell ME something first!

Whitley: When you joined the Academy, you had something to prove. You swore to protect and serve, but more importantly you wanted to protect. Who were you trying to protect? Yourself? And who were you protecting yourself from, She-tectives?

Nora: ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT! MY MOMMY USED TO BEAT ME WITH A BELT! (Sobs)

Whitley: ...Thank you.

Whitley: Your toilet paperers are most likely teenagers. Likely females between the ages of 13 and 18, all of them virgins. Their parents or guardians would have noticed that much TP missing, and the treasurer would have noticed an abnormal amout of TP purchased. Thus they obtained it illegally, or from someone else's lien. Find out who bought the TP and where it came from, and you just might catch your girls.

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

Pyrrha: ...Whitley? Whitley, we need more information.

Whitley: The answer is staring you in the face, but you just can't see it.

Nora: What do you mean?

Whitley: Tell me about the toilet paper. Was it quilted?

Pyrrha: Yes.

Whitley: Single sheet?

Nora: No, it was two-ply.

Whitley: (Chuckles)

Nora: What?! What does that tell you?!

Whitley: Tell me, She-tectives; why does a person toilet paper a car?

Pyrrha: Revenge?

Whitley: NO! That is incidental! They wanted to TRANSFORM her car! CHANGE her whole career!

Nora: What do you mean?!

Whitley: Your mommy who hit you with her belt, was she a large woman?

Nora: I'm not telling you anymore.

Whitley: Did she stink of tea and sweat after spending all day, tired from servicing men at the ol' "Tea Leaves & Me"?

Pyrrha: OKAY, OKAY! MY MOMMY USED TO DRESS ME UP AND MAKE ME SIT ON ALL MY SPONSOR'S LAPS! (Sobs, Wails)

Whitley: Holy shit... Er, I mean, thank you. Your toilet paperers are likely students in the Professor's class. Likely poor students who aren't getting good grades in her classes.

Nora: Of course! One of her students! Let's go, Pyrrha!

Pyrrha: (Sniffles, Hiccups) Okay...

Whitley: (Watches them leave) Fly along, She-tectives. You have a few naughty girls to catch. Fly, fly, fly! (Turns away)

Sun: (Walks in) Whitley, were you doing the silly voice with the She-tectives again?

Whitley: (Normal voice) N-No, sir!

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

Pyrrha: Pardon us, Professor Ozpin, but we have someone who is able to tell you the names of the toilet paper vandals in person.

Neptune: (Wheels in Whitley)

Whitley: (Bound and strapped to a dolly, Smiles as he sees toilet paper on the desk)

Ozpin: Thank you, but that will not be necessary. Mr. Arc has already confessed to his crimes.

Nora: Jaune?!

Ruby: (Runs in) STOP! Professor Ozpin! I need to tell you something!

Ozpin: Miss Rose, please do not barge into my office.

Jaune: It's okay, Ruby. I know I'm guilty.

Whitley: Are you sure, Mr. Arc? Was your father abusive? Did your mother smack your thighs with cold cuts? Did your sister shove umbrellas up your ass?

Ozpin: Get him out of here!

Pyrrha: Er, Junior Detective Vasilias, could you escort him out of the room?

Whitley: (Wheeled out) Ooh, Junior Detective Vasilias! Never quite made it to Detective. Why is that, Junior Detective Vasilias?

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

Nora: I'm glad that's over. Still can't believe Jaune did all of that.

Pyrrha: Neither can I. This seems like a set-up.

Nora: Yeah! It stinks of- (Sniffs) Two-ply quilted toilet paper?

Pyrrha: WHITLEY! (Runs down the TPd halls, Finds Sun and Neptune TPd) Report! What happened here?!

Sun: We took our eyes off of him for a second! He turned into a whirlwind of toilet paper and got us good!

Nora: Well, why didn't you chase after him?

Neptune: All TPd like this? We'd look silly!

Pyrrha: (Scroll buzzes, Answers) Hello?

Whitley: (Via scroll) Hello, She-tectives.

Pyrrha: Whitley?! Where are you?!

Whitley: I'm afraid I can't tell you that, as that would put my freedom in jeopardy. I simply want to thank you both for helping me escape.

Nora: Dude, you had like one week of your three week sentence left!

Whitley: Sorry, She-tectives, but I have a flight to catch. I've been away from home for far, FAR too long, and my father is worried sick, no doubt. Auf wiedersehn. (Hangs up)

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

Whitley: (Carrying backpack full of TP, Approaches ship at SDC shipping wharf)

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[avinash03]

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[thewestern]

Chapter 25

Mayor Mockingbird was ensconced in the private dining room of the vegan steakhouse of which he was a part owner. That morning there had been an incident at City Hall wherein one of his schizophrenic constituents — an ever-increasing slice of his core demographic — had charged the door to his office brandishing a hatchet. His sheriff's department detail didn’t hesitate to Put the [Assailant(— redacted/sic, profanity)] down, as he so phrased it in the official report. After preliminarily engaging the unsub with six warning shots to the torso area, I preceded to fire a follow-up, security round to the facial and head region, to heretofore confirm the neutralization of the imminent threat magnitude in perpetuity. 

(Here the deputy had partaken in a controversial practice called Canoeing, which he’d heard about by way of his cousin, Jaxson, who served a half a tour overseas. Popular among American servicemembers, canoeing entails shooting a high-caliber bullet at point-blank range directly into the face of an assailant who has been previously mortally wounded, if not killed outright. This, as a primitive means of marking them — like a calling card. Thoroughly macabre. The deputy bragged how his cousin was special forces, but in actuality, he had only achieved the rank of enlisted private before his dishonorable discharge for unrelated offenses. [He was caught with his pants down — around his ankles — as he masturbated onto the bunk of his commanding officer, in retaliation for putting him on Shit Detail {Cleaning out the latrine}.] The commanding officer wasn’t present in his bunk, {Jaxson} reiterated in the incident report. I’m no faggot. Not that those JSOC jagoffs are any fucking better. Tell you what they’re a bunch of psychos. Serious, dude. Ever wonder how come there aint been no serial killers recently? What … you mean after Gacy and Bundy and Dahmer they all decided to pack it in? Like they was on strike? The Local 666. Hell no. Don’t believe that shit for a second. It’s cause serial killers are for peacetime is the real reason. Look it up. War is when those crazy sons a bitches get paid. For plying their trade: wasting fools. Poppa said if you do what you love you’ll never work a day in your life. Mother fucking freaks get recruited like they’re five-star prospects. Right of high school — presumably you can make it through without shooting the place to high hell — it’s straight to Camp Jeffrey or Fort Ted, Jack. Boy, they’ll make a useful fucking American out of you yet.

[Speaking of spree killers, rumours had recently circulated on a popular online message board — one typically used for soliciting restaurant recommendations and complaining about the weather — that one was active in the city, and that the local police was covering it up. It was true that there had been several young men who had washed up dead in relatively short succession on the river banks just downstream from the old train yard, not far from #x_brüing. No, it wasn’t Jaime. Actually, homicide detectives had quite thoroughly investigated the deaths and determined conclusively there was no foul play. The sad truth was those boys had more than likely fallen in the river and drowned by accident. Probably they were drunk. It’s a reality of bodies of water in urban areas. Happens more than you think.]) 

This was the first time the Deputy had the honour of discharging his service weapon in the line of duty. (In service of killing a man, that is. Routinely he took on-the-clock target practice at the empty energy drink cans that piled high atop the passenger seat of his cruiser. All ammunition was carefully inventoried at the station weapons depot, so these were rounds he purchased himself at a local sporting goods store which offered a discount to first responders, active duty military and veterans.)  As per department protocol, the deputy would thusly be required to attend No Less Than Three mandatory sessions with a county sub-contracted psychiatrist, so as to evaluate the effect of this violent event on his mental state. You didn’t need to be Sigmund fucking Freud however to tell by the shit-eating grin plastered on this son of a bitch’s face that he was, in a word, giddy. No doubt this would get him off this shit detail and back into a cush post at county lockup, where he’d get his time and a half. (Not to mention whatever he made on the side … trafficking toilet wine, prepaid cell phones and the like among the inmates, that is.) For the time being, however, he had to keep biding his time babysitting Mayor Muffdiver here, who had insisted that he order anything off the menu, what as a token of his gratitude for saving his hide. That’s right, you fucking pussy. Unfortunately, he didn’t recognize any of the items on the menu. I thought the sign out front said Steakhouse. (You couldn’t really fault him for not comprehending the Sanskrit-font fine print above that said Vegan.) But this ain’t look nothing like the Sizzler. Even the sides are dogshit. What the fuck is a Quinoa Risotto, he wondered to himself, pronouncing it Quinn-oh-Ah in his head. Whatever, it’s free. So then preternaturally he defaulted to ordering the most expensive thing on the menu — the sixty-nine-dollar tomahawk shiitake. I’ll be damned if it wasn’t drier than that old lady’s taint. Beet juice was no substitute for blood. He should know too. What having just this afternoon bukakee’d a brain stem’s worth of it all over the Mayor’s fucking drywall. Hoo-hah. 

A self-described lapsed pescatarian, Mayor Larry also wasn’t feeling particularly appetized, even at this restaurant he owned in part. In truth, like the deputy, he preferred red meat. Secretly, he craved it … insatiably, in fact, at all hours of the day and night. Alas, his intestines were tied. For one thing, he had made Nutritional Education a cornerstone of his platform, campaigning on the promise that proper diet and exercise were the two most powerful weapons with which to combat poverty. (Government assistance finishing a non-competitive fourth, just missing out on the podium.) Third and more importantly, the Natural Foods Mafia — a powerful local lobby of health and wellness-oriented grocers, restaurateurs and CPG purveyors of granola-based snack bars, flavored energy pastes and fermented beverages of a non-alcoholic persuasion (hell yeah we’re talking about kombucha, bitch) — had been instrumental to his political rise. Larry had joined their ranks as an unmade consigliere of sorts after departing the New Frontier, during his first foray into angel investing. He was participating in a seed round-funding of a FoodTech startup that which aimed to create a speculative marketplace for trading — of all fucking things — seeds. Would you believe they called it, the Stalk Exchange? (That was back before the first dot-com boom went bust when at least the fugazi tech companies had real names at least. Meaning ones that say what they mean. Pets dot com. Diapers dot Com. Product We Sell or Service We Provide dot Com. Now all the startups had stupid fucking names that had hardly anything to do with their business. And as if that weren’t confusing enough, some unofficial style guide called for most vowels and all letter casing to be omitted entirely. Billy was hip to this game. For a fact, when #x_brü inevitably got so big it would have to restructure into a conglomerate of shell corporations so as to skirt antitrust regulation, Billy planned to rebrand that new holding company DRFT. Like a startup shorthand for Draft, as in beer.) While that investment didn’t bear fruit, it did help him to cultivate some deeply rooted connections in the budding organics lobby. (Punch me in the fucking face.) Fortuitously, it was their coveted endorsement that helped to earn him a narrow victory in his first hotly-contested primary election. What Mayor Larry didn’t count on was that once you owed a debt to the Natural Foods Mafia, they owned you for life. Like some other fraternal organizations you may be familiar with, they were very much a blood-in, blood-out, sort of situation. La Couscous Nostra. So here he was, trapped in a restaurant for which he was coerced into buying a minority ownership, waiting on another of his unpaid lackeys to smuggle in a mostly beef hamburger through the back door service entrance. 

Suffice it to say, Mayor Larry would have much preferred to be back home at City Manor, unwinding with some fundraising calls, were it not for the nagging omnipresence of his wife, Matilda. She was already angry about having to chauffeur their son, Carter, to Tuscon tomorrow for a soccer tournament. Youth sports culture had gotten out of control, as he was fond of commiserating with his fellow parents at cocktail parties. For Pete’s sake, this was the U-Eleven division — we’re talking ten-year-olds here — traveling all over the country to play against other children. Interstate airfare, hotel reservations, chartered buses, catered orange slices. Like they were the Pittsburgh freaking Steelers, for crying out loud. These boys haven’t even hit puberty! And Larry’s son, in particular, hated soccer anyway. Probably on account of he was born with a mild case of clubfoot. Hey, don’t look at me. I was second-team all-state in fencing. Any lack of athleticism, he got that from his mother, who herself meanwhile through some acrobatic feat of albeit well-earned marital resentment, had resolved to blame his father for being attacked by a lone axman. Don’t ask him how.

But then, even if it was sincere regret for its failure, at least Matty felt something about the botched assassination attempt. Hildegard, for her part, hadn’t so much as called. By now she must have heard. It was all over the news. Before his would-be Wilkes Booth had even hit the ground, the Mayor had quite savvily called a press conference, cashing in the political capital of his near-death to pump some desperately needed life into his currently flatlining gubernatorial campaign. Woe for the maneuver backfired, when his opponent used the violent attack to rhetorically counterattack Mayor Larry’s stance on gun control, tepid though it was. Common Sense Reforms and Best Practices for Responsible Weapon Ownership, was how it was clumsily copywritten on the website. (Visit More 4 Mockingbird dot com slash donate today! … the web domain for 4 More 4 Mockingbird dot com was already being squatted on for his reelection, all the more improbable though it may now have seemed.) Now here we got ourselves a situation where a bad guy Did Not have a gun. It was a battle axe, or some sharp, throwing implement of sorts. Because, isn’t it the god’s-honest truth that most radical terrorist acts aren’t carried out with firearms in the first place? Statistics bear that out. I believe it to be the case it’s because they’re too yeller to look a man in the eye and pull the trigger. Instead, the Islam-ists here, they’ll use whatever they can get their hands on — anything from a kitchen knife to explosive de-vices, ignited in their damn’d underpants. You name it. Whatever causes a maximum output of pain with the bare minimum input of guts, them cowards’ll use it. Hell, they’ll stampede a crowded market in a truck if it so suits ‘em. So you tell me this … howsit that Mayor Mockingbird knocking on your front door, and taking away your guns, to which you are constitutionally entitled by the Almighty God, Himself, howsit that that’s going to stop something awful like this from happening to you? Or to your children, heaven forbid? I don’t need to remind any of you fine folks, the only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun — or a boxcutter, or a bomb, or an ali-baba sword or a foreign-made truck careening through a crowded pedestrian area — is an even badder guy with a gun. And guess what, Kimosabe, you gone done found him. [Here the chosen candidate of the opposition party sidestepped the lectern and slowly pulled back his barn coat to reveal an as-previously concealed carry hand cannon holstered on his right love handle. It was an Austrian-made, polymer-framed piece with a matte American flag finish; but only the red, white and blue were swapped out with black and two very menacing shades of gunmetal gray, and the stars were interspersed throughout with skulls. Returning to the bouquet of microphones from the assembled press, he resumed his diatribe.] If you d’ruther take your chances with a rape whistle or a pocket knife or a damn wrist rocket, for all I care, well then that’s your prerogative, Mr. Mayor. I don’t tell you your business. You don’t tell me mine! 

If indeed the pen were mightier than the sword, never mind the semi-automatic pistol, then Larry had better get to work on crafting an in-kind response to these scurrilous and inflammatory attacks on his character. Unfortunately, he was previously occupied with a separate bit of oratory entirely. The Office of the Mayor was issuing an Official Civic Apology on behalf of The City for the historic blight that was the Main Street Melee, a massacre carried out on the order of the then-Mayor Curtis Hixon. It was a nasty business, wherein Hixon — or Hick, as he was Affectionately Known, who mind you had been duly elected by no public vote, and was rather named Mayor by power of self-appointed title and homemade-sash only — deputized a posse to retaliate swiftly and unconditionally against a war party of renegade Indians. This, for their Unprovoked raid on an arriving wagon train of white settlers, wherein two poor German immigrant families were murdered quite brutally. However, being that the band of hostiles in question was by that time already long gone on down the warpath, the militia of mostly drunk miners — hastily, they had been commissioned for duty inside a saloon … another thing they had in common, in addition to their public service, was that outside of their political lives, Mayor Larry and his predecessor Hick were both part-time publicans, as well as avid real estate speculators — settled for settling their score on the account of some innocent bystanding Indians, who ironically were in town to negotiate a treaty of peace on behalf of a separate tribe entirely than the one the renegade braves formerly represented. (Hence, they were Renegade.) After a brief if-you-could-call-it-a standoff, eight elders and twenty squaws, unarmed to a one, were gunned down right there in the thoroughfare. A more perfect butchery, there never was. Thus epitaphed one of the massacre’s co-authors, apparently he who fancied himself a fucking poet. 

These events unfolded — more than a century ‘ore — on the present-day site of a salad store, part of a burgeoning fast-casual chain of restaurants founded by a trio of business school classmates. Three Masters of Business Administration. (Per their business plan, this was the End of the Line for the Salad Bar, which conjured up distasteful images of sneeze guards, wilted lettuces and those dressing dispensers in the dining hall, the ones that would get all gross and congealed on the slide-open lids with weeks-old ranch and thousand-island. Rather, this would be a premium dining experience for on-the-go professionals. A loyalty program would incentivize online ordering through a proprietary mobile app, creating a more frictionless meal-fulfillment process. Recipes would be calibrated with seasonal ingredients from local farmers, and curated in collaboration with celebrity chefs, superstar athletes and more … ) Mayor Mockingbird had been a ground-floor investor. The following morning — right before the lunch rush — he was scheduled to make these, his belated condolences and present a commemorative plaque to be displayed semi-permanently outside the storefront. He would be joined by the acting chairman of the tribal council, a senior-ranking representative from the state Office of Indian Affairs, and the salad company’s Chief Diversity Officer. ( … For a limited time only, try our newest salad bowl collab, Beet Don’t Kale My Vibe, inspired by our partnership with Grammy-winning recording artist, Kendrick Lamar.)

Ten times out of ten, he would have delegated this thankless Speechwriting assignment to the liberal arts doofuses on his communications staff, who would have no doubt poured over every word of these brief introductory remarks like they were the goddamned Gettysburg Address. Mother fucking sermon on the mount, ass. However, not only was his office closed for obvious reasons. (These same staffers had spent their afternoon fielding quotes from among the concerningly competitive market for crime scene cleaning crews, — although, by far, their most common customer use case was Suicide by gun — awarding the winning bid to a locally-owned family outfit called Trauma Cleanse, LLC, a name that resonated with them in particular. At this very moment, their certified technicians were power washing the scattered brain matter off the drywall. Back on Main Street, a bounty of scalps had been paraded through town and triumphantly nailed to the wall of Mayor Hixon’s saloon, cleverly called City Hall, right above the bar.) But also, per security protocol for any such violent incident, his entire staff had been furloughed indefinitely effective immediately, while their email and phone servers could be shut down and fully crawled for any forensic evidence. Most likely they were looking for instances of proper protocol not having been followed for flagging threats. Or perhaps on the off chance that someone within the Mayor’s inner circle had colluded to do him harm. Larry wasn’t sure that precaution was altogether necessary in this case. I think we can confidently rule out that the hatchet-wielding lunatic with feces smeared across his face like warpaint — as for the excrement, investigators deduced that it was presumably human, likely the suspect’s own particulat … although whose poop was really anybody’s guess  — spewing an incoherent diatribe of mostly racial slurs as he kamikazeyed my office door, was doing so on behalf of a vast political fucking conspiracy. That he was in cahoots with anyone apart from the chorus of voices in his head, is highly unlikely, you nincompoops.

 As for the speech, all he’d managed to type thus far were two words … I’m and Sorry. And indeed he was. Sorry for having agreed to participate in this public farce in the first place. (It had been his idea, as he’d already forgotten.) Sorry that he ever left the private sector. Sorry that his loveless marriage would have to last him another two election cycles, as a worst-case scenario for his sputtering political aspirations. Sorry that the woman he did love treated him like her bureaucratic errand boy and non-reciprocal sex toy. (The Pulsator MK-48 — nuclear torpedo or prostate massager?) Sorry that his only son couldn’t walk a straight line. Sorry that he part-owned the city’s first and soon-to-be-last vegan steakhouse. It’s a contradiction in terms, you fools! Yes, Lawrence Mockingbird was feeling very sorry indeed. So sorry that he longed for the only person on this planet who had ever understood his struggle — of course, his mother. The doting Mrs. Helen Mockingbird. At times like these, as there had been many, only she could have consoled him. Isn’t it so unfair? Oh, how she would have moved heaven and earth to spare him from enduring even the mildest frustration. Especially as a schoolboy, when he’d complain incessantly about his homework. It’s unfair, mother. The teacher hadn’t covered this subject adequately. You’re right, dear, she’d say. It is unfair. And then she’d do it for him. No matter the subject. This woman learned Spanish in her spare time, all to help her only son. Su hijito solo. This pattern of co-dependency continued all throughout high school, and into college. Even as a graduate student, he’d call home to her for help with a vexing problem set. Alas, she couldn’t help with this tedious assignment. A five-paragraph political essay prompt. Why should I apologize? I never massacred anybody. I know, Sweetie. It is unfair. No, she was no help to him now. Now that she was put away in an Assisted Living Community. Larry paid her room and board on the first of every month, although he hadn’t had the occasion to visit. Not in the past year. But not because he didn’t want to. He’s not a monster. Simply, he couldn’t bear it. How she couldn’t recognize him. 

And so the cursor on the otherwise blank, as yet Untitled document was taunting him. 

Come on, Lawrence, think. Okay, how about we don’t open with, Sorry. Yes. Because it sets a bad precedent. Instead, let’s lead with gratitude. 

I would like to thank these esteemed representatives of the Tribal Council for joining us today, as well as the fine folks at springleaf for their hospitality. Also, they have marked this momentous occasion — as well as they will be catering a brief reception immediately following the ceremony — with a special edition commemorative salad dish. The Native Lands Southwestern Chipotle Caesar Bowl, most all of the ingredients for which have been sourced in collaboration with peoples of indigenous descent. Additionally, a portion of the proceeds will go to benefit a STEM scholarship fund for reservation students. The Native Lands Southwestern Chipotle Caesar Bowl is available for a limited time only, while supplies last. 

Much better. Ease ‘em in. And, now that you got their stomachs churning, hit them on the heartstrings. Time to right an historic wrong— 

—But maybe don’t take outright responsibility — like, as in, individually. Lest we forget, Lawrence … first rule of political discourse: never give a convenient soundbite. A personal apology would be all too perfect attack ad fodder. Besides, contrition makes you sound weak. 

[Deletes I am, types all with his index fingers (hunt and peck style), We are. Adds, On behalf of all the citizens of this city, I would like to say that.]

And that is how it’s done, son. Dodged another hatchet job. Self-satisfied, Mayor Larry leaned back in his faux leather throne and cracked his knuckles. Now all that’s left is to pad this thing out with a little exposition, borrowing liberally from these bullet points here printed out in outrageously large font by his interns, who had in-turn wholesale copy-pasted the information from an internet encyclopedia entry of some dubious provenance.

Where we now gather before a progressive beacon of entrepreneurial spirit and nutritional inclusivity, here on this hallowed ground, some seven score and four years ago, independent contractors acting on behalf of this municipal government committed our city’s original sin. One for which, too long, has gone unatoned …     

Just as he was hitting his rhetorical stride, punching the keys with rhythm and verve like a young Donald Fagen, his creative process was so inconsiderately interrupted … 

Jiminy Christopher, Jaime … Would it kill you to knock?

Jaime looked behind himself through the beaded curtain door, perplexed. He came bearing a brown paper bag, keeping his hand outstretched to prevent the visibly pooling grease from seeping onto his #x_brü-branded Workshirt, a selvage chambray with hand-stitch embroidery and pearl snap buttons. (At #x_brü, Merch was a strategic business priority on level par with beer. [Core Value No. Eight: Think outside the Beer.] Jaime painstakingly designed and sourced all pieces in-house himself.)

Well, let’s have it then. Come on. Burgers and fries don’t travel well.

Larry further scrunched his already scrunchy face and tapped his cheap rubber sports watch. Jaime was immediately thrown off guard, having never had the Mayor — whom he considered to be his mentor in personal brand building — behave in such a belligerent way toward him before. It was true that the Mayor typically saved his short temper for the members of his staff and immediate family, who naturally were bound to-a-man, woman and child by airtight non-disclosure agreements. Perhaps being the target of a homicidal maniac had revealed a blemish in his carefully manicured facade of the unflappable, Clintonian/Bushian statesman. 

Placing the bag and the plastic soda cup — so extra large as to defy any cup holder that should hope to contain it — a safe distance from the Mayor’s laptop, Jaime eagerly started in on his pre-rehearsed ass-kissing.

Lawrence, I would just like to say how truly sorry I am that you had to endure this trauma. This is a dark day for our city. May I add how I am eternally grateful, foremostly for your safety, but also that the perpetrator of this heinous act of domestic terrorism has been exterminated from—

—Save it, Jaime. I’m fine. And take it easy with the terrorism stuff. This wasn’t a radical idealist. Probably just some junkie. Poor bastard was pumped full of bullets before he even laid eyes on me.

My god. I hadn’t considered that. And this after all you’ve done to rid our streets of the scourge of drugs.

By now Mayor Larry had all-but devoured half his burger. A dollop of special sauce splashed onto the spacebar. Suckling audibly from the bendy straw, with a mouthful of half-chewed, diet cola-soaked meat, he asked the existential question: 

Jaime, why are you here? 

Because you asked me to deliver your supper? 

Which is cold, by the way. Stale fries and a soggy bun. Have I died and this is hell after all? What did I say about fast food never traveling well.

But wasn’t that what you wanted? You insisted—

—I insist you tell me why you’re kissing my butt. Rather, what for. I mean, why … obviously, because I’m the Mayor of a mid-major American city. But, usually you’re much more nuanced in your flattery. Of all people, I should know. Day and night, they come to kiss my butt. Heck, how do you think I got here in the first place? Because I happen to be a world-class butt-kisser myself. Without peer, if I do say so. Although I do see some of myself in you. 

Thank you. Jaime said this with the utmost sincerity. 

But this … this is something different. Desperation. For the both of our sakes, it’s unbecoming. So, then, spare us, will you? Out with it. 

Um. Well, while I’d be loath to trouble you at this time, there is an urgent business matter on which I would seek your wise counsel.

Oh, baloney. You don’t want my advice. You want to couch whatever request your about to make in the form of a question. It’s the oldest trick in the book. I should know. I wrote it. But, fine. At least, now we’re getting somewhere. Please, then, arrive at your ask. Although if it’s another investment you're after I’m afraid the books are closed, indefinitely. The political action committee is a little cash-poor, at the moment. They’re even advising me that I should start self-funding my campaign, in part, if you can believe that. For the optics. And to take some of the heat off. I’ve got the Secretary of State so far up my you-know-what, my proctologist could just as well file a public records request. 

Oh, no. We’re not raising a round at the moment. And you’ve already been so generous in that regard. Besides, I think our capitalization requirements have matured beyond the friends and family phase. 

Is that so? Well la-di-da. Here’s a bit of unsolicited advice, Jaime: Don’t get in the habit of turning down checks, Jaime. Especially when they aren’t on the table.  

You’re right. I’m terribly sorry. I intended no offense. It’s just, as you know, we’ve been positioning ourselves for an acquisition for some time now, and I believe we’re currently optimized as such for just such an exit.

Is that so? Well wouldn’t that be nice. I’m currently optimized for a blow job from Christie Brinkley.

Who is that? 

Seriously? Supermodel. Swimsuit issue. She married and subsequently divorced Billy Joel. 

Who’s Bil—

—Ah. Don’t you dare … ask me that. [Uncomfortable silence.] You know, it’s my understanding that the markets aren’t exactly foaming for boutique beer makers. So then, by whom, may I ask, are you hoping to be acquired? 

By the Wolffenbeir Company, of course. 

Thus followed another, even more viscous silence. The mere suggestion of Hildegard — so soon after his crude allusion to oral sex … the receiving of — sent a painful tingle down Mayor Larry’s dungarees. It took him a moment to compose himself. 

I’m sorry to say, Jaime, but that’s simply preposterous. What in the world makes you think the Wolffenbeir Company would want to buy a craft brewery?

I know. It was a moonshot, but I think we’re in striking distance of a deal. This is strictly confidential, but I’ve been cultivating a relationship with WIlhem Wolff III, and—

—Wait. I beg yoru pardon, but did you say Wilhelm? Do you mean Billy? As in Billy Wolff, Trip, Born on Third, the last and decidedly least … Jesus, Jaime. How can I put this diplomatically? Take it from a fellow butt-kisser. Billy is a horse’s ass. The poor son of a gun won the egg lottery, and since then he’s spent his entire useless life pissing all over the winning ticket. And now you’re telling me that this is the mule to whom you’ve hitched your wagon?

Sir. Respectfully, I know Billy can be a bit of an eccentric, but I’d hardly call him a lightweight. In fact, he’s the head of the Beverage Advancement Division.   

Oh, my, the Beverage Advancement Division. Have you ever heard of anything ever so serious sounding? It must be real. Somebody call the Wall Street Journal. Come on, Jaime. And it’s Was, by the way. 

It’s Was what?

Was the Head of something or other, is my understanding. His mother has been in the nasty habit of inventing jobs for him, if only to keep him a safe distance away from the actual business. Only now that he may have stumbled jackass backward into something of actual value, she’s resorted to shuffling him away on some or other makework, wild goose chase. You see, Jaime, our mutual friend Billy is something of a Don Quijote figure. Only he’s trying to fuck the windmill. Come to think of it, I suppose then that would make you his Sancho Panza. Tell me, how’s that going so far? 

I’m sorry, I don’t understand the reference. Also, while I certainly empathize with your skepticism, I can assure you of this opportunity’s utmost legitimacy. Until very recently, I had been given assurances that the deal would be presented to the board, imminently. And that, furthermore, approval was all but a formality. 

Oh, really? And then what happened? 

Well. Just some complications. It’s only temporary. This is coming from Billy himself. 

Is that so? Complications, huh. How apropos. Billy is himself a complication. His entire existence on this planet, I mean. A perpetual stillbirth. His mother would tell you so herself, if only she were here. If it were Hildy running for governor, it’d be on a platform of legalising abortions in the one-hundredth trimester. In that regard — socially, I mean — she’s quite liberal. Fiscally, of course, she’s Attila the Hun. 

Jaime was yet again confused. Something was — amiss. The Mayor he knew was a champion of a woman’s right to choose. Larry wasn’t his usual self.

Sir, are you feeling alright? You’re not your usual self.

Oh, like you know the usual me. Maybe it’s I’m feeling more sympathetic toward the Right To Lifers, having survived such a brazen attempt on my own. Hey. Now this, perhaps that’s not such a bad idea. What’s another flip flop or two anyway? I’m already running out of real estate in the center. So maybe this time I tack a bit to the Right. My political career is a fetal heartbeat away from flatlining completely.   

Jaime hadn’t the slightest idea what the Mayor was talking about. Once more he tried to get through to him. 

Mister Mayor. Lawrence. Again, you’ve been so generous, to myself and all the #x_brüers, of which I hope you count yourself among. For that we are eternally grateful. Speaking of Hildegaard, at the risk of asking too much, would you be willing to act as our intermediary to her? I know you two are close. If I could make the connection directly, I’m quite sure I could plead our case as a viable target for corporate takeover. Our brand equity is at an all time high. We project to reach profitability within a five-year window. Production is ramping up—  

—Whoa. Wait just a second, Jaime. Ramping up, you say? How, dare I ask, are you affording that? You said so yourself in our last board meeting. You’re debt-financed up to your nipples. 

Yes. I’m excited to announce to you now — this with the anticipated capital influx as resultant to our iminent acquiring on behalf by the Wolffenbeir Company — we have secured a handshake agreement to ourselves acquire the new New Frontier production facility before it goes online. 

Hearing this, Larry spit out a bit of his soft drink. 

Hah! I’ve really got to hand it to you. You’ve got a knack for spending other people’s money. Another quality I also possess in great quantity. Perhaps a political future awaits thee, my son. Although you’re taking a roundabout approach. The New Frontier? You know I divested my interest in that fledgling concern some twenty years ago. Why ever would you wish to own a piece of that money pit? 

What do you mean? You started the Newfy. I thought you would be proud of me.

Is that a joke? 

No? 

Hmm. That’s too bad for you. Well then, it’s time for your last free lesson, Jaime. It may be too late yet for you to learn it, I’m sorry to say, but I implore you to listen all the same. Because unless you’ve got a rich uncle out there whom I’m not aware of, this is the last time we’ll speak. Are you listening? Because here it is:

We aren’t in the business of pride. Look around you. This [the Mayor was again gesticulating, this time with a soggy french fry] … this is the business of debasing ourselves to the highest possible bidder. Now, what you did, was you tried to build something. And good on you for it, my boy. To be sure, it was a quite absurd something which no one needed, but then again are most things. And this something, You tried to build It. Of That, one could be proud, in theory. Of course I won’t be proud of you. Don’t be silly. However what I have done and will continue to do is take that pride and sell it. Or maybe I borrow against it, in a manner of speaking. Securitize it. Whatever the transaction or the financial instrument may be, we are its licensed brokers. It’s our reason for being. Certainly it’s why you’re sitting here today. It’s why tomorrow I’m apologizing for a genocide that happened a century ago out front of a takeout salad store. It’s … you’re like our yeomen farmer, Jaime. A vision somewhere’s way off in the distance. The further we get away from it, the clearer it rounds into view.

Vision. Let’s talk about vision. Entrepreneurs such as ourselves talk of having Vision. It’s possible you do see further in some direction, but your sight is distorted through the jagged prism that is your pride. Because here’s a question: what’s the difference between seeing visions and hearing voices? The answer: very little. Particularly when your head’s too far up your keister to smell your own bull crap. Sound familiar? It should. Because that’s what this is, nine-hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine times out of a million. Absolute buloney. But then there’s that one in a million times. Why wouldn’t it be me? There’s your pride. They use on Us. It’s really white slavery.  

Who are They? You’ll never know. I do, of course. We all used to know them. Everywhere you looked, their names were carved into marble. Your Rockefellers or Fords, your Carnegies, Vanderbilts and Hearsts. Our dear Wolffs. Not anymore. Unless they suffer a three-quarter’s life crisis and do something foolish, like haul off and buy a football team. Imaging feeling so existentially depressed that you resort to buying the Buffalo Bills. Have some pride and kill yourself. But hey, it happens. Apart from that, though, they’ll remain totally anonymous. That’s how they prefer it these days. To them, pride is a writeoff. Of course, shame comes at a high cost, but they can afford it. 

Now where I went wrong was I thought I could be one of them. It started I was just like you. I hung up my shingle. You know that used to be the extent of one’s personal brand. Look at me, mother, I’m a small business owner. Of course we didn’t own anything. Least of which the ground beneath our feet. So, I get wise. Okay, I say, I’ll quit this racquet and start buying up properties, like a real big shot. Strip mall here, warehouse there, condos everywhere you look. I have my own little fiefdoms. And then you give a mouse a cookie … which is to say now that I had the land, of course I wanted the power to go with it. So then I ran for Mayor! Ha! Are you still looking, Mother? I’m the mayor of a mid-major American city. So now I’ve got the power. I’ve got the land. But these people. They’re not people at all. Forgive the cliche, but they’re dieties. Their power is within the land. It rolls the country like the weather. God of fire. God of wind. Natural gasses, precious metals, Drinking Water, fiber optic cable, Old King Coal. Taking it out, putting it in. Transporting it — all around the world. Killing, or at the very least permanently displacing whoever stands in the way, if necessary, which it almost is. Schmucks like you and me? All we’re good for is selling what comes out the other side for a ten-percent commission and a holiday bonus. You had a good month? Congratulations. Here’s a set of steak knives. And you get a company lease on a luxury sedan. Hell, maybe it’ll be a convertible, if you’re lucky. Gold watch and a pretty good pension come time for retirement. And from time to time, the real bosses will come down from their corner offices and their ranches up on magic mountain. They’ll pat you on the back and tell you good job. They might even invite you to one of their secret sex parties. Ah. That’s the closest you’ll get though. All they’re really here for is reminding how truly replaceable you are. 

For a moment nobody spoke. All that yapping he did, Mayor Larry understood the dramatic purchase of a well-timed pause. He picked up many such flourishes along the way, studying history’s great speechmakers, with emphases on their cadences. Adolph Hitler — to name one example at random — orated with a rhythm that some Hitler scholars described as, erotic. To start out he lured in his audience with a sort of rhetorical foreplay, in the form of leading questions and some friendly banter. Then gradually he’d build toward his climax. The trademark fascist gesticulations and foaming out the mouth declarations of restoring pride to the father land. For a fact, whether it was due to his undescended testicle or perhaps his micropenis (both alleged), the Fuhrer was known to have suffered acute symptoms of erectile dysfunction, which according to urban legend could only be assuaged by the sexual release he achieved through this, the addressing of large crowds. Which is to say, coloquially, that he got off on that shit. That, and schizer play (also allegedly). And here meanwhile Mayor Larry here would have settled for the occasional blow job. 

Wait. What were talking about? I lost my train of thought. 

Mayor Larry was daydreaming about Hitler’s genitals again. 

Oh, right, Billy Wolff. What am I saying? Everybody knows the story. It’s Icarus, it’s Macbeth. It’s whatever — don’t go chasing waterfalls. You took a wrong shortcut. Now the game starts over. It’s okay. Maybe you’ll make it all back. More than likely, you won’t. But maybe. And if you do, hopefully I’ll still be here to slap you on the back. Until then, goodbye forever, Jim. Thanks for the hamburger.   

Jaime, whose ass-kissing days were just about over, had as of this very moment had just about enough of this bullshit. First the Mick was up to his old tricks. Then Billy had up and gone full retard. Now suddenly his trusted mentor, Larry — something of an absent father figure — was forsaking him? And, furthermore, he had the gall to act like it was all for his own good. What the fuck? You have one near death experience and now you’re here doling out life lessons. How about you suck my dick, Lawrence, was how he felt. Although, as much as he would have delighted in telling him so to his scrunchy fucking face, — to suck his dick — just as he had told Billy, Jaime still understood something: that there were guys you could tell to suck your dick, and guys you couldn’t. Mayor Larry wasn’t quite a guy you couldn’t tell to suck your dick, but nonetheless, he thought it prudent to withhold from biting the hand. So, like a big boy, he stood there and took it. Content in the steadfast belief that he would make it all back, albeit probably in some other incarnation. He was Buddhist in his ambition. Willing to do anything in service of his ego god. As Larry alluded, he’d already reinvented himself several times over to get to this point. What makes you think I won’t do it again? Bitch, I’m D.B. Cooper. Madonna. Kaiser Soze, mother fucker. Take your pick. Underestimate me at your mother fucking peril. Fuck you. Fuck. Fuck me. Why couldn’t have I just gone to nursing school? Is it too late to get a masters? Shit. I’d be fucking thirty by the time I graduated. Beside I can’t take on any more debt. Fuck. Fuck it. No. Yes. Fuck yes. I’ll be back. So fucking back. Baby, I’m coming. At least Icarus could fucking fly. 

But he didn’t say any of that shit. All he did was clasp his hands together in secular prayer, bowed to his once and former master and made his exit. Thus allowing the Mayor — blissfully oblivious to his mentee’s inner torment — to return to drafting his conciliatory declaration. 

On that day which will live in infamy, on this hallowed ground, it was my predecessor in the Mayor’s office who made the fateful decree, that which will echo into eternity: 

A dead Indian is the only kind I like. If you see one, 

shoot on sight. 

Today, as a gesture of my goodwill, I officially rescind that civic order.

[Pause for effect and/or possibly applause]

[pharmaquipt1]

Unveiling the Elegance: Your Ultimate Guide to Choosing the Best Cashmere Sweater

Decoding Quality: Factors That Define the Best Cashmere Sweater

1. Fiber Thickness

The crux of a superior cashmere sweater lies in the thickness of its fibers. The best ones boast fine fibers, measured in microns, ensuring a delicate, velvety texture against your skin.

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Geography plays a crucial role in cashmere quality. Sweaters crafted from fibers sourced in the Himalayan region, particularly from goats in Mongolia, often exhibit a higher caliber of softness and durability.

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A significant determinant of a cashmere sweater's durability and weight is its ply count. Opt for a higher ply count for a more substantial and enduring garment.

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Store your cashmere garments folded, as hanging may cause stretching. Implementing natural moth repellents, such as cedar balls, safeguards your investment.

Making the Right Choice: Your Purchase Guide

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Consider your preferred fit and style. Whether it's a classic crewneck or a trendy oversized silhouette, choose a style that complements your personal aesthetic.

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In the pursuit of the perfect cashmere sweater, discerning consumers prioritize quality, craftsmanship, and sustainability. This guide equips you with the knowledge to make an informed choice, ensuring your investment stands the test of time.

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The sheer advantages related with Indian government jobs are the main reason behind the popularity of Govt jobs. If an individual has apt qualification, then he/ she can compete against thousand others of same caliber to lay their hands on Indian Government Jobs or Sarkari Naukri as it is commonly referred to as. Govt jobs in India are a broad category, wherein Railway Jobs, Defence Jobs, Bank Jobs, Freshers Job, and a lot more fall under it.

The sheer advantages related with Indian government jobs are the main reason behind the popularity of Govt jobs. If an individual has apt qualification,Guest Posting then he/ she can compete against thousand others of same caliber to lay their hands on Indian Government Jobs or Sarkari Naukri as it is commonly referred to as. Govt jobs in India are a broad category, wherein Railway Jobs, Defence Jobs, Bank Jobs, Freshers Job, and a lot more fall under it.

Sarkari Naukri put forth an assortment of benefits which is simply unsurpassable and can not be matched by even the top notch and distinguished blue chip corporations and MNCs (Multi National Companies).  Those aspirants looking forward to a career in Defence Jobs in India can ply the Navy, the Army and the Air Force as their arena of specialization and can choose any one of them.

The Indian railways is the world's fourth largest railway network which encourages many a citizens to apply for Railway Jobs In India, which not only commands repute but also is a rewarding and satisfying career. Govt jobs in India caters to every educational qualification and every pertaining experience level, thus you can find freshers job and jobs which require huge experience all at this one sector.

Opportunities for rapid career growth and timely promotional prospects fuel the popularity of Indian Government Jobs. The very fact that even in times of global economic downturn or recession as we know it, the Indian government was one sector which was recruiting in large and copious amounts; this proves that this public sector is not only sturdy but also very trust worthy.

Invariable and regular availability of Govt jobs makes certain that irrespective of your time of passing, there is always a public sector job waiting out there only for you. The necessity of replace retiring staff with fresh talent also ensures that you stand a chance in acquiring Indian government jobs. The best mode to approach the availability of the Govt jobs is undeniably the World Wide Web.

With a bit of intricate research on the internet, you can lay your hands on pertaining and precise information on the plethora of Railway Jobs, Defence Jobs, Bank Jobs, Freshers Job, an a lot more with utter ease and that too from the comforts of your home. Yet another reason which attracts employable talent towards the public sector jobs is the job security façade.

This facility is not availed even by the top posts in the corporate or private sector. People in Govt jobs are also entitled to receive pension which is a sort of salary even after retirement. Add to it the fact that govt employees are not under the constant pressure of delivering productivity at the pace under which private sector employee’s work.

The sheer assortment of resources accessible online will surely sweep you off your feet. With the assistance of the internet, you will be able to get thorough know how and acquaintance with eligibility criteria, exam dates, study materials and other relevant information.

Visit them right away we have Free Job Alert is an upcoming Post Graduate Pass Govt Jobs and Graduate Pass Govt Jobs in Bangalore.

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One of the top producers and Plywood Suppliers In India is Yeti Ply, which offers a quality selection of products like Marine Plywood, India is a leading producer of block boards, flush doors, and hardwood of the highest calibers. Having yetiply plywood will be helpful as we enter or leave (a period of time) where sustainability is given a lot of the state or fact of being of great importance or value. yeti Ply provides

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Making of a Wood-Burning [Gasifier] Truck:

When commercial fuels become unavailable during an emergency, wouldn't it be good to have an alternative source of powered transportation? A Wood Gasifier converts timber or charcoal into wood gas which, after cooling and filtering, can then be used to power an internal combustion engine or for other purposes. Can't Find Fuel? Make Your Own With A Wood Gasifier! How to Build a Wood Gasifier - With Parts List (Video) 1 - 55 Gallon Drum 1 - 120mm Ammo Can 1 - 40mm (preferred), or 50 caliber, Ammo Can 1 - Plastic tub at least twice the size of the 40mm Ammo Box 1 - Grill Surface Thermometer 4 - Screw/band hose clamps - 1 5/16" to 2 1/4" 4 - 1/2" barb/nipple to 1/2" pipe thread 1 - 1/2" T connector 1 - 1/2" Thread to 1/2" Thread 1 - 1/2" Ball Valve (female on both sides) 1 - 1/2" Union 1 - 1 1/2" threaded pipe, 6" long 1 - 1 1/2" threaded pipe, 3" long 1 - Tube of High-temperature, red, RTV silicon sealant (NAPA Part # 81160) 1 - Sheet of Metal Mesh 1 - 6' long, 2" Diameter, High Temperature Silicone 2-ply (lined) Air Duct Hose (available from https://www.pegasusautoracing.com, Part #3631) 1 - 6' long, 1/2" diameter high-temperature tubing TOOLS NEEDED (per above Video): 2" Metal Hole Saw Bit Tape Measure Cresent wrench Leather Gloves Cloth Gloves 2 - Cut-off wheels Drill 1/2" Drill Bit Grinder and wheel Face Shield Safety Glasses Welder (see video for other options) Related Links: Mountain Men: Eustace Conway and Preston Roberts Work on Their Wood-Burning Truck    [Video 2] How to Build a Wood Burning (Gasifier) Vehicle [Video 1]    [Video 2]    [Video 3] Plans for Building a DIY Wood-Gas Generator [to run a vehicle] Library of Wood-Gas Projects More Wood Gasifier Links on Google DIY Fuels Uses For Wood Ashes [Reference Link]

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No matter what they are doing—whether it's a routine inspection or a more exceptional problem—Peterson Roofing never fails to impress. We are aware of the importance of happy customers to the development of our company. The next step is obvious: we cannot compromise on performance standards for the benefit of our customers. You must adapt to satisfy clients' shifting needs if you want to keep them happy and having them come back for more. All Americans are welcome to contact us about roofing, but Californians in particular. The consumers that visit their California store come from all around the world.

For a roof to remain in top shape, regular maintenance is required in addition to a yearly application of paint.

We requested an estimate of the cost to be sure you weren't trying to avoid paying for a new roof. Please accept my sincere gratitude for bearing with me so far. It is really important. We believe we may have identified the cause of whatever is hindering your company's growth. I don't mean to deceive you when I claim that I appreciate open discussions. I believe we do after giving it a lot of thought. I felt it was crucial to document how I arrived at this conclusion after coming to it. Your repair should entitle you to a ten- to twenty-year manufacturer's warranty if your roof was in reasonable condition to begin with. There are some roofs that, despite significant repairs, will never seem "as good as new." A producer will occasionally guarantee a product for ten years. Maybe the manufacturer will throw in a few extra service years for free. For up to twenty years, the manufacturer's warranty could guard you from financial loss. Within the guarantee term, any flaws in the materials or the workmanship will be fixed without charging the client.

Upkeep and Roof Modifications Roofing Services for Commercial and Governmental Structures

Due to its ongoing use of cutting-edge methods and superior materials, Peterson Roofing is well-known in the industry. This is precisely why Peterson Roofing is so committed to the caliber of its roofing. It appears that you are thinking about having Peterson Roofing build a sturdy roof for you. Using our services will immediately reduce your stress and give you back valuable time. It is highly recommended that you use our services in this way. Our clients claim to have looked everywhere else and that no one else offers the same money-back guarantee as we do. The success of a project depends on quality assurance both before and after it is put into action. We are thrilled to be certified installers of single-ply roofing systems for Carlisle and GAF. For roofing work on commercial structures, such as roof repairs and replacements, this information is essential. Never put off calling a qualified roofer if you have an urgent roofing issue. When assistance is needed, just let us know, and we'll be there to provide it. We exercise the utmost caution when working on flat rooftops. Some of the most recent advancements in residential roofing include metal, composite shingles, and built-up systems. There is more variation in the results. To make roofing shingles, materials like fiberglass and vinyl are frequently employed. Shingles are used widely because of their inexpensive cost and excellent efficiency.

Call me at +18885964889 or use the website's contact form to arrange a time to talk about your upcoming roofing needs. How you integrate into the culture at large is entirely up to you. I'm eagerly awaiting your response, though. We are unable to take a deep breath and relax because of our communication problems.

It is essential that you regularly check the condition of your roof.

Peterson Roofing advises getting checked out once a year. Nobody wants to spend a lot of money on maintenance and repairs for a car that needs to be fixed frequently. You have it backwards completely; breaking from physical law is necessary to effectively separate the production of several types of roofing. With Peterson Roofing's service or maintenance plans, you won't have to be concerned about your roof again. You can't possibly lose money on this gamble. You should contact Peterson Roofing if you require any roof maintenance. It's feasible that by paying close attention to a specific approach, the roof's lifespan could be increased. You have saved the client a ton of money and given them peace of mind by averting that terrible catastrophe. There are a few tasks that must be completed before beginning preventative roof maintenance.

[seafavoured]

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐒, 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 ? 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇, but even that felt overshadowed by the flush at their cheeks. of course the wizard appeared unaffected, unbothered by their presence or their insinuations. it made edward's own indignant rage feel all the more foolish and poignant in equal measure.

you aren't special, my dear.

of course not. it shouldn't have come as a surprise, nor should it have struck such a chord of melancholy upon their heartstrings. that little spark of irritation caught and spread to something else entirely. a proper blaze of regret and embarrassment. gods, what a fucking fool he was. brooding over silly little gifts and what they might mean, what ned might want beyond the reign of their body. what did it matter, anyway? it wasn't as though he cared what the elf thought of him. a good thing, considering he seemed to think very little indeed.

they realized with mounting dismay that they were frowning, brows furrowed over big doe eyes, and wiped it quick from their face. lips pursed, expression steeled to something more neutral. ❛ you'd like that, wouldn't you? put the mouthy tiefling in his place? ❜ snapped as he rounded on ned. stepped in close and jabbed a finger into his sternum. ❛ you and i, last time ❜ a pause to wave pointedly past the doorframe and into ned's chambers proper. ❛ it was a one time deal, whether it's roses or shackles you see fit to ply me with. ❜

he withdrew, arms folded cross his chest. it might've looked more convincing, were they not already dressed down. they ought to have turned on heel and left. ended this little spat before it grew to something more ... but apparently their tongue had a different prerogative. ❛ tch, magic of your caliber, ❜ muttered, as if to themself, in as mocking a tone as possible. then, to the elf, ❛ so you cracked open a dusty ol' book or two. what, like it's hard? ❜

ed could admit when they were being childish. would it deter him? absolutely not, but he could recognize it all the same. they propped a bared forearm against the doorframe and leaned in. ❛ you run out of juice for the day, then what's left, hm? you aren't special either, my dear. ❜

Ned was still up, enjoying the opulence his tower always provided, curled up in a plush armchair, draped in an ornate sleeping robe, reading a thick tome on necromancy by the fireplace. Truly, he couldn't think of a better way to spend his time. A knock on his door made him instantly reconsider the thought.

He could think of one better way to spend his time.

Standing, putting his book aside, Ned wiped the amused smirk off his face into something more indifferent before opening the door, utterly unsurprised to see the familiar tiefling blinking down at him. He'd suspected that all the finery in his room would drive Edward mad, especially with how custom it was. Ned had always been observant and held a strong memory - a passing story here, a sly comment there and the boy opened up to him like a flower, spilling all his secret desires and wants.

The uncharacteristically flustered state of Edward was a treat. A delight well worth the effort it had taken to make his room such a specific haven for the boy. "Just coming to say hello?" Ned repeated dryly, barely able to stifle the quirk of his lips - something that became only more difficult as they continued to speak.

Leaning his shoulder against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest, Ned raised an unimpressed brow at Edward as the accusations rolled in as expected. "So vulgar." he tsked, then, a mocking echo, "Why do I have to want something?" A languid shrug of his shoulders, "You aren't special, my dear. For magic of my caliber, it's simple enough to furnish everyone's rooms with things they enjoy." Of course, no one else got such luxury to the extent that he did Edward's room beyond Ned himself, but that was neither here nor there.

Finally letting the smirk crawl up over his lips, voice airy, "If you prefer, next time I summon the tower I can put you in a veritable prison cell. Give you a bed of straw on a cold stone floor?" A twitch around his mouth, slight, though the cadence of his voice didn't change, "Perhaps some shackles? A metal collar?" A tilt of his head, a thread of something suggestive just barely there, "Is that what you'd prefer?"