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extra-stout-stories · 1 month ago

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First Date / Creepy Cookies

When a BHM in Florida decides to take the plunge on a long-distance relationship with a witchy SSBBW FFA in New England, their first IRL encounter goes even better than he expected. (BHM to USSBHM, magical rapid weight gain, SSBBW feeder. Romantic, but spicy and mildly explicit. Lots of sexy descriptions of food. CW: Immobility, mobility aids.)

My first contribution to Feedist Kinktober '24! Reblog if you like it, and thanks as always to the mighty @fatguarddog for blessing us with an inspirational list of prompts. Last year I bit off more than I could chew and ended up with a folder of half-finished story ideas, so this year I'm only writing the ones where I feel inspired enough to knock a full story out in one go. Here's a sexy supernatural mutual gaining tale.

His belly hang bounced against the steering wheel as he stepped with a grunt out of the rental car. A compact car wasn't exactly comfortable for a guy his size, but it was a chance to save a little bit of money on the trip. If this works out it's going to be expensive, he thought to himself. Long distance sucks.

He adjusted his jacket against the October breeze. New England was a lot different from Florida. He wasn't sure how he felt about the possibility of moving to somewhere he'd have to shovel snow in the winters, but he had to admit that at this time of year, the yellows and crimsons of the autumn foliage were beautiful like nothing he had ever seen.

And his date was like nobody he had ever met. It would be their first time meeting in person.

Dating as a 320 pound man was difficult enough, dating as a 320 pound man with a feeding fetish was more difficult still, and dating as a mutual gainer felt like the hardest thing of all. He was grateful that his last serious relationship had ended amicably; she was a Miami Beach gym bunny who loved the way her toned, tan body contrasted with his, and she had helped him break through a plateau at 300, but she grew increasingly frustrated that he couldn't reciprocate her attraction to him. Fortunately, they had managed to part without drama and stay friends, and he was happy to watch her pair off with a guy close to his size who was a much better fit for her. There was a text from her waiting when his plane touched down in Boston: "Good luck on your New England date! If she turns out to be a serial killer, text me and I'll come rescue you, k?"

But he wasn't too worried about that. Mostly he was worried that he wouldn't be as fat in person as his date expected. He was fat, of course, but he was also good at using camera angles to highlight his big belly and doughy double chin, making him look like a bigger SSBHM than he really was. And a part of him worried that the date would go too well. Plane tickets and a rental car weren't cheap, flying at his size was cramped and uncomfortable, and the drive north from Boston added another two and a half hours onto the trip. If things worked out, it wasn't going to be much fun trying to make a long-distance relationship work.

Still, it's worth a try. Nothing worth having in life comes easily. That's what he told himself as he took one last look at the scenery, the golden autumn colors mingling with evergreens this far north, the peak of Mount Washington in the distance already dusted with a layer of snow.

The Waterwheel Brewery was an old brick building at the edge of a ravine where a cold, clear waterfall splashed and foamed down a crack in the mountain granite. The rusty iron wheel that gave the brewpub its name was still there at the side of the ravine, a nineteenth century relic from a time when the building had been some kind of textile mill during the early years of America's industrial revolution. But that was a long time ago, and now the small factory town in the mountains was a self-consciously quaint destination catering to hikers, skiiers and leaf-peepers from Boston and New York City. The buildings on its main street had been transformed into upscale shops and farm-to-table restaurants, and the nineteenth century mill owner's stately Victorian mansion had been renovated as an expensive bed and breakfast. He had suggested to her that he book a room there for the night of their first date, but she had vetoed the idea. The Wilkes House is a tourist trap, she had messaged back. If dinner goes well, you'll stay at my place. She was nothing if not forward. He liked that about her.

Nervously, he entered the brewpub.

It was a busy Friday night. Middle-aged yuppies in fleece vests and college-aged hippies in hiking gear were clinking glasses. People really are skinnier up North, he thought to himself. It must be lonely being her size in a town like this. The Florida coast was full of tanned and toned beach bodies, of course, so he understood the struggle. Still, even in Florida, the South had its share of fat folks.

And he wasn't nearly as fat as she was.

Then a little voice in his mind seemed to whisper: Yet.

He shivered, his nervousness suddenly replaced by excitement. Don't get too far ahead of yourself, he thought. This is just a first date. She's cool online but you need to know if you vibe in person before you let her feed you for real. He glanced around the brewpub. When his eyes landed on her, there was no mistaking the woman he had come all this way to meet.

She was seated at the corner of the brewpub, on banquette seating behind a movable table. She seemed as wide as the table, fat shoulders in a loose white cardigan seeming to flow like lava into her breasts and belly rolls in a snug red cotton dress. An elegant antique necklace, a chunky Victorian brooch on a thick silver chain, drew his attention irresistably to her cleavage, then to the triple chins that seemed to rest directly on her chest and shoulders, her neck gone entirely, the chain disappearing beneath soft, pale folds. His attention wandered up her face just as she registered his presence and their eyes met. Her eyes seemed to flash with anticipation behind a pair of vintage eyeglass frames whose red matched the dress. Her fat cheeks dimpled as she smiled. Her chins quivered.

She was fatter in person.

Dinner went as well as he could have imagined. She was as clever as she was fat, a quick-witted conversationalist with a bright laugh and a keen sense of humor. They had spent so much time messaging back and forth that he already felt like he knew her, but she was even more charming in person. She had an endless supply of funny anecdotes from her job as an instructional librarian at the liberal arts college outside of town, the kind of school where rich kids spent four years as ski bums cultivating their weed habits. It wasn't where she had planned to end up, but her Ph.D. in anthropology from Miskatonic hadn't led to a tenure-track job, and she had grown to love the quiet beauty of the little mountain town.

The brewpub owners were graduates of the college, and the waitstaff all seemed to know her. They weren't fazed when she asked to see the menu for a second round of entrees, and while neither of them wanted to drink too much -- it would be another twenty minutes' drive up windy roads to her mountainside cottage, and besides, it was a first date -- the waitstaff were more than happy to pour small samples of the microbrews that the pub brewed on site. He told a few tall tales about life in Florida, exaggerating for dramatic effect. She knew he didn't really have to fend off wild alligator attacks on his way to work, of course, and she gave him a little coquettish smirk when he admitted: "…and besides, I'm too fat to outrun an alligator anyway."

It was all he could have asked for on a first date.

Still, it was hard to keep his mind from wandering to more primal urges, especially when she shrugged off the cardigan and he got a glimpse of her pillowy upper arms, as wide around as some people's waists, spilling like rolls of dough over her elbows, swaying irresistably every time she raised a fork or a glass to her mouth. Cool it, he told himself, biting his lower lip. This is a date, not a hookup. We're here to get to know each other, not just fuck. But the more he watched her stuff herself with gusto, polishing off a steak followed by a lobster roll and a series of appetizers that just seemed to keep coming, the more he found himself imagining what the mountainous rolls of her naked belly might look like beneath that red dress, how wide and soft her naked hips and ass would be when he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her fat body against his.

"Distracted? They asked what you wanted for dessert." He blushed, suddenly realizing how far he had lost himself in the reverie. She gave him a wry smirk. "The bread pudding's good here. Get it with caramel."

The waitress looked at her, then at him, and didn't bother to ask him for confirmation. Soon he was tucking into the bread pudding. But by now, he thought to himself, the bill couldn't come soon enough.

He felt suddenly protective of her as she stood up from the table, reaching to steady herself on a stainless steel bariatric cane, face slightly flushed and breath slightly ragged from the effort of lifting her enormous body. He helped her slip the cardigan back on, and as he helped her navigate around the tables to the entrance of the brewpub, he found himself putting a hand on the small of her back to guide her, feeling her back rolls ripple with each step. She's really big, he thought to himself. But it wasn't his first time with an SSBBW, and he knew how to pace himself and help her feel comfortable, glancing and gesturing to signal to the other diners that they should pull their chairs in for a moment to clear a path. He caught one or two hostile stares from skinny couples eating salads, but when he glared back -- it helped that he was tall and stocky, muscular underneath his fat -- they looked away in embarrassment.

She smiled up at him as they reached the rental car. She was a few inches shorter than him, and the difference in height put just how fat she was into even sharper relief. "Think you can make it up the mountain?"

He laughed. "As long as you don't ask me to hike. That's what the car is for." He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in close for a kiss, the fabric of his shirt whispering against the fabric of her dress as their bellies touched, a peck on the lips leading to a momentary touching of tongues before she withdrew.

"Good. Make sure you turn right at the covered bridge. Otherwise you'll end up in moose territory. They're even faster than alligators."

"Got it. I'll see you in a little bit." He smiled and lowered himself with a grunt into the rental car. Damn, he thought, exhaling suddenly as his belly hit the steering wheel and he reached down to scoot the seat back a little further. I'm really full.

Only the knowledge of how easy it would be to get lost in these woods on a wrong turn, and the thought that a tourist town like this would be full of speed traps, kept him from rushing even faster than he did up the road to her secluded cottage.

She had just gotten out of her own car when he pulled up, steadying herself on the cane as she reached into her purse for her keys. The cottage was picture-postcard cute, wood and stone, built (she had told him at dinner) by some now-forgotten artist who had moved up from Manhattan in the Fifties to get closer to nature. As the door swung open she saw that she'd had it fitted out with energy-efficient modern luxuries and rearranged to make space for her ample body, the open floor plan giving it a feeling that was simultaneously spacious and cozy. Through a wide picture window he could see the lights of the town and the college flickering down in the valley; he thought he could just barely make out the silhouette of the brewpub.

But what really enticed him was the smell of fresh cooking. She must have spent all day baking, he thought to himself. There were savory breads and sugary sweets, pies, cakes and turnovers, all mingling with the aroma of beef stew bubbling in a slow cooker and the scent of cinnamon from an enormous apple crumble.

He watched her enormous ass and thighs quiver as she slowly walked to the kitchen. All of a sudden all he could think about was sex.

She turned back to look at him, the folds of her chins quivering, her cheeks dimpling in that irresistable smile as she winked at him through her vintage glasses. "Hungry?"

He exhaled and patted his belly. It had been a lot of food at dinner.

He looked at her. She looked at him.

He smiled back.

"I could use a little something. That was a long trip up the mountain."

"Good boy." She ladled some beef stew into a dish, then reached to slip on an oven mitt and open the oven. He couldn't keep his eyes off of how her ass and back rolls jiggled as she bent slightly to reach past her belly, her breath quickening with the effort. She drew out a thick loaf of bread and cracked it open. Inside, it was still steaming.

Turning to face him, she locked eyes with him and smiled, setting half the loaf down and reaching for a knife and butter. Slowly, sensually, she buttered the bread. He watched the glistening fresh butter seep into the thick, soft dough. He watched her arms jiggle, her chins quiver, her belly ripple.

She dipped the bread in the beef stew and took a small nibble. "Try dipping it." She grinned and handed him the dish. "Go sit on the couch. I'll bring some desserts, too."

She rolled her own dish of beef stew in on a cart, accompanied by pumpkin pie, apple crumble, and a large tub of ice cream. She sat down next to him and began to eat. By the time they finished, he felt so full he could barely breathe.

Her belly seemed to engulf him as she rolled over to straddle him on the couch, slipping her arms around his shoulders and pinning him down with her bulk. He pulled her closer and slipped his tongue into her mouth. Soon she was unbuttoning his shirt.

They were naked by the time they headed to the bedroom. She had been teasing him underneath his belly, giving quick, eager strokes, first with the tips of her fat fingers and then with the tip of her tongue. But he gave as good as he got, his own fingers deftly exploring the sensitive undersides of her rolls, sinking in a fraction of an inch further every time he plunged them into the warmth where her thighs and belly met.

By now he was so motivated by desire that he barely bothered to glance around the living room as she led him to bed. If he noticed the shelves of books, the replica statues of paleolithic goddess figures acquired during her anthropology research, it was only as background decoration.

His eyes passed over it, but he didn't really see the altar. A circle of red candles, designs painted in luminous white on dark black velvet, a small stone figurine, this one not a replica. Fresh fruit and grain placed as an offering. Slices of each of the baked desserts she had made, another offering.

And by now he was so full of dessert that he really couldn't take any more. If his eyes glanced briefly over the plate of cookies at the center of the circle of candles, he would have registered them only as one more item in the blur of sweet tastes and textures, of a piece with the pies and the brownies and the turnover soaked in ice cream. He was so full.

He certainly wouldn't have thought to ask her why the cookies were still steaming as if freshly baked, even though they had been making out for over an hour and he hadn't seen her take them from the oven.

She guided him to her bedroom tenderly, but when she shoved him the last step into bed she was almost rough, her own lust evident now, her face flushed as she took off her glasses and unpinned her hair, long locks falling down past her breasts and the enormous rolls of her belly, moving slowly but deliberately, fat flesh pressing against fat flesh as she curled up next to him in bed and pulled him in for another kiss.

The sex was even better than he had fantasized. Both of them were crackling with lust, burning with desire, as if lightning was passing back forth through their skin everywhere their bodies touched.

There's nothing like the sensation of fat on fat.

He was dozing off to sleep, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, when he felt her stand up from the bed. He heard the clunk of her bariatric cane as she left the bedroom. After all the excitement, he was too sleepy to do much more than grunt.

"Still hungry, babe?"

He groaned. At any other time, those words from her lips would have been the most enticing come-on he had ever heard. But the plane flight and the drive had taken a lot out of him, the sex had drained the last of his energy, and he was still full.

"C'mon. Just a few bites." She was back at the bedside, lifting a cookie to his lips.

"Mmmph." The warm, fresh dough. The gooey chocolate. He let her feed him the entire cookie, then another, then another. Barely awake, his eyes closed, his inner eye was already seeing half-formed dream shapes.

"Good boy." She traced her hand across his belly. So full, so achingly full. This was the best night of his life.

"Just one more bite. You have to eat the whole plate." She watched him swallow the last of the cookie, reached across his chest to pinch a few stray crumbs between her fat fingers, stuck her fingers between his lips so he could lick them off.

He leaned his head back onto the pillow and was immediately asleep.

His dreams were as much sensations as visions. Sensations of warmth, softness. Heaviness. Candles and torchlight illuminating his body. Eating, eating, always eating. Heavy, so heavy. His belly swelling.

She was there, or was it one of the goddess figurines? Looming over him, lustful and loving. Hungry for him, hungry to feed him. The goddess was vastly bigger than him, impossibly bigger, filling the bedroom, filling a torchlit cave, filling the night sky until her rolls of fat obscured the stars.

But he was big too, so big. And getting bigger.

Gradually the sensations ended. The visions ended. He sunk into a deep, deep sleep with no more dreams.

It was a bright New England autumn morning. He could see clear blue sky and a riot of fall colors, the town in the valley below framed perfectly in the picture window of the bedroom.

He was hungry. He didn't want to get up. Surely she had left some food in the bedroom.

Yes. A blueberry pie. Fresh. He was suddenly aware that he was alone in bed. From the kitchen, he could hear the clatter of dishes and the thud of her cane.

He was suddenly seized by the urge to devour the pie with his bare hands. He was hungrier than he ever thought possible. He reached for it, and --

His arm was heavy. So heavy. Just lifting it was an effort. Rolls of fat cascading, heavy as gym weights, his arms never reaching quite so far that the spilling softness of his upper arms didn't still touch the equally soft and heavy rolls of his naked chest and belly.

My belly. He looked down. He could barely see past his moobs, and he couldn't see past his belly at all. He felt it against his --

Against his calves. His belly had become enormous.

He looked down. He reached, or tried to. He was as wide as the bed, his fat arms splayed wide against side rolls that were just an inch or two short of spilling over the sides.

He wriggled his hips, or tried to. He felt hundreds of pounds of fat -- how many pounds? -- quiver in soft ripples.

He didn't even bother trying to stand up.

He felt the rolls of his chins against his chest, the rolls of his chest against his belly, the rolls of his belly against his thighs. He felt his thighs meet to well past his knees.

He even felt his overstuffed fat toes.

And suddenly there was a hardness under all that softness. He gasped sharply, drawing in a deep breath, feeling himself quake with excitement. Feebly, he tried to buck his hips against his belly, full of desire now.

She was standing in the bedroom door, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a plate of pastries in the other.

"Hungry?"

She grinned at him.

He could barely speak. "W-what happ…"

She wore nothing but a silk robe, open at the waist. Slowly, sashaying her enormous hips to make her massive belly sway from side to side, she waddled towards him and seated herself as best she could at the edge of the bed. She traced her fingertips down his belly.

"Magic. Don't ask too many questions. Do you want the croissants first, or the pie?"

"The pie." At least he had a ready answer to that one.

"Good boy." She began lifting forkfuls of the warm, fresh blueberry pie to his greedy lips. She stroked his hair and gave a mock pout. "I'm not sure you're going to fit on the plane back to Florida."

"Not unless it's a cargo plane." He smiled. "You didn't have to do this, you know. I would have stayed anyway."

Her mock pout deepened. "But it's so fun this way! You should have seen the look on your face when you woke up." She gave his belly a playful shove. "And I had to know you weren't one of those feedee fuckboys. Lots of guys online talk a big game but won't commit."

He lifted an arm as best he could to squeeze her thigh. "Come on. You knew I was serious."

"Mmmhmm." She leaned across him, her belly spreading over his. She was the skinny one now. "But I'm even more serious."

"Is that so?" He polished off the last bite of the pie, then let his voice get a little fierce. "More food. Now."

She blushed and giggled. "Okay, you're serious. That's what I like to see."

"I know it is." He sighed with contentment, wriggled his hips to get a little bit more comfortable, and let her lift the first of many chocolate-stuffed croissants to his lips. "Am I going to stay like this?"

She smiled. "Only if you want to. The spell is reversible." She paused, a smirk on her face. "But I think you want to."

"You're right. How do you know me so well?"

He smiled. Then he pulled her in for a kiss, grunting with the effort, the softness of his upper arm sliding against her naked back rolls.

An afternoon of eating. An evening of sex. A day passed. Maybe two or three.

He heard his phone vibrate, somewhere in the pile of clothes that were now much, much too small for him. "Could you pass me that?"

She stood up off the bed and reached down to pick up the phone, moving slowly. Slowly due to her bulk, slowly because she knew his mouth was watering at the sight of her enormous body in motion. She placed the vibrating phone on his belly, then left for the kitchen.

It was a text from his friend in Miami Beach. "You doing okay up there? Should I call the cops?"

He smiled. His fingers were so fat that it took him a minute to correct all the typos, but he texted back. "Even better than I hoped."

A moment later, the reply arrived. "That's great. Anything you need?"

He glanced over his gigantic belly at the stupendously fat woman who stood in the bedroom door, carrying a tray of fresh blueberry pancakes glistening with maple syrup. Through the door he could see into the living room, where an empty plate sat on an altar surrounded by the stubs of red candles. "Yeah. If I Venmo you the money, could you hire some movers to box my stuff up and send it here? I'm planning on staying in New England for a while."

He put the phone down and opened his mouth to take his first bite of the pancakes.

#feedist kinktober #mutual gaining #weight gain fiction #wg fiction #feedist fiction #mutual feeding #mutual gain #mutual gain fiction #mutual gainer #fat ffa #fat feeder #gaining weight on purpose #getting fat on purpose #spot the shout-outs to some classic New England horror writers

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danaewrites · 9 months ago

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Helmet Over Heels

part i: the winter of our discontent

din djarin x reader // read it on AO3

word count: 3.8k

summary: When your path literally collides with a beskar-covered Mandalorian one night, neither of you expect how that meeting will irreversibly change the trajectory of your lives.

You’re pulled into his powerful orbit, agreeing to take care of his son in exchange for adventure and freedom– when he’s not off hunting bounties and inadvertently saving villages in need, that is. It’s the perfect plan. Or it would be, if only your quiet crush on the man would stop growing into something more with every hour you spend together. There’s no way he’d ever feel the same, right?

And Din? Well, he’s been trying (and failing) to convince himself that he’s not completely helmet over heels for you since day one. But a Mandalorian can only repress his emotions for so long…

(This fic takes place sometime after Season 2. Din’s back on his bounty-hunting business with a Razor Crest that was never destroyed and an adorable green sidekick who won’t stop chewing on its wires.)

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, slow-ish burn, nicknames, touch-starved din djarin and fem!reader, canon-compliant through season 2 and then Jesus takes the wheel :P

author's notes:

hello and welcome to my first ever mando fic!! i binged the entirety of the first two seasons in a week to get me through tedious internship work and accidentally fell in love with our favorite space dad and his cute green child along the way. oops (i regret nothing)

with the outline i currently have for this fic, it’ll be around 11-12 chapters, although that’s likely to grow as we get deeper into the story. the posting schedule might be anywhere from once a week to once a month, but this wip *will* be finished.

the second chapter's scheduled to upload next week as a little treat for y'all, so if you want to catch it then hit that follow button or ask to be added to my taglist! ;)

read it all here: part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v coming soon!

You watched the last of tonight’s drunken patrons stumble out of the cantina and into the bitter Nath night with a relieved sigh. Wiping your hands on the stained apron tied around your waist, you fished a set of bronze keys out of a tiny pocket and began your nightly walk around the perimeter of the bar, locking doors and pulling down rusty shutters as you went. The cantina was silent aside from your quiet shuffling– a welcome reprieve from its usual crowded bustle and chatter so hectic you could barely hear your own thoughts.

You hummed softly as you adjusted booths back to their original positions and swept crumbs off of battered tabletops, wishing that the small holospeaker at the edge of the room hadn’t been broken in a recent bar fight. Swaying to its pre-Imperial oldies throughout your long, exhausting shifts had been one of the only perks of working in this run-down cantina, but without the soothing ambience of music, a chill threatened to sink into your bones and paralyze you with the deep depression this side of the planet seemed to have succumbed to.

You never planned to stay here for as long as you had. No one really did, except for criminals who knew that no one would willingly come here to search for them and locals who had never known anything else. Nath might have been charming, once– all soft snowflakes and peaceful walks under sepia-toned streetlights– but that was before the Empire had destroyed every semblance of comfort and culture and replaced them with brutalist brick structures that were already crumbling under the weight of their makers’ crimes. The fear lingered long after the Imps had finally left the post, reflected in the sad eyes of the fishmongers’ children and the way one would be hard-pressed to find a factory worker who didn’t spend his nights nursing a bottle and the ghosts of blaster scars across his back.

You had your own scars, of course, but you still held out hope that things would change and you’d make it out of here– although that hope was gradually diminishing as off-world shuttles visited less and less frequently and the permanent winter worsened. Five years ago, you’d been unceremoniously dropped off at the town’s dingy port, forced to land after your shuttle to Corellia was damaged by an unexpected detour through an asteroid field. You’d taken the cantina job thinking you’d only stay long enough to pay for passage on an outgoing ship, but soon learned that any shuttle risking the terrible weather to land here would also charge an exorbitant boarding price– one that would take you years to afford with the meager pay you received. And your tentative plan of stowing away on a spice freighter and sneaking off once it arrived at its destination (you weren’t picky about where, so long as it wasn’t Nath) was tempered by the increasingly likelihood that you’d get blown to pieces the minute you entered space by one of the pirate gangs that ruled the atmosphere these days. So– you were stuck here, at least for now.

The smell of something burning in the back of the cantina drew you out of your thoughts. Cursing, you raced to the kitchen, where your dinner was quickly blackening on the stove. Kriff. You shut off the burner, staring at the charred mess before you for a few seconds before dejectedly scraping it into an almost-overflowing trash bin. Well, there went your plan to eat quickly and head to your tiny flat before the storm outside worsened. Your rental pod had barely enough space for your bed and a miniscule bathroom, so you had to use the cantina kitchen if you wanted to stay fed– but the stove here was so old, it took half an hour longer than usual to cook anything. You resigned yourself to another night sleeping in a booth, since the flurry outside would prevent you from navigating your way home safely.

You sliced up a few vegetables and set them to simmer in a pot with the last of the herbed broth and sandseed noodles from today’s lunch special, glancing at the bin next to you. It was probably a good idea to take out the foul-smelling waste before you were sealed in next to it all night. Wrinkling your nose at the unappealing scraps of food threatening to fall off the top of the pile, you hefted the bin up and maneuvered it through the back door of the cantina, being careful not to stain your apron any more than it already was. The harsh winds nipped at every sliver of exposed skin and dusted your hair with a pearlescent sheen of snow, making you wish you’d thought to slip on something warmer than your thin blouse and trousers before leaving the protection of the kitchen.

You navigated through the blizzard to the end of the dark alleyway behind the cantina, your path lit only by two buzzing lamps at each end of the narrow corridor. You scrunched your face up against the cold, willing yourself to keep walking despite your extremely limited night vision. Just a few more steps, and then you’d be free of your compostable burden for the night. You turned the corner, stepping to the left where you knew the trash compactor was, and immediately collided with a giant hunk of metal.

Said hunk of metal cursed loudly as it stumbled head-first over the garbage bin you’d dropped in shock after the impact, falling forward into the snow. “Dank ferrik!”

Your eyes grew wide as the glow of the flickering streetlights illuminated the very-much-alive Mandalorian lying in front of you. It was just your luck that you’d managed to potentially injure the kind of warrior you’d only heard about in hushed rumors, or at least someone who was wearing the armor of one. Okay, injure was a strong word, but all that cold, hard beskar couldn’t be very comfortable to fall on despite the protection it offered.

“Stars, I’m so sorry, let me–”

You reached forward, stretching out a hand to help the Mandalorian up when a small green head suddenly popped up out of a tawny bag slung across their side. You yelped in surprise, losing your balance on the icy road and toppling forward. You winced, bracing yourself and preparing for the inevitable impact– except right as you were about to hit the ground, one steel-clad arm shot out to grab your wrist while the other steadied your hips. You gasped at the warmth of the unexpected contact, pulse quickening as you stared at the–man? person?–beneath you, the only thing preventing you from a nasty collection of bruises appearing across your side tomorrow.

A deep baritone sounded from the helmet– likely modulated, from the slightly grainy tone. “Are you alright?”

Definitely a man, then. You pointedly ignored the butterflies that stirred to life in your stomach at the sound of his voice, praying that he would attribute your shiver to the cold and nothing more. Stars, this was getting more embarrassing by the minute. You tucked away the thought, making a note to do some serious soul-searching later on about the depth of your touch-starvation and its potential impact on your mental state.

You gave a quick nod, muttering your thanks and carefully rolling to the side as you dusted clumps of snow off of your trousers. You looked up at him to see him gently picking up the little green creature you’d been so startled by earlier and tucking it back into the bag, pulling his cloak over its head to shield it from the chill. That was… rather cute, actually. You thought Mandalorians were supposed to be scary fighters, dedicated to nothing but their Creed, but this one was clearly fond of the small thing clinging to him. You couldn’t blame him; the green creature’s big ears and bug eyes were adorably endearing.

The cold winds picked up pace, and you wondered why anyone would be out here during such a storm as you got to your feet. Anyone local would have sought shelter hours ago, and no freighter would dare to land in such conditions.

“Are you... lost?” You tentatively asked. “Can I help you find someone?”

The Mandalorian remained silent for several long seconds, helmet tilted slightly. Whatever he saw in your face seemed to have settled well with him, and he released a quiet huff through the modulator.

“I need to get food. For my son,” he eventually admitted, gesturing to the baby peeking up at you.

“Oh!” You brightened up considerably as you remembered the flavorful soup you’d started earlier. “Well– I work in a cantina back there,” you said, pointing behind you at the rusted door that led to the kitchen.

“We’re technically closed right now, but I’m sure I can work something out.” You winked at the curious child, smiling as he let out a happy babble.

The Mandalorian’s helmet hadn’t moved from its focus in your direction, and you suddenly felt nervous. Which seemed stupid, because–yeah, it felt intense, but was he even looking at you from behind the dark visor of his helmet? For all you knew, he was making the most ridiculous expression at you behind all that beskar and you’d never know. The absurd thought made you snicker softly. If no one could see your face, you’d definitely act goofy at people all the time.

The Mandalorian’s head tilted slightly, and whoops, he’d definitely noticed your little moment now if he hadn’t been paying attention before. Your face reddened and you quickly gestured for him to follow you as you unlocked the door to the kitchen, relieved when you heard the soft clink of his armor come through the doorway behind you.

You placed your hands on your hips, surveying the dimly lit cantina and deciding to lead the duo to a worn table close to the bar. It looked unassuming, but the chairs were the comfiest in the cantina and you figured the baby would appreciate something softer than the coarse bag he’d been in.

Once they’d gotten settled in, you set about finding a mug of blue milk for the kid and some water for the Mandalorian. You brought the drinks over to the pair, hiding a smile at how eagerly the little green baby reached for his.

“You’re pretty thirsty, huh?” You observed as the baby slurped up the cerulean beverage. Shooting the tall, beskar-clad man a glance out of the corner of your eye, you continued, “Must have been quite the trip. Most people don’t usually travel to this side of the galaxy for vacation.”

To your disappointment, the Mandalorian remained as still and stoic as ever. Well, that just wouldn’t do. He was your first visitor in years from anywhere outside of Nath, and you were absolutely not letting him leave without getting a bit of juicy detail on life outside of your current drudgery. You decided to go for another angle.

“You know, kids need good role models in their lives. Ones that show them how to socialize with others and communicate. Display generosity of the loquacious sort, even.” You shrugged innocently in your best attempt to mimic the overly casual air the old women at the tea shop always used before passive-aggressively attempting to set you up with their stay-at-home-nephews. “Never too late to start.”

You got the distinct feeling that he was laughing at you under that helmet. Rude. Huffing, you sat down across the table from him and crossed your arms, trying to guess where under his visor his eyes were. Once you were half-confident that you’d found the spot, you stared intensely at it with your most intimidating expression. Which wasn’t saying much, seeing as you had the firepower of a soggy Lothkitten and probably came off as more desperate than anything.

“Isn’t there some sort of honor code for Mandalorians? One that includes being noble to strangers and whatnot?”

No response. Argh.

“Well, I’d consider it pretty noble to provide a lonely soul such as myself with a bit of storytelling entertainment on this frigid evenin–”

Your final attempt at prying some information out of the armored man was interrupted by the sound of the kitchen timer beeping increasingly louder and louder until you were sure the whole cantina was vibrating with the tinny noise.

“KRIFF, not again!”

You bolted out of your seat towards the kitchen, but not before you heard a thinly disguised huff of amusement coming out of the modulator. Okay, he was definitely laughing at you.

Once you’d successfully saved the soup from imminent destruction-via-cursed-stove and somewhat regained your pride, you finally made your way back to the table with three steaming bowls of noodles. You placed the smallest one in front of the child, who cooed happily and immediately began plopping his hands in the bowl. The Mandalorian huffed in exasperation and began prying little green fingers out of the bowl. “Hey. Quit that, we talked about this,” he grumbled. You winced as broth sloshed out of the bowl, landing dangerously close to the baby’s tunic. The kid’s lower lip started to tremble, a blaring warning sign that a tantrum was going to occur in approximately ten seconds if he wasn’t distracted from his current petulant state.

“Oh– hey, bug, don’t do that,” you said as both father and son turned to look at you. You leaned closer to the wide-eyed baby and pointed to his bowl. “That’s pretty hard to scoop up, yeah? Look, there are easier ways to eat it,” you explained as you brought the bowl up to your lips and raised an eyebrow, hoping that he would do the same. The kid blinked up at you for several long seconds before turning to his father with outstretched hands. The Mandalorian sighed, but held up the dish as requested. You hid a smile behind your bowl at the sight.

“Good job! Okay, now we’re going to try something fun–” You mimed slurping up the soup with a silly face at the baby, who burbled something incomprehensible in response but finally followed your example and focused on his food.

When you were sure that the baby’s clothes were no longer in danger of being drenched by broth– and by extension, frozen stiff whenever the pair headed back into the storm–you quietly tucked into your own meal, closing your eyes at the warm memories the comforting flavours brought. Not for the first time, you missed the earthy smell and placid weather of your homeworld, a stark contrast to this icy prison of a planet.

“You are… good with him.”

Your eyes darted up to find the Mandalorian’s helmet angled directly at you. Your face heated at the observation and you gave a small laugh, willing yourself to resist fidgeting under his gaze.

“I– thank you, I’ve always liked kids. Used to volunteer in the nursery back home, actually, before the Empire stole every resource from it they could.”

Your eyes widened with sudden realization. “You’re not Imperial, are you?”

The Mandalorian scoffed vehemently, the most emotion he’d displayed since he’d fallen back in the alley. “No.”

Well, that answered a few questions at least. You were prepared to move on from the conversation when he hesitantly spoke, “My ship ran into a few… asteroids. Is there a mechanic nearby?”

You set down your spoon, thinking. The closest asteroid field was four solar systems away and almost entirely inaccessible if one was traveling through hyperspace, so the likelihood that he’d truly run into one was small. In that case, he probably had damage from some kind of fight— seeing as the average pacifist wouldn’t need that much armor— and would want someone reliable who wasn’t going to ask questions about laser-sized holes in his ship’s hull.

He hadn’t tried to kill or rob you yet, so you figured his personal tussles were none of your business and decided to give him an honest recommendation. You directed him to a small mechanical hub close to the ice huts where there were few ships and even fewer nosy citizens. “The owner, Sanna, is the best in town,” you admitted. “I haven’t had the chance to visit her personally, but she’s known for being very discreet.”

He nodded, entering the coordinates you’d given him into some sort of device on his wrist. You tried to contain your pleased expression at correctly guessing his reason for being on Nath. And it had only taken you… well, four tries, but that was better than nothing!

“What is your price?”

You blinked, confused. “My price?”

There was that increasingly frequent head tilt again. His helmet tipped forward, scanning you. “For the food. And information.” He clarified slowly.

“Oh,” you spoke, surprised. “It’s okay, I was making dinner for myself anyway. And you’d have found out the location of the mechanic from someone else eventually,” you shrugged.

You couldn’t see his face, but from the disbelieving tone of his voice you imagined his eyebrows to be raised. “Not many people would turn down credits.”

You winced, reminded of your costly dream to get off-world, but there was no way you’d accept this stranger’s money for such a small favor when he had a kid he needed to provide for. “Yeah, well. Guess I’m not most people,” you laughed sheepishly.

The Mandalorian muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like no, you definitely are not. You squinted at him accusingly.

“Hey, you better not be making fun of my interrogation tactics, metal man.” You leaned forward to poke his soup bowl emphatically. Hm, that was strange– he hadn’t so much as touched it. Did Mandalorians follow some kind of special diet? You resolved to look that up the next time you had access to a datapad.

“Wouldn’t dream of doing that to a lonely soul like yourself.” He responded dryly.

You gasped in mock offense, forgetting your previous train of thought and internally groaning that he’d remembered that part of your disastrous attempt to weasel information out of him. Yeesh. Not your most eloquent moment. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you cared,” you shot back in the most syrupy-sweet tone you could muster.

The kid grinned up at you with sharp teeth and blew a soupy bubble towards your face in response. You smiled down at him, adding, “But if you really want to repay me, then bring me back a good story about this little guy the next time you crash land through a— what did you call it? Asteroid field.” You highly doubted the duo would ever willingly return, but if making a deal gave this man peace of mind to know his imaginary debt was settled in some future way then so be it.

The lights in the cantina began to flicker and you got up with a frown, walking over to the electrical box behind the bar. The dull grey display, crammed with incomprehensibly labelled switches and flashing lights that would give anyone a headache, alerted you that the main generator had been depleted of power. You scrambled over to a window, prying open the shutters a crack only to be met with a dark swirl of snow that completely obscured your view of the street. Stars, the storm had worsened quickly— there was absolutely no chance you were making it home tonight. You slammed the shutter closed and turned around with a grimace that didn’t go unnoticed by the Mandalorian.

“What is it?” He questioned, modulated voice growing wary at the expression on your face.

“We’re running out of power, the main generator’s down from the storm so these lights are going to have to shut off soon. I think there’s enough in the emergency generator to heat the cantina through the night, though.” You hesitated, not sure how to break the bad news. “Unfortunately, the weather is— unmanageable. You’re not making it out of here to the mechanic’s until the blizzard lets up.”

He didn’t respond for a few seconds, so you continued talking. “I was.. planning on sleeping here tonight.” You muttered, trying to think of a plan. You glanced at the sleepy child resting on the Mandalorian’s beskar chest plate. “I usually keep a couple blankets here for that reason— pretty sure there’s enough to cover the baby, but you might need to be okay with sharing.”

You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, searching your memory for where the emergency supplies were kept. Kriff. How were you supposed to know that you’d be snowed in, and with guests no less? Your grumpy boss really should have put instructions for this type of situation in the closing shift directions instead of the usual “sweep the floors” or your personal favorite: “if the customer creates a corpse, they gotta clean it up themselves”.

The Mandalorian interrupted your musings with a firm, “No need,” gesturing to the charcoal cloak fastened around his pauldrons. You eyed it dubiously, but supposed that the material looked thick enough. That was probably to your benefit, anyway, since you were something of a notorious blanket hog and didn’t think he’d take kindly to having his sheets ripped off him in the dead of night. That seemed like a quick way to wake up with more bruises than you went to sleep with.

“Well— alright then,” you sighed at last, tossing the smaller of your blankets to the man and tucking the other into the side of a nearby booth. “I’ll shut off the lights in a moment. Refresher’s that way, if you need it,” you pointed to the end of a dimly lit hall. The Mandalorian nodded once, then returned his attention to carefully cocooning the child in his lap. You set to work fluffing up your own makeshift bed, folding the cleanest dishtowel you could find into a pillow before trudging over to the light switch and enveloping the room in darkness.

Quietly feeling your way back to your booth, your eyes adjusted to the pitch-black little by little. You pulled your hair out of its messy updo and curled up on the seat, body slowly relaxing. It was strange, hearing the muffled rhythm of breaths coming from lungs that weren’t your own, but oddly soothing in its own way.

“G’night,” you mumbled, half-asleep already, consciousness swirled down the psychological drain by the overpowering storm raging outside. The lull-and-hitch of the baby’s soft snores echoing off of solid beskar set you drifting off to sleep faster than you had as a child, so lost to the world that you were sure you dreamed the quiet, belated whisper that sounded back to you.

taglist: @magpiencrow @that-kid143 @lilly-aliyah @itmustbegreattobecalledtheitgirl

comment if you'd like to be tagged for any of my works/fandoms in the future! :)

read on: part ii

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diy-fire-water-pups · 2 months ago

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Heya, guys! Just an ask for you guys, especially for Rocky. What do you guys feel about those cyber trucks? To me, I get salty because people drive a frickin TRAPEZOID!! it looks like an oversized microwave with four wheels! Even raccoons are attacking those trucks because they think they are dumpsters. But hey, that’s just me. What do you guys think?

If only the problem would be ONLY that this truck looks like a trapezoid… Someone once joked it’s Lara Croft in her first game - I had to look that up - but to be very honest, I think she has more polygons than a Cybertruck. And that’s saying something for sure.

As the Paw Patrol’s pup who’s specialized in medicine, I'd like to say that this truck is literally a menace on wheels for both passengers and pedestrians. Have you seen the crash tests? The truck doesn’t crush when colliding with something! It’s supposed to crush so the force of impact won’t go fully on the passengers inside. Without it, if it hits against something full force at top speed, people’s organs will practically become puree against their ribcage. And if it hits a pedestrian, even at lower speeds, the chances of major injuries is insanely high because it doesn’t have any smooth lines on its frame to soften the impact against the person! Only sharp edges! It’s absolutely deadly!

It looks like something you'd see in an Atari game, of course there are people who would be a fan of it but that's a very small percentage of a specific public; as Marshall said, the very frame design makes it extremely dangerous; I absolutely DO NOT trust anything that's entirely dependant on a touchscreen to function, once the screen is out, you won't be able to do anything anymore; If you need to look away from the road for more than 5 seconds to do something on that tablet, it should be considered already a failure of programming and danger inducing; a lot of them came out of the factory with already rusty components so THAT SHOULD SAY SOMETHING; oh yeah, you can't even take it to a car wash or it'll come out a huge useless brick on the other side and if you can't wash it, you'd at least want to coat it but guess what, you can't do that either; a bunch of the panels are literally GLUED to the frame...?; every time you go recharge it you need to do it as correctly as possible to not risk the charger getting stuck and eventually breaking it; if you drive in the rain, water will leak in through the edges; you can't even haul stuff or help another car because you'll be risking to snap the back frame - it's not in one piece with the chassis, but connected by a sort of plastic piece to it...???? I swear I've seen Chase's cruiser hold and tow heavier stuff with its winch than what a Cybertruck can ever dream of doing; if anything happens to the back of this truck, you can kiss goodbye to its bed, even though it's not as big as they promised either; they basically made a fool of a lot of people by making them pay a lot more for a "Foundation Series" promising a full self driving feature that, as far as I know as of now, is still not available; the truck just has so many problems someone drove it out of the factory and not even two minutes later it bricked completely and has been at a repair shop ever since; the list goes on and on...

Some Tesla vehicles at least look good and have decent features, though they also have a lot more problems than they should, which could have been solved already by now, but they don't even try, all because the company owner is just... A bad person, let's put it like that. He's got a temper worse than Sweetie's, he thinks he's above everyone else and won't ever take a "no" or "don't". I've heard a lot of other EV companies are making better AND affordable EVs literally by looking at what's wrong with Tesla cars to not repeat the same errors on theirs.

Oh, and one last thing! This guy also went against regulation laws against hate speech in our Mod's country, which resulted on his social media website and app getting banned there. Not satisfied with that, he double-crossed the ban to make it available there again although totally illegally, by using the same IP servers that hospitals, public services and even the very Brazilian government websites use, so... Triple crime? Not gonna lie, it's funny to follow how it's going down there.

#shadzdrag234 #Paw Patrol #Paw Patrol Zuma #Paw Patrol Marshall #Paw Patrol Rocky #Tesla #Tesla Cybertruck #(( Imagine someone going through the Tesla Cybertruck tag on Tumblr and finding PAW PATROL DOGS SHIT TALKING IT too LMFAO ))

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shroudandsands · 2 months ago

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Prompt #1: Steer

Tires thudded over the curb. The engine backfired. Bullets clanked against the frame. And Dugald was driving like his life depended on it.

He had never expected to be put behind the wheel, honestly. At least- Not in the first few days of knowing the driver. Or the car. It felt impersonal, you know? You didn’t drive someone else’s car until they trusted you with it or they were dead. And neither were particularly applicable right now- But he supposed the latter might happen if he didn’t make the next turn. The Thorton skipped over another curb, the side scraped against a wall, the owner hollered her complaint over the sound of returning gunfire. He white knuckled the steering wheel. Another bullet ricocheted off the frame. Another was sent in return. He looked in the rearview mirror. Scavs. It had to be scavs. One clear memory in his head- of a few, at least- and it was in a high speed chase that he could remember how he felt about scavs. Probably not an uncommon feeling towards them. I mean, who could like butchers who’d sell you for every bit of metal you have in you- right down to the fillings in your teeth? He thumped over another curb as he swung the truck around into an alleyway. Honestly it wasn’t surprising that his only memories of them were negative. The sound of the mirrors scraping against brick and metal was just as evocative of their chop shops as the actual sound of them screaming behind them. How much was he worth? Hell, how much was this gal worth? Between the two of them they probably had a pretty decent score. At least he had a feeling the car wasn’t what they were after.

The car groaned, same as him, as he swung it wide around the corner and back onto the road. Potholes thumped the suspension as he pointed the nose towards the distant promise of an easier time, an easier escape- The only highway ramp not currently blocked by NCPD or some Maelstrom popup… Gathering. Gathering was the best way to put it, he thought. Really the only problem with all the thoughts before, of course, as he stomped on the pedal and listened to the automatic transmission whine in horror at what he was making it do- Well. This thing wasn’t exactly going to go zero to sixty fast enough to escape the scavs’ slipshod dragsters. Whether from shitty parts, old age, or factory limiters- “WALKER-” She dropped back down into the passenger seat as a grenade soared past the car and landed in a heap of garbage. It exploded as he swerved around it- much to her and the car’s complaint- and he felt another backfire take them down a gear. The look she gave him was wild, frenzied even, and frankly he didn’t appreciate the unspoken complaints about his driving. Not his fault he wasn’t carrying any guns at the moment. Not his fault that the car couldn’t go above sixty and take corners without screaming in agony. What had she been doing to this thing? Or, rather, hadn’t been doing? It’s not his fault that he couldn’t make it go faster. Not…

He looked in the rear view. They were getting closer. The Thorton was blowing smoke. Slowing down. If he could get on the highway it still wouldn’t be fast enough in the straightaways to get out of their territory. He was pretty sure they were about to blow a tire, too, to make it all that much more palatable. They’d be able to catch them in a heartbeat. It’s a Thorton. He stared in the rearview.

Chop shops. Metal. Chrome. Thortons. He looked down at the steering wheel. It was a Thorton. Scavs weren’t after the car- In a fit of memory-induced insanity-

Dugald gripped the console with both hands, his fingers slipping into grooves meant for technician tools. Augmented hands and arms would have to do for the moment as he groaned… and tore the module right off and into his lap. Within the same second, in a memory as rote as blood flowing from a wound, his arm slipped open in all but the same way to expose a monofilament blade that sprung cleanly from his forearm and out under his palm. And then he jammed it straight into the ECU plug. Sparks flew. Chop shop. Metal. Chrome. It was a Thorton. The only difference between any damned model of the thing was the limiter the factory put on it and the armor the customer slapped on it. Limiters could be removed. Engines could be tuned. Not in real time, no, never in real time. Not for anyone sane at least. Not for anyone who wasn’t currently being shot at and thoroughly invested in staying as alive as possible for the next 30 minutes- give or take a few. Oh but that’s what he remembered. The Scavs. The chop shops. Oh he remembered it all.

It was right as they hit the ramp that the Thorton screamed- no, roared- to life like a truck of its caliber likely never had before. The volume of if deafening, the rattling of it frightening, the speed of it exhilarating; and all the while Dugald stared dead at the the road while his arms twitched in time with the engine’s pistons. From zero to sixty. Sixty to one hundred. One hundred to one hundred twenty. Pretty sure they just put some sports cars to shame. Jerking the car between what few other drivers were still out on this side of the city. It was easy enough to tell when they weren’t being followed anymore. The fireball of a collision not even a quarter mile behind them. But he kept it going. Taking highway turns like they were hairpins, taking ramps like they were jumps, throwing the Thorton down the highway like a rocket that might just explode if he stopped it. He didn’t check on the state of his passenger. The speed would shut her up for now. His driving would shut her up for the next hour after that.

It wasn’t until they were out of the city lights that he finally let it slow back down to a crawl. Or, rather, that the car finally gave up. No amount of coaxing- no amount of manual control, really- could get it back to speed. She was tired. So was he. …Aaand he was being yelled at.

He leaned back in the seat as he retracted the blade back into his arm. He didn’t bother listening.

#FFxivwrite2024 #/AU/Cyberpunk #/Memories/The Worn Edge #it's not a free day but it IS a sunday #so starting off this year with an AU #dug driving like a maniac

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aneurinallday · 2 months ago

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Green Eyes

Chapter 7: A New Life

By the time doubt began to creep in at the edges, it was too late - the promise had already been made, and Thomas Shelby had no intention of breaking his word.

As they departed Birmingham City on a cloudy afternoon in early April, Alec cradled the baby in his lap and stared out of the car window. He watched as the factories and terraces turned into semi-detached houses with little gardens, then into farmhouses and crops - urban rot giving way to suburban tedium and finally into open country.

“Look, Clara,” he said, lifting her up, “There are cows.”

“Ever been out of the city before?” Thomas asked.

“No. At least, I don’t think so. Maybe my parents took me when I was a child and I don’t remember.”

“Who were your parents?”

“Nobody worth remembering.”

“Dead, then?”

“Maybe. I don’t even know.”

Onwards they drove. Alec rested his head against the glass, and looked on as the only life he’d ever known disappeared out of sight, a new life beginning to creep in at the edges. Thomas was silent at the wheel. Nothing needed to be said.

At some point Alec dozed off, Clara fast asleep in his arms, until a bump in the road jolted him awake and he found himself surrounded by the wide fields and rolling hills of Warwickshire. He glanced in the rear-view mirror as if expecting to see the city in the distance, but saw only more sky. They were in the true countryside now.

“Are we almost there?” he asked.

“Need to piss?”

“No, but she will soon.”

“Just as well. Look to your left.”

Alec obeyed. The wild hedgerows turned into well-kept hedges, and the asphalt into gravel, and soon they turned a corner to see their destination awaiting them: a red-brick manor-house with a symmetrical facade of stone accents and mullioned bay windows, its roofs punctuated by neat rows of chimneys.

“This is your home?” Alec exclaimed. “It’s beautiful.”

“Were you expecting something else?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure what, though.”

Thomas parked somewhat carelessly - he knew a manservant would come and take the car to the garages - and they stepped out into the breeze. Alec breathed deep of the country air.

“It smells different,” he said, “It smells clean.”

“There’s not a steel foundry for miles,” said Thomas. “Just some rich people’s summer homes.” Relieved to be out of the car, he lit a cigarette and began to puff.

Holding the baby with one arm, Alec reached for his meagre belongings in the back seat.

“Leave it. The servants will bring everything up to your room.”

“My room? Not yours?”

Thomas wasn’t sure if Alec was teasing or not.

“Let’s go inside,” he said, and led the way towards the porch, gravel crunching under their shoes.

Alec turned to look back the way they’d come, admiring the colourful flowerbeds and carefully curated topiary. He wasn’t sure where the property ended and the surrounding farmland began.

“All this land - it belongs to you?”

“That’s right.”

“And those fields too?”

“Two-thousand acres,” Thomas confirmed.

Realising Alec was no longer behind him, he glanced back. Alec was lingering at the flowerbeds, trying to get Clara to pluck a blossom.

“Come on,” Thomas summoned him, “Let’s get inside.”

They passed through the stone-columned porch and into the main hall, over which loomed the grand staircase.

“Welcome to Arrow House,” Thomas sighed, “I’ll show you around, but I don’t have all day. Come on.”

He guided Alec around the downstairs in a business-like manner, unable to hide his disinterest in the trappings of his own wealth.

Alec followed him in awe, craning his neck to marvel at the high ceilings and glittering chandeliers. By the standards of the rich, it was a home like any other. But to him, it was a palace to rival Versailles. He soaked in every detail: the wood-panelled walls and gold-framed paintings, the fur rugs and patterned carpets, the figurine lamps on pedestals and little ornaments on mantelpieces. Despite its lavishness, it wasn’t gaudy like the Arcadia - these things had been chosen for their elegance, not for their shine.

“Look at that, Clara,” he cooed, “This is our home now. Mister Shelby is going to let us live here. Isn’t he kind to us?”

The baby was less concerned with their new residence and more with her father’s shirt. Oblivious to the opulence surrounding her, she grasped at his lapels with tiny hands, and attempted to put the buttons in her mouth.

“The building is from the 1830s,” said Thomas as they entered the parlour, “Or the 1840s, I can’t remember. You’d be better off asking the housekeeper, she knows more than - ”

“A piano!” Alec interrupted.

With the giddy eagerness of a child on Christmas morning, he hurried past Thomas to admire the grand piano that stood in the middle of the parlour. He reached for the black-and-white keys with one hand, but stopped himself before touching them.

“Do you play, Mister Shelby?”

“Not for the life of me. I bought it for my son.”

“I can play. Not very well, but I know how. The pianist at the club was giving me lessons, but Mister Cobb made him stop. He said my singing was hard enough to listen to without me subjecting people to an instrument too.”

“Sounds like an excuse. He probably didn’t want you learning another skill. Too many skills and you’d be able to find another job.”

“Maybe. He also said I looked better standing up, not sitting down.”

“Well, that’s Cobb’s business. You can play as much as you like.”

“Thank you.”

“Now come on, let’s go. I’ve got work to do.”

They continued onwards. Thomas pushed open the door of the library which served as his study. Alec gaped at the carven bookshelves which towered all the way up to the ceiling, stacked with antique classics.

“Here’s the library, and that’s where I do my work. You can read all of the books you want, but don’t go near my desk.”

“I promise I won’t.”

“Good.”

They’d circled back around to the main hall, reaching the foot of the grand staircase.

“It’s so big in here,” said Alec, “I feel like I can finally breathe. We could go days without seeing each other, if we wanted.”

“Already avoiding me?”

“No, but you might get tired of having me around.”

Ascending the stairs, they passed a large family portrait: Thomas, Grace, and a baby boy.

“Is that your wife?”

“Yes.”

“She’s very beautiful.”

“She was,” Thomas agreed curtly.

“How did you meet - ”

“Don’t talk about her.”

Alec was silent the rest of the way up the staircase. They passed the master bedroom - the door of which was firmly shut - and several guest rooms before reaching a south-facing suite.

“This is you,” he said, and watched as Alec stepped into what must’ve felt like a dream.

Like the rest of the house, it was richly furnished in dark rosewood and mahogany, with elegant lamps and floor-length embroidered curtains. There was a chaise longue where he could sit and read, and a soft rug to greet his feet in the morning, and a bed wide enough for two.

“All of this is mine and Clara’s?”

“All of it.”

“It’s twice the size of my flat in Saltley.” Alec ducked into the bathroom, and let out a wordless exclamation as he discovered the large porcelain tub, complete with hot and cold taps. “And there’s proper plumbing! Look, Clara! I won’t have to put water on the stove any more.”

Thomas snorted with amusement.

“Next door is the nursery,” he said.

“Nursery?” Alec re-emerged from the bathroom with a confused expression.

“She’ll need her own space, and so will you.”

“Oh.” Alec hadn’t even considered the prospect. With Clara in his arms, he sat down on the edge of the bed. As he looked around the room, the glow of excitement seemed to fade, and the overwhelming reality of the situation - that he was going to be living here for the foreseeable future - seemed to set in. He looked lost.

“Are you hungry?” Thomas asked.

“Yes. But tired too.”

“Get some rest. I’ll send food up for you, and fruit for the baby.”

“Thank you. Will the servants care about…you know…us?”

“No. They’re used to it by now. And I pay them too well for them to care.”

Glad to be done with the awkward business of the tour, Thomas retreated to his study. He attempted to lose himself in his work, but was unable to shake Alec’s presence from his mind. He tried not to consider the gravity of his decision, opening his doors to a near-stranger. The grand promises of a better future he’d made because he was rich enough to indulge himself in fleeting fantasies.

If things turned sour and he was compelled to eject Alec from his home, there was no question that Clara would have to go too - separating the pair was unthinkable. But why should a baby be punished, simply because its father had failed to stay in Thomas Shelby’s good graces? Even if Thomas let them go with a generous sum of money, the emotional toll it would take on Alec - having a good, safe home within his grasp and then losing it - would be cruel.

The potential for this arrangement to turn into a mess made Thomas wonder if it was even worth the risk. But then he remembered the chandelier-light falling on Alec’s upturned face, and the happiness overflowing from the young man in that moment, and his doubts subsided. Joy like that, even if it proved temporary, was worth any risk.

Thomas was so absorbed in his business that he didn’t realise the room had grown dark until a maid tapped on the door.

“Shall I turn the main light on, Mister Shelby? You’ll strain your eyes.”

“Hm?” Thomas glanced up at the grandfather clock, disorientated to find that he needed his glasses to tell the time. “No, no. I’m about to turn in. Thanks, Mary.”

He retired for the night, but along the way, stopped by Alec’s guest room. He found it empty. Alec’s belongings had been unpacked and were strewn haphazardly about, as if he hadn’t decided where to store them yet. Shirts with mended elbows, combs with missing teeth, a flapper dress whose tassels were fraying at the ends. Thomas took stock of how inadequate the inventory was, already half-planning to replace these tatty things with tailored suits and expensive perfumes, before remembering that he’d done plenty already.

On the spacious bed was a cold, half-eaten tray of food: fruit salad, Duchess potatoes, blanched and seasoned vegetables, and a game pie containing venison, hare, partridge, pigeon, and pheasant in a rich gravy, the pastry decorated with a braided design of leaves and flowers. The unfamiliar luxury of it must’ve sickened an already anxious stomach. Alec had probably never eaten deer in his life.

“I’m in here, Mister Shelby,” a soft voice came through the wall. Alec must’ve heard his footsteps.

Thomas found him in the nursery, standing over the curtained crib where he’d placed Clara, gazing down at her while she chewed toothlessly on her old teddy bear’s paw. Toys were everywhere: on the shelves and on the dresser and on the floor. Painted dolls with real hair, and carved soldiers with red coats. Wooden dogs and horses on wheels, with strings for pulling them around. More toys than Alec could’ve ever imagined buying for his daughter. By the window was a rocking chair, where he could sit with her on picturesque afternoons and look out across the gardens.

Without raising his head at the sound of Thomas’s entrance, he said:

“It’s lovely in here. Was this your son’s room?”

“Yes.” Thomas’s gaze fell on a folded blanket on the shelf - a crocheted baby blanket with Charles’s initials worked into the pattern, probably a gift from one of Grace’s friends. He quickly looked away. “Most of these things were his. Some are new.”

“I always…” Alec began, but then hesitated. “I always dreamed, but I never thought…Thank you for everything, Mister Shelby.”

He swayed on his feet, and gripped the side of Clara’s crib to steady himself.

“I don’t deserve her,” he said, “I don’t any of this. I’ve done nothing but bad things in my life. How could so many good things happen to me?”

“You’re tired,” said Thomas. “Go to bed.”

“I’m not sure if I should.” Alec didn’t take his eyes off the sleeping baby. “I don’t like her sleeping alone. What if something happens?”

“Nothing will happen. She’ll be fine.”

“I know. I know, it’s just…We’ve always shared a room. Always.”

“You’ll only be a door away. You’ll hear her if she cries.”

“What if you hear it too? I don’t want her to disturb you. You might get…irritated.”

“I’ve lived with crying babies before. I’ll survive. Go to bed.”

“I will,” Alec promised, “I’ll wait ‘til she’s settled.”

“Suit yourself.”

Thomas left him standing there with his thoughts, and went to bed with his own. As he undressed in the lamplight, he felt - if only for a moment - a strange discomfort that he couldn’t define. Perhaps a sense of shame, but he wasn’t sure why. What did he have to be embarrassed about? His age? His wealth? His line of work?

He brushed off the feeling, dimmed the lamps, and climbed between the covers. As he usually did, he turned his back to Grace’s side of the bed. The darkness settled over him like a blanket.

Through half-asleep ears, he heard the door-knob turn and the floorboards creak softly. Grace, he thought. Then a voice whispered:

“Mister Shelby?”

Thomas jolted awake, reaching instinctively for the pistol in his bedside drawer, but stopped himself before he touched it.

Alec was standing over the bed in a white night-shirt, his curls tousled from a failed attempt to sleep.

“Did I wake you?” he asked.

“Yes.” Thomas was scanning the young man’s hands, searching for a weapon. Alec was unarmed. Of course. Thomas sighed at his own reaction. “What do you want?”

“Can I sleep with you?”

“You don’t need to.”

“But I want to.”

“Alright. If you insist.”

Alec eased under the duvet, and drew himself close until their bodies were pressed together. His feet were cold from crossing the floorboards that separated their rooms.

“You’re warm,” he murmured. “I’ve missed this. Have you?”

Thomas said nothing. ‘No’ would’ve been a lie, but ‘yes’ would’ve been an admittance of weakness he wasn’t ready to make.

“You can come to my room whenever you want,” Alec whispered, “Or I can come to yours - ”

“Just go to sleep,” Thomas interjected.

Alec dutifully fell silent. The gentle puffs of his breath against Thomas’s shoulder became slower and steadier, until he was fast asleep.

Thomas stared into the dark. The sensation of another body in his marriage bed was so familiar, yet so different it was almost disconcerting. The empty space where Grace had once lain had been filled, but by someone who didn’t belong there. It felt wrong, and yet…

The darkness grew heavier, or perhaps it was just his eyelids. Sleep came without warning and almost against his will.

#fanfic #aneurin barnard #cillian murphy #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #smut #gay #romance #TW prostitution #TW abuse

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nalyra-dreaming · 1 year ago

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Is it true that when armand has lestat tortured and imprisoned, during the events in Paris, that he keeps him in in Magnus’ tower? Because if so that is so psychologically fucked up

Noooootttttt quite. He keeps him in Lestat's own theater.

Armand lives in the tower.

Armand who lived still on the land I'd given him, in the very tower where I'd been made by Magnus, Armand who still commanded the thriving coven of the Theater of the Vampires in the boulevard du Temple, which still belonged to me.

Lestat goes to him, and Armand takes him to the theater and throws him there into the cellars beneath his (own!) theater, starves and tortures him with dead blood until the trial.

What was this place, this enormous building? Was this the boulevard du Temple? And then the descent into that hideous cellar full of ugly copies of the bloodiest paintings of Goya and Brueghel and Bosch.

And finally starvation as I lay on the floor of a brick-lined cell, unable even to shout curses at him, the darkness full of the vibrations of the passing omnibuses and tramcars, penetrated again and again by the distant screech of iron wheels. Sometime in the dark, I discovered a mortal victim there. But the victim was dead. Cold blood, nauseating blood. The worst kind of feeding, lying on that clammy corpse, sucking up what was left. And then Armand was there, standing motionless in the shadows, immaculate in his white linen and black wool.

After the trial Armand takes Lestat back to the tower, all the way up, and gives him Claudia's yellow dress (in which she burned).

And then we went up and up through the old tower to the roof.

Why did I hold this thing, this little dress? I looked out from Magnus's battlements and I saw the city had come to get me. It had reached out its long arms to embrace the tower, and the air stank of factory smoke.

And then Armand... throws Lestat off of Magnus' tower (in a scene that is eerily familiar to episode 5):

He was drawing closer, and in a dark flash his hand went out, and my head went back, and I saw the sky and the city of Paris upside down. I was falling through the air. And I went down and down past the windows of the tower, until the stone walkway rose up to catch me, and every bone in my body broke within its thin case of preternatural skin.

Armand ... tortures and keeps Lestat imprisoned in his own theater.

And then, after torturing him, making him testify against Claudia, then he throws him off of Magnus' tower.

So yeah. Not better imho. And very fucked up.

____

PS: A note to the torture and how Armand knew it would make it possible to have Lestat testify against Claudia:

This has been noted to happen to vampires by Eleni, and employed as a punishment by Armand before, against Nicki (though noted in later books) - this is what Eleni writes to Lestat:

But N., maddened by the pain and the starvation, for this can alter the temperament completely

Armand knew that starvation and drinking dead blood would make Lestat unable to comprehend what was happening, and almost mad.

And he went and starved him on purpose.

That's Armand for you.

#Anonymous #asks #amc iwtv #iwtv #amc interview with the vampire #interview with the vampire amc #iwtv amc #iwtv 2022 #interview with the vampire #the vampire lestat #the vampire chronicles #lestat de lioncourt #armand #tw torture #book quotes #eleni #starvation #ask nalyra

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azzydoesstuff · 8 months ago

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behold, my massive fucking moonshine factory (in minecraft for legal reasons)

so basically, i've been goofing around with the create mod the last few weeks and i installed quite a few addons to add way more content. one of these addons, "destroy", adds chemistry and stuff. but that's not important, all that matters is that it adds ILLEGAL LIQOUR BREWING

knowing me, i'd of course spend almost a week or two building a 100% fully automatic moonshine brewery and distillery.

the only thing that isn't completely automated is the heat from the blaze burners of the steam engine that powers this behemoth, which have been fed with creative blaze cakes so i don't have to build a blaze fuel farm too (i'll do it at some point)

here's some screenshots

and here's a top-down view, with and without legend

Steam Engine (absolute beast, provides power to the entire factory)

Emergency Waterwheels (in case the steam engine overstresses, i can disconnect it from the main mechanism and start it up using these, no need to restart it up manually)

Ingredient Sorter, Left Wing

Ingredient Sorter, Right Wing

Aging Barrels, Left Wing

Aging Barrels, Right Wing

Water Pumps (collect water for the moonshine)

Distillation Bubble Cap Mechanisms (three of them for maximum liquor potence)

Final Fluid Tank (stores fully-distilled moonshine before it is bottled)

Automatic Cobblestone Generator

Cobblestone Crushers (two sets of crushing wheels per belt, one crushing cycle turns cobble into gravel, the second turns gravel into sand)

Bulk Blaster (create mod's equivalent of a super-smelter. smelts all of the sand into glass)

Mechanical Crafters (craft glass into glass bottles)

Bottling Station (spouts sploosh moonshine into the freshly crafted bottles)

Final Storage Vault (where the bottled moonshine finally ends up. has a storage space so massive it'll basically never stop growing)

Automatic Wheat Farm (wheat is one of two ingredients for moonshine, uses a gantry carriage contraption to sweep the mature crops and then deposits them into the vault sorting system)

Seed Composters (uses the leftover seeds from the wheat farm to make bone meal for the mushroom farm)

Semi-Automatic Mushroom Farm (relies on the wheat farm for bone meal, but besides that, is fully automatic. repeatedly plants a mushroom, bone meals it into a giant shroom, then cuts it down with a mechanical saw to get more shrooms in return)

Mushroom Crusher (grinds mushrooms into bricks of yeast, the other ingredient in moonshine, then flings it into the yeast vault)

Wheat Vault (stores wheat until it's time for another brewing cycle)

Yeast Vault (stores yeast until it's time for another brewing cycle)

Wheat Farm Sorting System (wheat is deposited into the wheat vault, seeds are flung into the mushroom farm's composters, and any other items that might've ended up there by mistake are incinerated)

Distilled Water Disposal Pipe (transports any leftover water from the moonshine distillation into the steam engine, thus getting rid of it)

Catwalk Elevator (thought it'd be cool to have a lift bring you up to some catwalks above the whole factory, so i made it)

#shitpost #shitposting #minecraft #minecraft build #minecraft builds #minecraft building #minecraft factory #minecraft farm #minecraft farms #minecraft farming #minecraft create #minecraft create mod #create #create mod

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bunny-hoodlum · 8 months ago

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Sharing this because I feel like it. ☺️ The first 900+ words of Idle Hands (rewrite) so far. 🥹 In case you didn't catch previous now deleted post, I gave up on the 'stressful childhood' direction. Now it's more of a retelling, but I'm still calling it a rewrite. This Naruto is interesting imo. Ahhhh, I hope I'm doing this right? I guess bear with me here. Contradictions may be inevitable, Idk. So, he falls under the Obliviously Evil trope this time around. I'm shooting for 'cheerful yet stressed (traumatized) and actually secretly crazy'. Doesn't fit the standard Dark Naruto depiction, so I can't really say one way or another which he leans the closest to. 😭 He hasn't broken yet, but he's going to get there, so we'll see. 🤭 Hope this instills some hype! :3 Becuz I'm making progress babyyyy~🎵

xxx-xxx-xxx

Idle Hands (2024)

Pairings: NaruHina, eventual NaruHinaSasu

Smut, Freeuse, Dacryphilia

cw: toxic behavior, dubcon, ijime

Summary: There's nothing to do in the sticks. There's even less to do when you're on probation. There's even less than that when: Your dad is the most popular man in town/You've been raised to be a boy and are invisible when you try to be a girl/When your exciting city boy lifestyle has been taken from you.

Or when two losers and a fuckboy choose all the worst ways to have fun. Not that one of them had much of a choice.

There in the middle of an overgrown clearing sat a rusted, abandoned car, wheel-less and sitting atop four cement bricks. The dense forest trees towered in the distance, their foliage deep green and billowing in the wind. Beneath the car, you can follow the remnants of a gravel path out of the clearing, towards an abandoned auto factory – you know, when having an auto factory way the fuck out here somehow made sense. Back before the bubble burst when everything went to shit. But what does he know? He was only six when it happened. Not like that shit ain’t affecting him well into the Y2K or anythin’.

Naruto lounged in the backseat with a nudie magazine and a sage green quilted blanket over his lap, his cheeky eyes devouring the curvaceous models on the pages. Oiled up, lips spread, pouty eyes peering and pleading for his cock.

He nudged his toe in the soft belly beneath the blanket, or maybe he threw it a little harder than he meant to, forcing a slight cough from her throat as her mouth retreated from his cock after gagging.

The blanket rose up from his lap.

“Hey, I didn’t say ‘stop’.” He cupped the back of her head and forced her lips to press against the underside of his rigid girth, teeth sliding and catching against his tender flesh. When the wet, warm vacuum pull of her mouth around his cock returned, he settled back into place, flipping pages like he was reading the newspaper.

Green eyes stared back at him. Earnest, yet cold. White skin framed by black hair. Her tits squished together in a string bikini as she bent forward, her arms crossed underneath their swell.

Shizuka. Didn't matter that she was twenty-four and he was sixteen. There were plenty of ways he could ruin her that life hasn't yet.

His breath quickened, shallow quiet pants puffing past his lips.

Her rich green eyes were growing on him.

Maybe his first girlfriend will have green eyes. If only.

Women like them didn’t exist out here. Not in this dying town of theirs, where their only market street was rows of shuttered-up shops, their storefronts heavily tagged and dirty with runny rust-stains.

Dsy by day, this place was turning into an old person’s home. Or a fucking casket.

Day by day he passed by a chain-smoking mummy, half-deaf and half-blind yet still nosy enough to cuss him out. Every day those same disapproving stares like he was some kind of disease, some kind of curse.

He wanted a woman like Shizuka. He wanted softness like hers to make him forget. He wanted eyes like hers fixed on him in every mundane context, like two lovers, their names signed on the lease just the day before. He wanted her silent worship.

God, he couldn’t wait to get out of here. Couldn’t wait to get a taste of real women.

He was wasting his fucking youth here. His mind too, not that anyone believed he had much of one to begin with.

He imagined someone beautiful, someone way, way, way out of his league taking him inside her, wanting him more than anyone else inside her. She would rewrite his entire history in a single night.

Excitement arced up his spine as pleasure pooled in his groin, building and building–

Naruto grabbed the back of her head. He thrusted into her hot, slimy throat, ignoring her startled whines, the gagging convulsions tightening around his invasive cockhead.

“Gotta train your throat again, huh, Hinata? C’mon, just endure it. I ‘ppreciate you not playing with other dudes while I was away, but you’ve really gotten sloppy. But that’s fine, too, actually. It’s kinda cute.” He threw his head back and closed his eyes, surrendering to the soft, clinging sensations thrumming around his cock. He was melting against her devoted tongue, so persistent to please him no matter what as she licked and laved the ridgid underside with broad sweeps that left echoes of each across his turgid flesh.

Knock knock knock!

A rhythmic tapping on the glass beside his head startled the lewd occupants and Naruto threw his toe into her stomach again.

He lowered the nudie magazine atop her head and turned his face out the window.

Bent over at the hip stood the thorn in his side that his dad personally stabbed in him the moment he found himself in front of the family judge again – no less than two months after his release from the Juvenile Training Facility.

The silver-haired man with the lazy, lidded gaze mimed cranking a handle backwards and Naruto sighed. He reached for the window crank, lowering the window just enough that he and Kakashi could properly exchange words.

“Go to school, Naruto.”

Naruto sank into seat, clearing his face of any hint of expression as he leveled Kakashi with a cold, ignorant stare.

His toe had other ideas, as he nosed around the convergence between her legs, finding the soft resistance of her panty-covered cunt. He idly teased her clit while he waited for the weary douche to give up like he always did.

Not like his father’s favorite student was all that invested in him, anyway. The dude was freaky smart and found ways to make his minor infractions such as truancy go away. Precisely to his father’s satisfaction, and not the system’s.

Obito told him someone like Kakashi would have proposed lifelong marriage to ‘The Rules’ if it had taken the shape he most desired.

The fact that he could give two shits about integrity these days convinced Naruto that his dad knew Kakashi’s state of mind. And that he was exactly what his dad was looking for in a probations officer.

Someone that would take Namikaze Minato’s side, always.

Someone that would protect Namikaze Minato’s image, always.

TBC

#naruhina #eventual naruhinasasu #idle hands fic #fic snippet #rewrite #two little shits don't make a right #and Hinata is trapped in the middle #NaruHina are childhood friends but Naruto is too fucked up to be a good friend to her

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snpcmachine · 1 year ago

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Leading manufacturer of fully automatic clay brick making machine

SnPC Machines, A leading manufacturer of world first fully automatic machine with moving technology, the latest brick making machine produce bricks while moving on wheel like a vehicle as hence can be mentioned as brick making truck as well. With the help of this machine kiln owner can revolutionize their business at a very rapid rate and they have to manage minimum human labours. This machine is eco-friendly and budget friendly as it requires about one-third of water compared with other brick making methods. Bricks produced with these machines are 3times more stronger that others and cost reduces about 45%. Raw materail needed can be clay, red soil, flyash or a mixutre of these. Bricks can be produced anywhere and anytime due to these machines. Three main types of mobile brick making machines are BMM160, BMM310 and BMM410. Just buy Snpc machines and enjoy automatic brick production. These brick making truck are durable, compressive and can be easily handle while operating. Customer from any country, state or provinces either can contact us via our website email or contact for order or more enquires or can visit our place and can physically enquire for their own satisfaction.

#Snpc Machines #brick making machine #fully automatic #moving technology #recreation #truck #heavy machinery #factory #clay brick making machine #BMM410 #BMM310 #BMM160 #metal work #indsutry #SnPC #factory of brick on wheel #Haryana #India #Satish Chhikara

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trombone-minivan · 1 year ago

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Hey, hi and hello, it's @brick-enthusiast coming at you from the sideblog again!

As part of a friendly agreement with @things-about-cars-in-posts, I am here to introduce another race car.

You know Peugeot? In recent years, the French brand is probably best known for fighting tooth and nail to shake a reputation of dullness. However, you've probably heard - or perhaps you remember - that Peugeot used to be a whole lot more cool.

Well, this story takes place a little bit after that. Less than a year after the last story I told, in fact, in 1995. And the similarities between the two don't end there.

The car in question is the then-new Peugeot 806.

By all means a run-of-the-mill, boring people carrier, unveiled in 1994.

PSA Group had co-developed it with Fiat, so it was also sold as a Citroen, a Lancia and a Fiat.

(As you may remember from a recent post by @things-about-cars-in-posts!)

Anyway! Peugeot wanted to do something to promote their version of the so-called Eurovan. Someone, half-jokingly, suggested to take it to the racetrack.

That someone was Pascal Witmauer, the man in charge of Peugeot's advertising in Belgium, as well as marketing for the Belgian Procar racing series. Peugeot's "promotional event" was set to be 1995's running of the Spa 24 Hours.

A 24-hour endurance race, yes.

A 24-hour endurance race that was happening at the end of July. It was May.

The project was handed over to Kronos Racing, a Belgian racing team that would go on to build successful Peugeots and Citroens for the circuit as well as dirt. And well, they did complete it.

As much as a parts-bin-special it might have been, the Peugeot 806 Procar was a serious racing machine. Its interior was stripped of anything non-essential, the 8 factory seats were replaced by a single carbon bucket and a roll cage.

The engine and drivetrain were a mix of parts from the 306 Maxi rally car and the outgoing 405 Mi16 circuit racer, while the then-new 406 Supertourisme donated a 6-speed sequential gearbox.

The van's speed certainly didn't lag behind. It qualified 12th overall and third(!) in its class. Not to mention that it certainly stood out in a field full of contemporary BMW 3-series and French hot hatchbacks.

By the start of the race, the big white box was already the crowd favorite. Pascal Witmeur (who also happened to be one of the 806's three drivers) recounts:

“Every time we passed by Raidillon¹, people were applauding. The public liked it, because apart from being atypical, it was often on two wheels!"

¹ a corner on the Spa-Francorchamps track

Unfortunately, mechanical issues didn't take long to show up. The team ran into brake problems an hour into the race. The engine itself gave out before the 10-hour mark, leading to a DNF for the Peugeot.

Not that it mattered to the public though. The touring van single-handedly improved the image of all MPV's² - not just the French-Italian quadruplets. Peugeot of Belgium had 5000 posters printed - all of which were given away signed by Witmeur.

"For a few hours, I was more more famous than Johnny Hallyday³!"

he laughs, admitting it was likely that many workers from Peugeot's local Sevel Nord⁴ factory came to see the race.

² multi-purpose vehicles in case you don't know, European for "minivans"

³ iconic French singer, composer and actor, regarded as "the French Elvis Presley"

⁴ that's where the 806 was assembled. Note the logo on the side of the race car's front bumper!

The very same Peugeot 806 Procar is still around to this day. After the race, it was reportedly kept by one Jean-Pierre Montron - founder of Kronos Racing - until his passing. It went up for sale in 2020 (wherein it had a bunch of articles I could use as sources written about it) and again in late 2022, when it failed to sell at auction.

Thank you for reading <3

image links: [one through four] [five]

#car things #long post #post i made #rambles #automotive yap

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hometoursandotherstuff · 1 year ago

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The 1909 Canal Greenwich Condominium building is the former Tetley Tea Company Warehouse. (I wonder if it still smells of tea.) It's now divided into 8 condos in the Greenwich Village area of New York City and one unit is for sale. It has 2bds, 3ba, & is $4.4M + an absurd $2,556mo. HOA fee.

This is a 1st fl. unit, so these are the the big frosted windows we saw out front. I wonder if those security doors are functional.

Not only is this place gigantic, but it has 3 levels. What I like about it is that it's very old industrial chic. Look at the ceilings.

Look at the original factory floor. Gee, that's a lot of floor to clean.

Just look at the size of this place. It gets so cold in NYC in the winter (I live 20 min. away, so I know) how in the world can you even heat this place, let alone afford to?

I would suppose that if you didn't have all those bulbs on the ceiling, it would be very dark. I don't see many lamps, but lights must have to be on all day.

Look at how far back the dining room is. I would need a speaker system to call people to meals.

The kitchen is very cool. Love the exposed brick. The stainless steel appliances are very hi-end. I wonder if the island is even included, b/c it's on wheels.

There's a powder room and an original door. Look at the tiny sink- wash one hand at a time.

The primary bedroom & bath are in a loft and I'm disappointed that there are no walls, just curtains. A curtain separates the bedroom from a sitting area.

There's a nice exposed brick wall up here.

The bathroom has some high tub. Even the step is high.

The 2nd bedroom is in the basement. Not so sure I like that.

The en-suite bathroom. I wonder if there's a light in that shower, it looks a little dark.

It has an electric sauna. As much as I love industrial lofts, I would pass on this one. (Not that I could buy it, anyway.)

#industrial loft nyc #houses #house tours #house tour

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deathsmallcaps · 2 years ago

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My 45th Win a Commission story was The 2nd Imaginary Symphony! If you’d like to see the pictures in context with the story, please

Augustus: This is August Plumb; you are listening to the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation. Of course, it is holiday time, and across Paris, we begin celebrating the month-long lead up to our Platypus Eve, a distinctly Parisian holiday now celebrated across the globe, observing the hatching of the Great Recitating Platypus of the North, the platypus, of course, believed by generations of French schoolchildren, to visit them when illness strikes, recite poetry while they sleep, thereby restoring them to health by the time they wake.

And as we do every year, at the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation we begin at the start of this notable month with our great Parisian Platypus Time tradition, the broadcast of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony.

As you all know, the 2nd Imaginary Symphony, a program now synonymous with the platypus holiday, was discovered forty years ago by a trash collector in a refuse bin, the trash collector taking home the cassette marked “2nd Imaginary Symphony”, expecting music, playing the strange story it contained instead at his own family’s Platypus Eve gathering. Loving the story, several family members requesting copies of the tape, so began the copying and passing-on of the symphony from family to family, from street to street, until its listening became as much a part of the Platypus Eve tradition as sending your children to school dressed as a platypus or constructing a gigantic platypus out of household items in front of one’s home.

Bringing us to the present day, where the broadcast of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony is now considered the official beginning of the holiday season in Paris. The symphony will be broadcast in four parts, each one ushering in a new stage in our month-long celebration of the platypus.

And now… officially beginning our platypus holiday, this is Augustus Plumb, and I give you the 2nd Imaginary Symphony. [More music plays]

Narrator: This is Nigh’s neighborhood. Just over that hill, factories, soon to be full of busy grown-ups hard at work. And this is Nigh’s street, Telegraph Road. There’s the milkman. [Bottles clinking]

Every morning, he delivers a full day’s supply of dairy products to all the houses on Nigh’s street. And this big white house – this is Nigh’s house. And this is Nigh. [Footsteps and rhythmic creaking]

He is running down the stairs, though his grandmother has told him not to. Ordinarily, it would now be time for Nigh to go to school, but since it’s vacation time, Nigh is free to stay at home with his grandmother and play.

Nigh’s grandmother is blind and sometimes needs his help with household chores, such as sweeping… [Sweeping over the creaking + footsteps] Doing wash… [Washing machine turns on over the noises] Taking out the garbage… [Rustling] And making trips to the supermarket. [Beeping of registers, people chattering]

Walking home from the supermarket, Nigh hears the distant song of the fire siren. The fire siren sits perched high atop its red brick engine house, luring firemen away from their families and homes. [Fire siren] It is now the dinner hour. Time for the turning sound of latched keys to echo throughout the land, as grown-ups arrive home from work. [Keys being turned in doors, unlocking sounds and jingling] Some arrive by automobile. [Doors creaking] Some arrive by bicycle. [Bicycle wheels turning] And others on foot. [Footsteps]

This is Mr. Ackerman, Nigh’s neighbor and friend. Mr. Ackerman works at the big factory just over the hill. Nigh always looks forward to seeing Mr. Ackerman. You see, sometime ago, Mr. Ackerman confided in Nigh a matter of great importance. Nigh had begun to wonder just what it was that the big factory over the hill was making. [Bubbling sounds and mechanical creaking]

Having whiled away many a twilight admiring the great factory, Nigh had come to know each of its towering smokestacks and flashing lights. But as for what it was the great factory made, of this even his grandmother was not quite sure.

When asked at first, Mr. Ackerman did not answer. He regarded Nigh silently, and after a long pause, said only, “Nothing of interest, Nigh. Nothing of interest,” and continued on his way.

This, however, served only to pique the 9-year-old’s curiosity, and upon arriving home, Mr. Ackerman found the little boy still following close behind him.

“I promise you, Nigh, what goes on inside the walls of that factory is of no interest to little boys, or anyone else, for that matter. Now, please, Nigh, I’ve had a long day and I’m tired.” And with that, Mr. Ackerman waved goodbye and disappeared into his house, closing the door firmly behind him.

There was nothing for Nigh to do but to stare for a moment at the closed door before him and walk silently away. Mr. Ackerman had never spoken so coldly to him before, and Nigh was unsure of how to react. He did, however, know one thing for sure – Mr. Ackerman was not in the least bit interested in discussing what he did all day at that factory. “Why?” he wondered. Nigh thought about the sorts of things grown-ups do not like to talk about. Usually, Nigh had found that they fell into two categories – first: [Sudden noise, chiming of bells] Things that embarrassed or made the grown-up uncomfortable. Second: [More noise + chiming] And this was the good one – things unfit for the ears of a little boy. [Saw sings] He decided that he would have to be patient, and show Mr. Ackerman that, though not entirely fond of most grown-ups, he himself was grown up enough to be trusted, even with things unfit for the ears of a little boy. [More music]

He would have to play it cool and wait until the time was right before asking again. However, it was upon arriving home from work the very next day that Mr. Ackerman found the little boy following close behind him once again.

“Hello, Nigh,” Mr. Ackerman said, and with a sigh, opened the door and beckoned for Nigh to come in.

Once inside, Mr. Ackerman remained silent for a time. He sat Nigh down at the kitchen table, clearing off from it several tools and a strange two-pronged object that he appeared to have been working on, and put some water up on the kettle to boil.

Pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor, Mr. Ackerman appeared to be lost in thought, until at last, the small kettle came to a boil, and Mr. Ackerman began to speak.

“Do you know where clouds come from, Nigh?” asked Mr. Ackerman. [Music starts up]

“Sir?” said Nigh.

“Clouds, Nigh. Clouds,” said Mr. Ackerman.

Nigh shook his head. Try as he might, Nigh could not remember learning much of anything about clouds in school.

“So no one has ever told you. Hmph, well, of course not. It is a secret.”

Mr. Ackerman cleared his throat in the manner of someone about to give a long speech. “It’s been said, Nigh, that clouds are made up of fine droplets of water or tiny ice crystals, which are continually evaporating while new droplets or crystals appear through the condensation of water vapor.”

“Wow!�� said Nigh.

“This,” said Mr. Ackerman, “is not true.” Falling again to silence, Mr. Ackerman looked to Nigh as though he were about to say something very important. “I’m going to confide in you, Nigh,” began Mr. Ackerman, “a great secret. And the men who bear great secrets such as this, Nigh, must never, never breathe a word of it to another, not even to their grandmothers. Men have given their lives,” he said, and seeing that Nigh was visibly impressed, fell into a dramatic silence that Nigh was sure betrayed his enormous respect for the dead.

With an air of great dignity, Mr. Ackerman poured himself a cup of tea, adding to it a drop of clear liquid from his silver flask, and sat himself down at the table. But then, just as it seemed he was about to speak, something strange happened. The look on Mr. Ackerman’s face changed. It was no longer one of dignity, but the look of someone who had suddenly come to his senses to find himself quite ashamed, and all at once it looked to Nigh as though Mr. Ackerman had changed his mind and was about to say nothing at all.

“Please, Mr. Ackerman, please!” pleaded Nigh, who in all his wildest dreams had never imagined that the big factory harbored a secret so important and could contain his curiosity no more. [Singing saw music] “I won’t tell anyone, I promise!”

Mr. Ackerman glanced at the little boy, and looking slightly defeated, clasped his work-worn hands. It was quite clear to him that there was little hope of shaking the boy’s interest now.

“Okay,” he said, and took in a deep, deep breath. “I am a member of the secret society of cloud-makers. My father was a cloud-maker. My father’s father was a cloud-maker, and now I, too, am a cloud-maker. Our clouds are distributed across the globe, Nigh, made right here, and sent wherever they are needed, to shade people from the angry sun. This is our secret, Nigh. Our secret, and calling – a solemn duty for which we must never, ever take credit.”

“How come?” asked Nigh.

“How come?” repeated Mr. Ackerman, searchingly. “Well, you see, Nigh,” began Mr. Ackerman, “a cloud is a powerful thing. As long as a cloud is considered a happenstance of nature, then it’s a helpful and friendly thing. But should this power to create and control clouds be in the hands of all men, well…

“Consider nations at war, Nigh. Imagine what would happen if one nation were simply to just steal all its enemy’s clouds, leaving the other’s Earth infernal, or scorched. Or worse – fill the other’s sky with thousands of cumulus clouds, perpetuating a torrential downpour that need not ever end. Why, it’d be the end of us all. That is why the cloud-makers have always been men and women without a country or a faith, with no allegiance at all, but to the clouds themselves.” With that, Mr. Ackerman looked upwards with a gleam in his eye, as though he could see right through the kitchen ceiling the clouds in the sky above. “Our secrets are passed down from generation to generation, Nigh. We pose always as ordinary citizens, our factories disguised to look no different than any of the others in their midst. Why, as far as the outside world is concerned, our factory exists solely for the production of the three-pronged one slot widget.” At this, Mr. Ackerman chuckled. “Trucks full of the things travel to and from our factory all day. They arrive full, and so they leave. Of course, we do keep a good deal of these widgets on hand, in case of a visit from the outside world. But who wants to visit the widget factory? Men and women toiling for hours on end with molten ore and soldering irons, riveting rivets until they can no longer even feel their fingertips. No one. And if they did, they’d never be allowed past the front gate, not without an appointment.”

“Are all widget factories really cloud factories?” asked Nigh.

Mr. Ackerman shook his head. “No, Nigh, no. I suppose most any factory could be a cloud factory. You never know, and that’s the point – no one does. That is, except for the cloud-makers. And I’ve even heard tell of people who worked at cloud factories who, for security reasons, hadn’t even the slightest idea.”

“How?” asked Nigh.

“By the same process usually reserved only for unexpected visitors – atomic hypnosis.”

“Atomic hypnosis?”

“It’s just like ordinary hypnosis, only much, much smaller. These people go to work every day, completely unaware how entirely irreplaceable and important they are. All they see is an ordinary factory, in which they are asked to perform only the most mundane of tasks, never for a moment suspecting the incomprehensibly beautiful process in which they are taking part.”

“Do they ever find out?”

“No. I don’t believe that most of them ever do.”

“How come?”

“Well, you see, Nigh, atomic hypnosis is a very powerful thing.”

“It doesn’t seem fair!” said the little boy, quite visibly disappointed.

“Fair?” said Mr. Ackerman. “Fair? I don’t know. I am afraid, though, that it might be necessary. It’s just not easy for people to believe themselves capable of such great things, Nigh. It’s simple insecurity. And as a matter of security, insecurity is simply not to be tolerated. Secrets such as this can be put at risk for no one.”

“You told me,” said Nigh, causing the flicker of shame to return to Mr. Ackerman’s face once more.

“I… I live alone here, Nigh. I haven’t any children with whom to share my secrets.” Mr. Ackerman poured himself another cup of tea, emptying into it more of the clear liquid from the silver flask in his front pocket. “The life of a cloud-maker, Nigh – it’s a lonely thing. To the outside world, we must purposely appear as unremarkable as possible. We lead lives designed to attract very little attention. And sometimes, Nigh, sometimes we attract no attention at all.” Mr. Ackerman’s gaze turned down upon the kitchen table. “When you grow up someday, Nigh, you’ll come to understand that there are some things in life that, if you don’t share them, well, they can fade. Grown men have been known to disappear into thin air.” Though still in the room with him, Mr. Ackerman looked to Nigh to be far, far away. “You’re a good boy, Nigh,” said Mr. Ackerman, “and I believe I can trust you.”

With that, Mr. Ackerman excused himself and withdrew to the bathroom. Nigh, who had been sitting quietly and attentively, for much longer than would normally be expected from a boy his age on vacation, began to wander about the house in Mr. Ackerman’s absence.

“After all,” thought Nigh, “I have never been in the house of a cloud-maker before.”

In the living room, a little to the left of the front door, Nigh noticed a large, yellow raincoat hanging from a wooden coatrack. Whereas normally, a large, yellow raincoat hanging from a wooden coatrack would be of little interest to a boy like Nigh, this large, yellow raincoat appeared to be covered from top to bottom in no less than a full inch of undisturbed dust.

This struck Nigh to be rather odd. As Nigh reached out to touch the dusty coat with an outstretched finger, Mr. Ackerman stepped into the room, and with a booming voice that scared and startled Nigh, cried, “Don’t touch that! Now, I told you never ever, ever, ever, under any circumstance, may you ever so much as touch that raincoat! Do you understand?!”

Nigh backed away from the raincoat and nodded his head vigorously.

“This raincoat is for use only in the most severe of drought emergencies!”

Nigh had never heard of a raincoat that is only to be used in the most severe of drought emergencies before, and was quite visibly shaken by the severity of Mr. Ackerman’s tone. “You d-didn’t…” stammered Nigh.

“I didn’t what?”

“Tell me about the raincoat…”

“I didn’t… oh, my god, I didn’t.” And there the two of them stood, neither boy nor man knowing quite what to say. Mr. Ackerman sighed a sigh of such sadness that it made Nigh shiver. “I… I’m sorry, Nigh, I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I had no right. I was afraid you were about to…” Mr. Ackerman trailed off, and with a look of embarrassment on his face, knelt down to the height of the little boy. “I’m afraid I’m… I’m just not feeling very well right now, Nigh. You’ve been a very good boy today. You know that, don’t you?”

Nigh shook his head yes, because the way Mr. Ackerman was looking at him, he thought he ought to.

“I think old Mr. Ackerman needs a little rest now,” he said to Nigh. “You won’t forget what I told you here today, will you, Nigh?”

Nigh shook his head no.

“Okay, Nigh. You go run along and play now.”

[PBC music] Augustus: This is August Plumb and you have been listening to part one of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony. On behalf of all of us here at the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation, we wish you a happy holiday season. We will return with part two in just a few nights, ladies and gentlemen. Until then, try not to eat too many platypus-shaped cookies. Goodnight, everyone. [Ending music]

The Orbiting Human Circus (Of The Air): The 2nd Imaginary Symphony - Part Two

Augustus: Auggie Plumb here. You are listening to part two of the PBC’s broadcast of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony. It is, of course, Platypus Night, the night in our month-long lead up to Platypus Eve, where all Paris goes dark. The city of lights is extinguished and one finds not a single lit electric light or candle. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, at the strike of 8 in two hours’ time, the Parisians will gather with friends, with loved ones, with only the moonlight to light their way, and later this evening, waiting, all of us, waiting.

And for whom do we wait? Well, for those of you listening to this international broadcast in some remote enclave such as a mountaintop, jungle, cabin, or perhaps one of the Earth’s poles, we are waiting for the Great Recitating Platypus. Yes, on this night, the platypus travels the Earth looking not for signs of stuffy noses or sickness, but for darkened houses, the dark house being a sign that the dwellers within are inviting the platypus to visit.

And we wait. Our eyes close, as if in unison. When the platypus enters your home, it shivers, entranced by a feeling of absolute peace. The platypus will move through slighting certain objects, one for each of us, and touching them to its bill. And when the platypus leaves our house, and we all open our eyes at exactly the same time, we light a candle and place it in our window and all of Paris spills out into the streets, and in the streets all of Paris wonders just which object the platypus has touched for them. And we go through our bedrooms, and we go through our living rooms, from thing to thing. We ask, ‘Is this the object the platypus blessed?’ For when you see that object, one will suddenly be seized with the same unmistakable feeling of warmth and safety one felt when the platypus had just left our house.

A memory or idea will pass into our heads and that will be the key to our well-being and happiness in the coming year. And indeed in times of struggle or adversity, if the object is touched, the path to follow will come, and all of this tonight.

But first, part two of our classic holiday broadcast. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the 2nd Imaginary Symphony. [Music playing]

Narrator: “This raincoat is for use only in the most severe of drought emergencies!”

Nigh had never heard of a raincoat that is only to be used in the most severe of drought emergencies before, and was quite visibly shaken by the severity of Mr. Ackerman’s tone.

“You d-didn’t…” stammered Nigh.

“I didn’t what?”

“Tell me about the raincoat…”

Nigh shook his head yes, because the way Mr. Ackerman was looking at him, he thought he ought to.

“I think old Mr. Ackerman needs a little rest now,” he said to Nigh. “You won’t forget what I told you here today, will you, Nigh?”

Nigh shook his head no.

“Okay, Nigh. You go run along and play now.”

And so it was that Nigh became the guardian of a great and profound secret. In the weeks and months that passed, Nigh never looked at the big factory or the clouds above in exactly the same way again. The world seemed a new and exotic place to Nigh, where new mysteries waited to be discovered around every corner. He would spend hours on the hill overlooking the big factory, watching the newborn clouds drift this way and that.

In the evenings, he would sit out on his front stoop, anxiously awaiting Mr. Ackerman’s return home from work. It was the complicit look that he and Mr. Ackerman would share that he looked forward to most of all.

Nigh felt very lucky indeed to be the bearer of such a great and important secret, and dreamed some day of becoming a cloud-maker himself. Cloud-making seemed so much more interesting than the other jobs he had learned about at career day in school.

When asked, Mr. Ackerman just shrugged and said, “Not anybody can be a cloud-maker, Nigh. Sure, most anyone is capable. But the title of ‘cloud-maker’ is something that must be earned. Right now, you’re just a passenger, along for the ride.”

“A passenger?” asked Nigh.

“This world, Nigh, this world of men and women,” said Mr. Ackerman, his cheeks and nose a good deal redder than Nigh had ever seen them before, “little boys like you… you’re nothing but passengers.”

Mr. Ackerman was quiet for a moment, seemingly struggling to find the right words. “It’s like… like a crazy carnival ride, gone out of control,” he said, his eyes widening. “It’s all our fault.”

“Your fault?” asked Nigh.

Mr. Ackerman laughed a sad laugh. “You know who built this crazy machine, who’s operating it?” he asked.

Nigh shook his head.

“Grown-ups,” Mr. Ackerman said, bowing deeply. “We build the damn thing every day. Problem is, most of us don’t even know it. Even though we’re driving, each and every last one of us, we think we’re just passengers like you, or worse – victims. We’re terrible drivers, the whole lot of us. But sometimes, Nigh, sometimes a little boy like you grows up and finds that despite everything, he can still see clearly. He finds that he can look straight ahead and steer the whole blessed thing. And when a boy can do that, he can be…”

“A cloud-maker?” asked Nigh.

“Any damn thing he pleases,” finished Mr. Ackerman.

Nigh thought about how before meeting Mr. Ackerman, he had been afraid of growing up. He enjoyed how he spent his days and was yet to find a grown-up who did. Watching the grown-ups travel to and from work every day, he had witnessed looks only of boredom and stress upon their faces. Nigh was always amazed by how well Mr. Ackerman was able to mimic this look of discontentment, how well he was able to mask his heroic purpose and disappear daily into the ceaseless flow of adults who had made the whole idea of growing up look so unappealing to Nigh in the first place.

Mr. Ackerman was indeed so good at appearing tired and unhappy that sometimes, for fleeing moments, even Nigh himself was fooled. And then, early one vacation morning, Nigh awoke to find something horribly wrong. Mr. Ackerman’s hat and briefcase were strewn upon his front lawn, and the door to his house left hanging open. Through the open door, Nigh could see that Mr. Ackerman’s wooden coatrack had also been capsized and was laying on its side.

Nigh cautiously approached the house and called out to Mr. Ackerman.

“Mr. Ackerman!” called Nigh. There was no answer. “Mr. Ackerman!” he called yet again, poking his head through the front door. And still there was no answer. The house was completely silent. Nigh, becoming more and more concerned, decided to ask his grandmother if she had heard Mr. Ackerman leaving for work that morning. Unfortunately, she had been busy splicing tape and hadn’t noticed anything at all. Nigh thought for a moment of asking his grandmother’s help, but was afraid of compromising Mr. Ackerman’s important need for secrecy. He would have to try and find Mr. Ackerman by himself for now.

Nigh returned to Mr. Ackerman’s front yard and, gathering the hat and briefcase, cautiously entered the house. Closing the door behind him, Nigh placed the hat and briefcase upon Mr. Ackerman’s kitchen table and began searching about for any clues as towards Mr. Ackerman’s whereabouts. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, with the exception of the capsized coatrack and raincoat, he returned once again to the briefcase.

Hesitating for a moment, Nigh decided that there was no other choice. The briefcase must be opened. After all, he thought, Mr. Ackerman might be in trouble! Nigh gently released the latches [latches clicking] and was quite surprised by what he found.

Inside the case, a second slightly smaller case was housed, this one ice cold and made out of some sort of aluminum or other light metal. Upon this metal was etched the phrase “FOR AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY”. Underneath this statement was etched a good deal more information. The etching was so small, however, that Nigh had to press his face up against the ice-cold case and strain his eyes in order to read it.

“WARNING”, it said, “FOR THE GROUND TRANSPORTATION AND CONTAINMENT OF NIMBUS, STRATUS, CIRRUS, AND CUMULUS CLOUDS ONLY. NOT TO BE OPENED IN AN UNREFRIGERATED INDOOR ENVIRONMENT”. As Nigh was straining to read the last part of this statement, his nose accidentally made contact with the small red button that he had not previously noticed. [Shaking, gears turning]

Suddenly, Nigh’s ears were filled with the sound of gears turning, and a mechanical whirring filled the air. [Bubbly noises] The case sprung open and out of it sprung a tiny and perfectly formed nimbus cloud. It was the most amazing thing Nigh had ever seen!

The little cloud drifted upwards, drifting higher and higher, until at last, it came to a rest against the cool tiles of the kitchen ceiling. Nigh pulled out his chair and climbed upon the kitchen table in order to take a better look. From his new vantage point, however, it seemed as though the little cloud had not come to a rest at all, but was trying to pass through the tile ceiling in order to reach the sky above. Nigh noticed also that the cloud seemed just a little bit smaller than it had been only moments ago. It was almost as if the cloud’s inability to reach its proper altitude was causing it to somehow shrink.

Then the words etched on the aluminum cloud case suddenly came back to him. “NOT TO BE OPENED IN AN UNREFRIGERATED INDOOR ENVIRONMENT”.

“What will Mr. Ackerman think when he finds out I destroyed his cloud?”

Nigh was reminded of the time a bird had found its way into his grandmother’s house and the horrible panic he had felt as the bird flapped about, crashing into closed windows. [Banging noises]

He had to do something, and quickly!

But the cloud was much too high and well beyond reach. How would he ever get the cloud back down and into its cloud case?

Then Nigh thought of Mr. Ackerman’s old-fashioned refrigerator. Perhaps this could provide the sort of refrigerated environment the cloud needed.

Filling his lungs with as much air as he could muster, [sound of someone blowing air, bubbles popping] Nigh began to blow the cloud in the direction of Mr. Ackerman’s ice box. It’s working, thought Nigh, it’s working! Nigh blew and blew until the cloud was floating just a few feet above the refrigerator door. Nigh was hoping that the cloud would be drawn into the coolness of the ice box, as it would the coolness of high altitudes.

However, upon opening Mr. Ackerman’s refrigerator door, he found no room whatsoever for the little cloud. It seems the refrigerator was already full, not with a single grocery, mind you, but from top to bottom with clouds, clouds of every imaginable shape and size. Stratus clouds, and cirrus clouds, so many clouds, in fact, that Nigh had to immediately slam the refrigerator door shut in order to keep them from pouring out.

Just then, Nigh felt the most amazing, cool sensation on the top of his head. The chilly little cloud had begun to lose altitude and was now hovering only centimeters away from his face. Nigh grabbed the cloud case off the kitchen table and held it open beneath the sinking cloud. He closed the aluminum case around it and placed it directly back inside of Mr. Ackerman’s briefcase, closing all the latches. [Latches closing]

This is getting me nowhere, thought Nigh, who with a great sigh of relief, decided to resume his search for Mr. Ackerman outside. [PBC music]

Augustus: You were listening to part two of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony. The Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation will be going off the air in observance of the Platypus Night. This is August Plumb, and the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation. Goodnight. [Ending music]

The Orbiting Human Circus (Of The Air): The 2nd Imaginary Symphony - Part Three

Augustus: August here, this is the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation. Welcome to our broadcast of part three of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony, and of course, to week three of our lead-up to Platypus Eve, tonight being the night, of course, when all Paris spills into platypus-shaped sea craft, in many cases passed down from parents or grandparents, and float upon the Seine, sharing delicious nighttime picnics.

But of course, you don’t need me to tell you. You’re probably pulling your boat out of your basement or boathouse right now. And while you shore up your craft and patch up the holes, like all the rest of us, you’ll be listening to part three of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony broadcast right here on the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation.

And last week, our cloud-maker disappeared. We return you now to the story moments before we last left. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the 2nd Imaginary Symphony. [Music playing]

Narrator: “This is getting me nowhere,” thought Nigh, who with a great sigh of relief, decided to resume his search for Mr. Ackerman outside.

On his way to the door, however, Nigh found himself suddenly tumbling forward, [sound of someone falling], falling face-first to the floor, and there, beneath his feet, lay the culprit – the infamous large yellow raincoat, with its inch of undisturbed dust.

Retrieving the raincoat, [thunder] and straightening the coatrack from which it had fallen, Nigh heard the unmistakable sound of distant thunder. “Oh, no!” he thought, “Rain would be of no help at all.”

Nigh poked his head outside to find that, indeed, it had begun raining [rain and thunder] and soon it became quite apparent that this was no ordinary rainstorm. With each passing moment, [rain getting louder] the rain fell harder and the wind blew stronger, until what had begun as a pleasant sprinkle had become no less than a torrential downpour.

In his mission, however, Nigh would not be discouraged. Mr. Ackerman might be in trouble, and if this was the case, it would be with the bravery and strength of the most grown-up of grown-ups anywhere that Nigh would strive to find him. And so out into the storm Nigh went, protected only by an ill-fitting large yellow raincoat that he now wore.

All around Nigh, the skies grew darker and darker until not the tiniest trace of sunlight remained. Huge tornadoes began to gather upon the horizons, their deafening winds so loud that Nigh was unable to hear the sound of his grandmother calling for him to come home.

Spiraling raindrops filled the air, turning the Earth to mud and flooding the streets all about him. And then suddenly, a tremendous gust of wind came along, blowing Nigh off his feet and blowing the open raincoat right off of him. [Rain and thunder stops, squeaking of birds]

Nigh looked up from his seat in a puddle and was astonished by what he saw. The moment the raincoat had blown off of him, the rain had stopped and the sun came out. There were chirping birds, and all shone with the warm glow of a clear sky as the powerful cumulus cloud that had been pounding the Earth with its torrential downpour just a moment ago had all but withdrawn.

Nigh looked at the raincoat, which was now strewn on the ground a few feet in front of him, and looked back up at the sky. He got up, went to retrieve the raincoat, but as soon as he touched it, [thunder, birds stop] he found the sky darkening, and the distant sound of thunder again returning.

He took his hand off the raincoat [birds chirping] and found that the sun had once again come out. He repeated this several times, [thunder] and found that every time his hand made contact [birds] with the coat [thunder] the cumulus clouds [birds] were once again drawn to fill the sky [thunder] and the moment he released [birds] the coat, the clouds withdrew.

This was another of Mr. Ackerman’s possessions, Nigh decided, that should only be touched by trained and authorized personnel. He reached for a small branch that, in the storm, had been blown off of a nearby tree, and with it, lifted the raincoat carefully, and returned it to Mr. Ackerman’s wooden coatrack. [Music changes]

Then, a thought occurred to Nigh. What if early that morning, there had been some sort of emergency at the cloud factory, one that required Mr. Ackerman’s immediate attention? An emergency of such great importance that he was unable to pause for a moment, not even to close the front door or retrieve the fallen hat and briefcase that he had dropped in his haste?

If such had been the case, then Mr. Ackerman would certainly appreciate having his hat and briefcase brought to him. Certainly, he would, thought Nigh. And so, Nigh climbed to the top of the big hill, Mr. Ackerman’s hat and briefcase in hand, and looked down at the great factory has he had done so many times before.

He knew he’d never get past the guards at the front gate. At best, they would simply take the hat and the briefcase from him and send him on his way. Nigh wanted to see that Mr. Ackerman was alright with his own two eyes, and to see inside the cloud factory more than almost anything in the whole wide world.

He had discovered some time ago that around the back of the factory, there was a small hole at the base of the barbed wire fence, just the right size for a skinny nine-year-old boy to fit through. Nigh made his way carefully down the hill so as not to slip on the wet grass and climbed quietly through the hole, pulling the hat and briefcase behind him.

The factory consisted of two tall silver buildings, one rectangle and one square, connected at the center by another giant bubble-shaped building, roughly double the size of the others. The whole of the structure was covered from top to bottom in long lines of blinking lights and lighted windows. It looked to Nigh like a giant version of the old recording equipment that his grandmother kept in their basement.

Looking up at the smokestacks, Nigh wondered if he had ever seen anything quite so tall. Standing right up next to them for the first time, he had certainly never felt smaller. Just then, [voices, footsteps] Nigh heard the sound of voices and footsteps coming from somewhere nearby. He looked around for someplace to hide, but could see none. Moving along the back of the great structure, he came to a single unmarked door and gave its knob a try. The door was unlocked, and Nigh, hearing the voices and footsteps draw nearer, slowly and quietly cracked the door open and stepped inside. [Singing]

What Nigh saw then was at once the most amazing and beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life – rows of singing, white-haired women, sitting on a vast and spiraling assembly line, in front of each, a small and perfectly formed cloud, floating only inches above a frost-covered silver tray; men cranking cranks and pulling levers upon huge machines made of silver and bronze; hundreds of workers suspended in midair by string, pulleys, and wire, peddling upon small contraptions whose pedals and gears were linked to bigger gears, and those to bigger gears, and those to bigger gears yet, above them, giant fans blowing the larger completed clouds towards smokestacks high along the factory’s vast lightened ceiling, creating huge cloud-shaped shadows that drifted over the men and women working a hundred feet below.

He saw several raised platforms, upon which sat workers surrounded by huge control panels of blinking and flashing lights; buttons and knobs of every imaginable size and color; frost-covered golden tubs, housing hundreds of tiny floating clouds waiting for inspection; suspended from the ceiling, a giant clock, the sort that he had never seen before, flanked on all sides by a towering bank of gauges and levers; and rising above it all, on the tallest platform yet, he saw the elder cloud-maker, who from his perch high above, directed the flow of the entire factory with graceful waves of his left hand while calling out through the megaphone in his right.

“Nimbus, two hundred of three thousand! Stratus, forty-four of fifty-three! Cumulus, twenty-seven of four thirteen!” And on, and on.

Nigh realized that he had begun to shiver and noticed also that he could see his breath. Looking around at the singing silver-haired women seated all about him, Nigh noticed that their breath could be seen as well. In fact, upon closer inspection, it almost looked as if the women were singing the clouds before them.

Putting on Mr. Ackerman’s large hat and crossing his arms against the chill, Nigh proceeded to look about the building for any sign of Mr. Ackerman. He noticed that every single chair in the building seemed to be filled, with the exception of one, and that this one empty chair seemed to be the focus of many an anxious glance by the workers in its midst. Even the elder cloud-maker, directing the whole factory from his platform high above, was seen to glance worriedly at this empty chair from time to time. Indeed, this chair located high atop the only empty examination platform seemed to be a matter of great concern to all the cloud-makers.

Crawling his way along the factory’s back wall so as not to be noticed, Nigh made his way slowly but surely to the platform in question. He waited silently until he was sure no one was looking and climbed slowly up to the platform’s top.

Peeking over the edge, Nigh could clearly see a silver plaque bolted to the back of the empty chair, and etched upon this silver plaque, he could clearly see was the name “R. A. Ackerman”.

Nigh suddenly became quite aware that every sound in the factory had ceased, and it had been replaced with a shocked and deathly silence. Looking up, he saw that all work in the factory had come to a stop and that every last eye in the vast building was upon him. “A little boy?!” boomed the elder cloud-maker, who in his shock, did not realize that he was still speaking through the megaphone.

Several of the cloud-makers began slowly to rise to their feet, and Nigh, now aware that he might be in terrible trouble, collected the briefcase and ran as fast as he could towards the door through which he had entered. [Fast footsteps]

Finding the door still unlocked, Nigh made a hasty exit, not looking back even once outside. Hearing the growing commotion behind him, he made his way to the gate and squeezed himself back through the small hole. Once through, he ran as fast as he could up the hill and to the road just beyond it.

At just that moment, a fire engine with its lights flashing slowly turned a corner and began sounding its alarm, having just pulled out of the engine house. The firemen on board were under the luring influence of the fire siren, and did not notice the small boy as he climbed on board. Nigh hid himself underneath one of the fire engine’s big benches, and exhausted by the day’s adventures, drifted off to sleep.

He awoke a good time later to find a wet group of firemen looking down at him. “Don’t you know that fire engines are dangerous places for little boys?” asked a firemen with a kind face. “You could have been hurt! What’s your name?”

“Nigh,” said Nigh.

“You mustn’t ever go near a fire engine when it’s in use, Nigh. Now, if you were to come by the engine house some afternoon, that’d be a different story. Why, me and the boys, we’d even give you a tour. But when we’re fighting a fire, that’s business only for a trained firefighter, and even trained firefighters die fighting fires. Do you understand, Nigh?”

Nigh nodded yes, and the fireman smiled.

“Someday, Nigh, you might even grow up to be a real fireman, just like us!”

Though he tried not to show it, Nigh shuddered inwardly at the thought of being forever subject to the whims of the fire siren.

“Where do you live, Nigh?” the fireman asked. Nigh looked up to see where he was, and saw in the afternoon light that the truck had traveled rather far from Telegraph Road. However, not wanting to answer too many more questions about his day’s activities, Nigh pointed to a spot vaguely down the block. “Well, you head on home, now, Nigh.” Relieved, Nigh stepped down from the firetruck. “Oh, and Nigh, where did you get the hat and briefcase from?”

“They’re… they’re my father’s,” said Nigh.

The fireman smiled, and with that, the engine was off, leaving Nigh standing alone on a street corner. Realizing that he had a very long walk ahead of him, Nigh started for home. As he walked, he reflected upon the day’s events and became more and more concerned that something horrible really had become of Mr. Ackerman.

Soon, the day began to turn slowly into night, and Nigh noticed that though he had been walking for quite some time in the direction of home, things were looking less and less familiar until soon they were no longer familiar at all. Nigh realized that he was lost, and in a part of town that he had never been to before. The buildings loomed larger, and somehow grayer, with dark alleys that spread like vast spider webs between them. There were more and more grown-ups everywhere, all rushing to and from with haste and impatience.

Nigh was becoming worried that he might never find his way home. He had walked a long, long way and his legs were aching as it was. He knew one thing for sure – he was tired and did not much like this new part of town in which he had found himself. Nigh sat down on a curb to rest his legs for a moment, and was almost tripped over by a large businessman who had been rushing past. “Watch where you’re sitting, little boy!” scolded the cross businessman, who dusted himself off and continued on his way.

Not wanting to be tripped over again, Nigh gathered himself up and entered one of the nearby alleys. At least here there would be less traffic and he could rest. The alley was dark, and Nigh, moving carefully so as not to bump into anything, settled against the wall of the building, finding a nice, soft spot on which to rest his head.

It was now almost completely dark, and as night settled on this strange part of the city, [chattering] Nigh found the sounds coming from outside of the alley to be more violent and foreboding - drunken sounds, bottles smashing, and men fighting; wild laughter that offered not a hint of happiness. Nigh wished more than anything to be safe and at home with grandma. He realized that he was hungry, and that grandma had probably had his dinner ready long ago. He knew also that once the dinnertime had come and passed, she would have begun to worry.

Nigh promised himself that he would take only a short rest and then immediately continue on his journey home, and it was with this conviction that Nigh’s already heavy eyelids became altogether too heavy to lift at all, and Nigh fell once again into the deepest and most pleasant of sleeps. What Nigh did not know as he drifted off to the land of dreams was that the soft object he had come to rest against was not a bundle of rags, nor a wastepaper bag; in fact, it was not an object at all. It was a man, a very tired and sleeping man by the name of Rudolph Abacus Ackerman.

In a matter of moments now, Nigh and his friend, Mr. Ackerman, will awaken and discover each other in the morning light, but let us first take a moment to discover for ourselves the difference between the sound of a sunrise on Telegraph Road, as we experienced at the beginning of our adventure, and the sound of a sunrise on the streets of a sleepless city, as the first rays of morning light glitter peacefully upon the empty silver flask in Mr. Ackerman’s outstretched hand. [Birds chirping] [PBC music]

Augustus: You’ve been listening to the PBC’s broadcast of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony. Do be careful not to tip your boats, and we’ll see you tonight on the Seine. [Ending music]

The Orbiting Human Circus (Of The Air): The 2nd Imaginary Symphony - Part Four

[Music] Augustus: You are listening to the Perpetual Broadcasting Corporation! It’s Platypus Eve. I cannot begin to describe our Platypus Eve festivities. I can only tell you that it is one of the most lovely evenings of the year, and that it begins with all of Paris listening to the final broadcast of the 2nd Imaginary Symphony.

And ladies and gentlemen, the moment has come. This is Auggie Plumb. [Singing saw music]

Narrator: But let us first take a moment to discover for ourselves the difference between the sound of a sunrise on Telegraph Road, as we experienced at the beginning of our adventure, and the sound of a sunrise on the streets of a sleepless city as the first rays of morning light glitter peacefully upon the empty silver flask in Mr. Ackerman’s outstretched hand. [Birds chirping, wind blowing] “Nigh!” said Mr. Ackerman.

“Mr. Ackerman!” said Nigh, who rubbed his eyes, for a moment not quite sure at all of where he was. “Mr. Ackerman, you’re all right! You’re all right!” he cried.

Cringing at the volume of the excited boy’s voice, Mr. Ackerman squinted at Nigh. “I’m fine, Nigh, fine. What… what are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you!” said Nigh.

“Looking… for me?” repeated Mr. Ackerman. “Does your grandmother know you’re here?” Nigh shook his head. “Oh, Nigh,” said Mr. Ackerman, “she must be so worried.”

Watching Mr. Ackerman squint, it occurred to Nigh that the early morning sun was hurting the cloud-maker’s eyes. He carefully retrieved Mr. Ackerman’s hat and handed it to him. Mr. Ackerman thanked Nigh, but did not put it on, instead returning it to the ground where it had been. “How in the world did you find me, Nigh?” he asked.

Excitedly, Nigh began to recount the previous day’s events. [Whirring and buzzing]

As Nigh spoke, the look of sadness that had taken hold of Mr. Ackerman’s face began to deepen, and from time to time, he simply shook his head. Finally seeming as though he could listen to no more, Mr. Ackerman righted himself and silenced Nigh with a wave of his swollen right hand.

“Please, Nigh, please,” he said, seemingly quite lost in thought. There passed a moment of silence between the two. The excitement Nigh had felt in recounting his story quickly faded and was replaced instead with a creeping feeling of dread.

Mr. Ackerman was right. His grandmother was surely sick with worry, and with his previous day’s adventures, Mr. Ackerman seemed none too pleased. In fact, looking at Mr. Ackerman just then, it seemed that he too might be sick, though maybe not with worry. Nigh felt the question he had been dying to ask since he awoke bubbling up.

“What happened to you, Mr. Ackerman?”

Mr. Ackerman looked at Nigh, and for a moment, appeared to be at a loss for an answer. Nigh watched as Mr. Ackerman’s gaze first fell upon his shoes, and then to the ground beneath them. “Nothing happened to me, Nigh,” Mr. Ackerman said finally, “nothing happens to me.” The boy looked up at him expectantly, waiting. “I just left.” Mr. Ackerman looked at Nigh. “I got fed up and left. You’ll understand when you grow up.”

“But the cloud-makers, they need you!”

Mr. Ackerman looked down at the little boy before him and shook his head. “We’ve got to get you home now,” was all Mr. Ackerman said, but Nigh did not follow. He stood in place and looked up at Mr. Ackerman, clearly not understanding. Seeing this, Mr. Ackerman looked suddenly quite ashamed and stopped. He turned back towards Nigh and, feeling for the flask in his jacket pocket, quietly spoke. “I…” Mr. Ackerman said, “am not… a cloud-maker.”

At this, Nigh found his head swimming and a great sob escaped from somewhere deep within him. After all the strange and scary things he had experienced in the past 24 hours, it seemed he had found himself at last beginning to cry. Nigh could not understand why after all he had done, Mr. Ackerman would no longer trust him with his secret, and it was the thought that he had somehow lost this trust that he could not bear.

His face red with shame, Mr. Ackerman took the crying boy into his arms, and had Nigh’s face not been buried in the lining of his jacket, Nigh would have noticed that at that moment, Mr. Ackerman looked very, very old. Mr. Ackerman felt very much as if he should say something, but was at a bit of a loss as to what that something should be. “There are cloud-makers,” he offered, and the boy looked up. “I believe with all my heart that there are cloud-makers. Why, just look up at the sky!” he said, pointing upwards. “What more proof could you need?”

As Nigh’s tears began to abate, Mr. Ackerman put a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder and knelt down so as to look him directly in the eye. “It’s just that I…” he said, “Rudolph Abacus Ackerman, am not one of them. I’m… a widget-maker. That factory, Nigh, it’s a widget factory. That’s all it’s ever been. We make widgets there, three-pronged one-slot widgets. I didn’t want to tell you, Nigh. I didn’t want to tell you because I’m not proud of it. I don’t even like widgets.”

Looking down at Nigh, Mr. Ackerman suddenly realized that the boy did not believe him.

“Look at my hands, Nigh. They’re worn. They swell up. It’s from years of curing widgets, riveting rivets into slots, and molding metal prongs. There’s no place in a cloud factory for men like me.”

“But Mr. Ackerman, I saw the cloud factory!” pleaded Nigh.

“There are no clouds in that factory!” boomed Mr. Ackerman, who, surprised by the volume of his own voice, cringed and continued at a much quieter and apologetic tone. “I wish there were, Nigh. I wish to the heavens above that it were one of those factories. But in that factory, Nigh, there’s nothing at all but widgets, and that is why I must stay here and seek to once again to fill my silver flask. And you, Nigh, must be sent home to your grandmother this instant.”

“But Mr. Ackerman!” sobbed Nigh, and then suddenly, Nigh had an idea. He crawled over to Mr. Ackerman’s briefcase and opened both it and the cold, silver case within. What Mr. Ackerman saw then, he would remember for the rest of his life – a small, perfectly formed nimbus cloud drifting slowly skyward out of the open recess of his briefcase. Mr. Ackerman stood up and with his mouth hanging open, and a look of shock upon his face, moved towards the small cloud in order to examine it more closely.

The cloud, however, continued to drift upwards and away from him. Not for a moment taking his eyes away from the rising cloud, Mr. Ackerman continued in its pursuit, and Nigh, taking Mr. Ackerman’s hand, gently placed Mr. Ackerman’s hat back on his head, where it belonged.

The two followed their cloud out of the narrow alleyway and down to the busy city street, where the busy city-dwellers were far too busy to notice the spectacle of a nine-year-old boy and a disheveled man marching hand in hand behind a small nimbus cloud.

The further along they went in pursuit of the cloud, the higher also it drifted. Mr. Ackerman never for a moment took his gaze away from the cloud, like a man hypnotized, and when Nigh finally did, he found that things were once again beginning to look familiar. The cloud, it seemed, was leading them home. [Bubbling]

The boy and the man, hand in hand, followed the cloud from street to street, over grassy fields, steep hills, and deepened valleys, until the cloud had reached such an elevation that it was no longer distinguishable from the other clouds that filled the sky around it. It was at this point that Mr. Ackerman looked downwards from the sky and found himself at the gate of the great factory.

The guard at the gate smiled warmly and beckoned for both Nigh and Mr. Ackerman to come in, but Mr. Ackerman hesitated. He was no longer sure of what awaited him and the little boy inside, and was suddenly quite afraid. “I’m just an ordinary man,” he said, backing away.

The guard put a reassuring hand on Mr. Ackerman’s shoulder, and let him through the open factory gate.

Now flanked on either side by the guard and the little boy who was still holding his hand, Mr. Ackerman began to walk tentatively forward and the awkward threesome soon made their way to the huge double doors that marked the factory’s entrance. Sweating profusely, Mr. Ackerman took a deep breath, and before he could protest, watched as the guard unlatched the giant latch and pushed the huge factory doors wide open.

What Mr. Rudolph Abacus Ackerman saw then was at once the most amazing and beautiful thing that he had ever seen - rows of singing, white-haired women sitting on a vast and spiraling assembly line, in front of each a small and perfectly formed cloud floating only inches above a frost-covered silver tray; men cranking cranks and pulling levers upon huge machines made of silver and bronze; hundreds of workers suspended in midair by string, pulleys, and wire, pedaling upon small contraptions, whose pedals and gears were linked to bigger gears, and those to bigger gears, and those to bigger gears yet; above them, giant fans blowing the larger, completed clouds towards smokestacks high along the factory’s vast lightened ceiling, creating huge cloud-shaped shadows that drifted over the men and women working a hundred feet below.

He saw several raised platforms on which sat workers surrounded by huge control panels of blinking and flashing lights; buttons and knobs of every imaginable size and color; frost-covered golden tubs housing hundreds of tiny floating clouds waiting for inspection; suspended from the ceiling a giant clock, the sort that he had never seen before, flanked on all sides by a towering bank of gauges and meters; and rising out of it all, on the tallest platform yet, he saw the elder cloud-maker, who from his perch high above, directed the flow of the entire factory with graceful waves of his left hand while calling out through the megaphone in his right.

“Nimbus, two hundred of three thousand! Stratus, forty-four of fifty-three! Cumulus, twenty-seven of four thirteen!” And on, and on.

Nigh tugging at his sleeve, Mr. Ackerman entered the cloud factory, and the whole of the cloud-makers in their hundreds turned to face him. On his platform high above, the elder cloud-maker stopped conducting for a moment and smiled.

They took Mr. Ackerman’s jacket and hat and led him up the very steps of the platform that Nigh had visited the day before and so delivered him into the chair upon which his name was engraved.

As the look of astonishment on Mr. Ackerman’s face began slowly to turn to a smile, Nigh realized that he had never truly seen Mr. Ackerman smile before. And now, as his misty eyes gratefully surveyed the hundreds of cloud-makers in his midst, Nigh saw a single drop of moisture fall upon Mr. Ackerman’s cheek. Now, whether this was a drop of precipitation from one of the great clouds above or a single tear of his own, he could hardly guess, as Rudolph Abacus Ackerman smiled the biggest smile that Nigh had ever seen and began silently to work. [Ending music]

Art Explanation

So, did you listen? Or did you read? Just curious. I first listened to this story years and years ago, near the beginning of this coloring book project, and I knew I wanted to include it. It had that sweet air of earnest unusualness that a lot of older children’s books had in spades, but not without a dash of reality to spice it up. What reality, you might ask? It’s a story about a little boy reminding his neighbor that he is the head of a cloud factory. Well, while not saying it outright, the story shows us that Mr. Ackerman has lost hope for his future. Even with the little bright light of Nigh visiting, very little seemed to lift him out of the doldrums, and that things from the past were still troubling him.

But hey, a little (or in this story, a lot of) kindness can go a long way! I don’t suggest you go to quite the lengths Nigh did, but it's still so wonderful, what one little thing you can do can improve someone’s whole day. Will everyone appreciate it, or treat you better because of it? No. There will be people who are certifiable buttheads, and can even take advantage of your kindness. You don’t owe the world an open heart, but if your heart can afford opening even just once in a while, that’s beautiful and I’m glad you have the strength for it.

Now, I’d like to take a look at the story in two ways. Just like Birdman, there’s two ways to look at the story. So below, covered in flaps, are my two analyses, in bullet point form, following along chronologically. I’d like you to look at the one agreeing with your interpretation first, then the other, as they each will likely have details that are still relevant to the other. And if you want, tell me if they affected your view on the story!

Realist view

Magic view

By the way, I didn’t type this all up. Here’s a link to the official transcript location from the showmakers.

Alrighty, with all that said, onto the art!

While the main show and the setting are in Paris, I never imagined this story taking place outside of the USA. The voice actors were American, and sometimes I’m a little unimaginative. However, I did put a little thought into the city. Since it houses a cloud factory, it needed to not be very sunny. It has at least one big hill. The city has to be at least somewhat walkable, as there weren’t a ton of mentions of cars. And it has to be an industrial city, because the cloud factory isn’t notable. Add in the fact I got West Coast vibes from this story, I decided it was set in San Francisco! Thus, Nigh looks like a typical San Franciscan - he even has a 49ers shirt! It can often be quite chilly there, even in the summer, so Nigh has layers on.

Mr. Ackerman had a more specific inspiration. There’s a beautiful song called (Sittin’ On) the Dock of the Bay by Otis Redding Jr. It’s about a melancholic drifter who ended up in San Francisco. While Mr. Ackerman is clearly established in the city, that kind of blues music would definitely speak to him. As such, I wanted to draw him like Otis Redding Jr. Unfortunately, he died at age 26 in a plane crash, and Mr. Ackerman is clearly older than that, so I had to base him off of Otis Redding III in his fifties. The hat was inspired by ORIII’s usual look, but the outfit was kind of supposed to be working man chic, with the flair of a trench coat to make it clear that the man was expecting bad things to happen (like cold, wet weather).

Now, the title was pretty basic, but It informed you of the name, which was the point lol.

The platypus was largely because I wanted to attempt making a platypus out of household items. It was actually harder than you’d think, especially since I didn’t physically test it out. Most of the books, aside from the Atlas, are all from podcasts from the same company.

The third picture was a bit of a break for me. I drew it after the factory, so it’s simple.

The fourth picture I drew last. I finally got a handle on Nigh’s face - I have trouble drawing children, but I finally did well. Like I said in the analysis above, it’s more likely Mr. Ackerman really did leave his job himself, but it was easier to portray him being fired. But all in all, this is probably my first or second favorite out of this story.

The fifth picture, where Nigh only partially has the coat on, was again an inaccuracy that made portrayal easier. On one side where he isn’t wearing the rain coat, the weather is calm. On the other side, where he has the sleeve completely on, it’s storming like crazy. I’m not too proud of Nigh’s body proportions or face in this one - a friend who also likes the show influenced my artistic choices but I definitely needed more practice.

Picture 6 is where I did my best to draw the factory. Obviously, I didn’t want to get too complicated with it, but I think I managed to convey some complexity :). Mr. Ackerman and Nigh are warped a little because I was trying to get the picture at a different angle. Just like ith NIMH, I drew a background and then stuck characters on it, although this time I drew the two straight on and then used a big Mr. Ackerman facing the audience, and a little bit of photo editing, to cover up those old lines.

Last picture, you get a good look at Mr. Ackerman. He’s incredulously happy, but somehow, he really is a cloudmaker. And I think that's lovely, and this one turned out well.

Hope you enjoyed! I got a bit carried away with the analysis again lol.

#the orbiting human circus (of the air)#the second imaginary symphony #the 2nd imaginary symphony #night vale presents #wac

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