#I talked about this earlier when I mentioned Raw managing it's main events better than SD

[cryptidwrestling]

Mark Mode=Off

So. Now that I've actually watched the show and can go through the tag; I know a lot of people are frustrated with Judgement Day segment of Raw. And I'm not gonna say that seeing Rhea and Damian getting laid out didn't upset me-the way she immediately curled into Damian when she got dragged over, fuck 😭-but ya'll do realize this rivalry would get real stale real fast if Rhea and Damian dominated weekly, right?

Like, I get it. They're powerhouses and were the muscle of Judgement Day. But imo showing they're not untouchable keeps things interesting.

[mrwinterr]

Happy

Pairing: Rockstar!Bucky Barnes AU x Female Reader

Summary: You meet your favorite artist and get more than what you bargained for. 

Warnings: Smut 18+ (consensual and protected sex, oral [male and female receiving], vaginal fingering, belly bulge, light degradation) dirty talk/language and recording. Mentions of drugs and alcohol and a tiny bit of angst.

Disclaimer: I don’t smoke regularly, so anything that has to do with drugs mentioned are techniques I’ve outweighed based on what I’ve been taught by different people. I don’t know which method works best nor am I encouraging the activity. It just came with this fic’s territory. It’s not that deep. You do you, boo. 

Title Inspiration: “Happy” by The Maine 

A/N: I might or might not have based some of this on true events. All I can say is, life is short, shoot your shot! Enjoy! 

A/N #2: There’s a Part 2 now!

“You owe me.” Your friend next to you said for probably the third time this hour. You learned earlier in the day to tune her out. She had been saying that since you persuaded her to accompany you on the weekend long road trip to the neighboring state just so you could see your favorite band…again.

Growing up your parents thought this was just another phase, but as your teenaged years passed on by and you’re now well into adulthood, you’re still a bigger stan for The Avengers as ever.

The Avengers consisted of three members: Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes. Everyone had their take on each of the guys, Steve was the nice one, Sam was the goofy one and Bucky was the bad one. It was silly. They weren’t *NSYNC or The Backstreet Boys, but the fangirls will be fangirls.

Their music wasn’t exactly mainstream, but they did very well within in their genre’s scene. They graced the covers of a couple of magazines, garnered thousands, close to millions, of views and streams online, were featured on TV every now and then, toured around the globe, sold a bunch of records, even independently, but despite all that notoriety, they stayed true to their sound and that’s what kept you around as a fan.

That and the band’s front man Bucky Barnes. 

He was hot – plain and simple. Ok, maybe he was just that to most, including your friend who couldn’t deny it, but you didn’t want to objectify the man. What their music had done to get you through the years, they were more than that. There was a level of respect there. You also didn’t buy into the “bad boy” gimmick the fans have dubbed for him. They were human beings just like the rest of us. Imagine being called something like that by the public? They just so happened to be fortunate enough to share their talent to the rest of the world.  

“You’ve already seen them. I don’t know why you think you need to for what a tenth time?” She clearly wasn’t amused by your infatuation with the band, but she was still your friend and she would always be by your side through thick and thin even if she didn’t have the same taste in music as you. You loved her for that. Who else would stand for hours in a dark room full of loud, sweaty, smelly, rude even, and sometimes drunk people with no self-control for you? She really was the real MVP.

And she was right though. You’ve already seen The Avengers perform. It was probably more, but you’ve lost count. Whenever they’re in your city or two to four hours in the next one over, you loved this band alright!

You both were polar opposites standing next to each other in line waiting for the venue doors to open. She was calm and still, arms crossed with an unamused look on her face – she could almost play as the “mom that tagged along and didn’t want to be there” – but you knew she wasn’t really mad. There was a bar inside she could occupy herself at. You on the other hand were trying to contain your excitement. You tried your best to not fidget around in anticipation so much. You didn’t want to sweat off your makeup that you managed to apply on point or get an embarrassing stain on your clothes.  

“It doesn’t matter,” was always the response you gave her, “their music means everything to me. I’ll always come out to support them.”

She playfully rolled her eyes and scoffed a bit at that. She wasn’t trying to knock you down. She knew you deeply liked the band, but she also knew another side of you, and she liked to pick at it. “Yeah that and you’re into Bucky,” she said and just flat out poked at the side of your breasts. The bra that you chose to purposely wear tonight gave your boobs an extra push and it didn’t go unnoticed by her. They were out there, tastefully, since you were hardly the flashy type. 

“Okay, but who isn’t?” You flare back swatting her hand away and trying to shut her down. You didn’t need to have this conversation with her while other fans were around. You didn’t want to sound like a fangirl. You weren’t 13 anymore.

“Chill.” She said raising her hands up in surrender. She wasn’t going to fight you on this one again.

When the top of the hour hit, the roar of the crowd signaled the doors had opened. Once inside, you hit the line to the bathroom considering you’d been outside for a few hours. You didn’t just have to pee, but you needed to freshen up. Your cheeks were a bit flushed from standing in the heat. You dabbed lightly at your face with a small blotting sheet, sprayed a bit of body spray and finished putting every hair back into place before finding your friend, who was already at the bar.

You sported a 21 and up paper wristband that was handed at the entrance, however you weren’t planning on drinking. Usually you had one or two drinks at most, but you were assuming you would be the designated driver tonight. You just always flashed your ID to the bouncer for the wristband to emphasize that you were of age. Unfortunately, some bands have had a bad reputation of fooling around with underaged girls, who lied about it.

She held up her drink to you with a smile on her face. Yeah, you were going to be the one driving back to the hotel, but at least she’s happy. She tried to coax you into ordering a drink of your own, but you only shook your head at her nonsense and stood away from the crowd.

As an avid concert goer, you’ve been to enough shows that you’d been in every section of the crowd. Hell, you’ve even gone crowd surfing before! Plus, you couldn’t hang with those vicious and hormonal fans in the crowd anymore, so you learned to enjoy the show from the back with a full view.

The opening bands were decent. You’d never heard of them, one was probably local, but you always believed live music was just as good, if not, better than opposed to being recorded and remastered at a studio. 

During their sets, you caved and bought a drink from the bar, hoping it’d help to pass the time before the headliners came on. Your friend was seemingly on her phone when a random guy approached you asking if he could buy you a drink. The house lights were on. Did he not see the can of beer in your hands? You politely declined his offer and further advances until he gave up and walked away.  

“Girl. He was cute!” Your friend said shoving you lightly.

“I wasn’t interested,” you shrug and taking a swig of your drink. 

“You’re not being fair,” she started and seeing that you weren’t catching on continued, “you can’t wait around hoping that one day Bucky will notice you. Honey, he came here to play a show and make money not look for a girlfriend.” Okay, maybe that was a bit harsh, bursting your bubble like that and all, but her intentions were good. Bucky Barnes just set the standards too high.

She wasn’t wrong. Guys like Bucky meet new people every day, met girls probably way prettier than you. The majority of their fans were female because let’s face it, the guys had sex appeal and you know what they say…sex sells.

Looking around the venue, you took in the kinds of girls you were going up against. There was a mixture of women of different backgrounds and sizes decked out in different styles, but the ones who won most of the time were the ones that looked good dressed in risqué clothing and heels. Some of them probably even wore less make-up than you or none at all. You couldn’t understand how it was effortless for some people.

It wasn’t that you had low self-esteem. You had your fair share of internal struggle, so sometimes your insecurity played its part. You had your good days and you had your bad days.

You decided upon wearing something simple that you would be comfortable in while still serving a look. And the only other significant thing you did to your make-up was add in a little more shimmer. Yeah you wanted to impress, not sell your soul to the devil.

“Okay, but I just really wasn’t interested,” you said again hoping she’d understand. She did, aware you wrestled with that demon in your head always taunting and ridiculing you that you could look better when you’re perfect just the way you are. With an added bonus of telling you that Bucky was missing out if he hasn’t noticed you already, she ordered another drink in time before the lights dimmed and ear-piercing screams erupted to alert that The Avengers finally took the stage to headline the show.

Like each of the shows you’d previously attended, they were amazing. They poured their hearts out with each beat and belt. Every lyric resonated with you so deeply. There was just so much raw emotion packed into their performance. The beauty of concerts was that they were designed to let you forget about all the bullshit happening in the world for a few hours. They were therapeutic for you.  

If you hadn’t known any better, you’d say your friend secretly liked The Avengers’ music because she broke you out of your shell and had you swaying along with her to their songs…that or it was the alcohol taking over her. You didn’t fight it and you allowed yourself to let loose.

You tried to give each member equal attention, watching them as they played, but you couldn’t help but keep your eyes on Bucky the most. They were just trained on him. His cheeky smile and onstage presence were electric. The mere sight of him, all sweaty as his clothes stuck to his skin accentuating his toned body so well, all but had you shuffling trying to ease your body’s frustration and mind.

The only time you looked away was when you swore you thought he looked at you. Making eye contact with someone on stage was kind of awkward sometimes, but with him it was almost intimidating. Believing he was probably staring at the girl behind you, you downed the rest of your drink, pushed that thought away and tried to enjoy the rest of the show.

A full set of songs that showcased their albums and a two-song encore later, you were driving yourself and your buzzed friend back to your hotel room. It wasn’t that far from the venue, electing to stay within its vicinity. Upon entering the room, you tossed the shirt you bought at the merch booth on your bed before removing your leather jacket while she face-planted down on her bed, arms wide open, letting out an exaggerated sigh of relief. You couldn’t blame her. It felt great to rest right after standing on your feet for hours.

Your back rested against the headboard, you knocked your boots and socks off a while ago and had your bare feet up on your bed. You hadn’t changed out of the rest of your clothes or even wiped off your make-up yet. Instead, you sat there skimming through the timelines of your social media accounts while you waited for your friend to get out of the shower.

You had posted a few photos and videos of the night to your story, like your outfit, a few of you and your friend sightseeing, and of The Avengers’ set. You refreshed your timeline and noticed Bucky’s account pop up before everyone else that you followed. It’s no surprise that you were following them on social media. You liked seeing them share the personal moments of their lives. They used to be interactive with their fans. Bucky had even once commented on the old photo you had with the band years ago.   

You met them after a show when they were just starting out with their first full-length album debuting that summer. Now, they hardly came out because all it took was one crazed fan to ruin it for everyone else. Their popularity sometimes deemed it unsafe for venues to let them stick around so late, restricting them from meeting their fans.

You click on Bucky’s account and go through his story. There was one of a view of the open road from their tour bus, a clip of a song he liked, a cryptic quote with a deep underlying meaning to it, him getting ready to go on stage and then of the show.

He had taken a photo of the crowd towards the end of the set, asked fans to tag themselves if they could, because the crowd was amazing…as if they didn’t say that in every town they played in.

His caption read: “Awesome crowd tonight! Probably our best show yet!” topped with how much he loved the city. Sometimes you wanted to reply to his posts like he was one of your friends, but then you second guessed yourself knowing he’d never see the message, or he would and just ignore it because he was busy. You knew it was a long shot, but what did you have to lose and what is it that they said these days? Shoot your shot.

You didn’t linger on the body of the message for too long, settling with a “Great show tonight! You guys were amazing as always! :)” hitting send and closing out the app thinking it would conceal any embarrassment that might come out of it. It was a ridiculous thought.

After surfing through the channels of the TV and picking at the food you had delivered to your room, your phone pinged. You saw that it was a notification from your social media account, but once your face unlocked the phone and the subject appeared, you nearly choked on the drink you were sipping on.

Bucky Barnes sent you a message.

Your heart pathetically started beating really fast. The phone almost slipped from your hands as you opened up the toxic app again to read what he said. He probably just sent you an emoji or something.

“Thanks for coming out.”

That was it. Okay, what did you except? A proposal. That was a fair response. He probably had some downtime and was able to reply to people. You couldn’t be that special…but thinking you could strike gold again, you started typing up a response.

“Of course! Will always be out there to support you guys! Hope the city treats you well and have a safe rest of the tour.” Yeah, that was a good one. You say to yourself thinking that would be the end of it…except it wasn’t.

“Appreciate it. You know of any good spots around here?”

Nope. You did not. Do you look up some recommendations for him? No, that’s too much. Great, you’re having a conversation with him through DMs and you can’t even genuinely contribute enough to hold it down.  

“No, not really. I’m not from here actually. My friend and I drove here just to catch the show. Maybe YELP?” Shit. You just might’ve effectively got rid of him with turning him to the Internet instead.

“No way! That’s love. Good thinking.” They came through in separate text bubbles.

Why were guys so short? You couldn’t work with that. You thought about it for a while but came up with nothing, so you sent the sassy ‘girl sticking her hand out’ emoji as a reply. Damn, you were really bad at this.

Several minutes passed by and thinking you were really done with him; you got another message. It was Bucky again and he sent you a photo. It was from your own feed; the group photo of you and his band mates all those years ago.

“I thought I recognized you.” You sat up straight as you read that message over and over, eyes bugging. Thankful your friend was taking her sweet time in the bathroom, so she wouldn’t see you all strung up.

What? There’s no way. That was a long time ago. Your thoughts spiraled at his words that had you blushing. He’s pulling your chain.

“Impossible. That was forever ago!” I guess two could play this game then.

“I swear. You tripped and fell into my arms that night.”

What the hell? He actually remembered that? Yeah, that did indeed happen. You had been waiting outside surrounded by a bunch of other chatty girls, pushing and shoving their way to get to Bucky first. By the time he turned to you and you stepped forward, you lost your footing and fell straight onto him. He played it cool, but then you heard Sam, who was trapped in his own circle of girls, signing and taking pictures away, that Bucky has girls falling for him all the time.

“OMG. That was so embarrassing, and I was so awkward!” You couldn’t even speak to him when you managed to hold your own ground. You were young then, you thought you effectively put that behind you.

“You weren’t awkward! You were cute and that’s what has stuck with me since. One of the most memorable moments.”

Yup, he was definitely pulling your chain. While you were ecstatic that you were interacting with your favorite artist, you couldn’t help but wonder why you. He was a public figure and you were just a fan.

“Is this weird?” Came through as his next message after your silence. 

Oh, no. I hope I didn’t offend him. You might as well tell it like it is and get it off your chest.

“I don’t know...just a bit. Probably because I’m just a fan? I feel like you should be careful. I mean I should be too…” You really did wonder though. How was it that people of his status were willing and freely open to people they barely knew only to get threatened of being leaked and blackmailed by their own nudes or messages? What made them trust the other party so easily with that kind of stuff? They couldn’t be that dumb. Well, you got your answer.

“I don’t think of you or anyone as just a fan, but you are right…at the same time I feel that you’re grounded enough and a good person that we can trust each other. If that makes sense.”

You weren’t sure if it did. He still didn’t really know you.

“Awe, well that’s really flattering. I totally understand that because that’s how I feel.” Did you? There was a pause between that message and the next that would come.  

“What’s your cell?”

Really? It was just that easy? Oh, okay then. Nonetheless, you still gave him your number. The DMs stopped and transferred over to text messages. You have Bucky Barnes’ phone number. What fan fic were you living in? Shit like this doesn’t just happen, does it?

The texts between you and Bucky went back and forth, some playful and some slightly suggestive, but you were completely oblivious to them thinking that was just in his nature. You found out the band was staying in for the night before heading back out on the road tomorrow afternoon off to the next city. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath when you stared at his most recent text asking if you wanted to hang out. It was kind of late, but you didn’t get a guy like Bucky Barnes asking you to hang out on the regular.

“Are you alright?” Your friend questioned breaking your train of thoughts. You could see her from your peripheral that she was towel drying the ends of her hair even though you’re still staring at your phone.

“Bucky sent me a DM inviting me to his hotel room.” You answered in a stoic demeanor, but it felt really strange coming out of your mouth.

“Okay. How long was I in the shower?” Your friend asked with her hands on her hips wanting an explanation.

You recount the details and show her the messages you and Bucky had been sending to each other. She scrolled through each of them and you could see the look of apprehension forming on her face.

“I don’t know,” she said her words trailing before giving you a worried look, “shouldn’t you be the slightest bit concerned?”

“About?” You ask taking your phone back from her.

“All of this!” She exclaimed her arms outstretched in exasperation and not understanding why you were so blinded by Bucky. “You briefly met the guy, years ago might I add, and you decide it’s okay to meet him at his hotel room in a city you don’t even live in?”

Alright, it did raise a couple of red flags, but you were a consenting adult and you lived a life of being cautious and in fear a little too much you wanted to be reckless for at least one night.

“I know you’re only looking after me, but I got to go for it. You know I like him! Sure, I may not know him on a personal level, but I’m allowed to have some fun, right?” You try reasoning with her. Just how different was all this compared to what people around the world were already doing with each other anyways?

She was a bit skeptic before reluctantly agreeing and letting you go but with the promise from you to be careful, share your location and his room number with her just in case she needed to save you or come after him. You thanked her for understanding and assured her that you’d be back before check-out in the morning.

On the drive to his hotel room, you thought about how you always imagined the different scenarios of what it’d be like when you’d ever meet Bucky again. What things you’d do differently or say. How you’d make sure to not trip or do something to embarrass yourself the next time. How you’d be more confident.

Parking was a pain in any city’s downtown, you ended up having to pay for parking twice in one night. Not surprising to you, they stayed in a nice hotel. It wasn’t over-the-top nor was it fancy, but it was definitely clean and a slight step up than of what was in your budget for booking a room.

When you’re finally at his door, you wonder if you were going to be catfished. Were there other people in his room? Were you really that special? Fuck it. Was the final thought, putting an end to the rest, and knocked at his door.

You hear a click and sliding of the chain door unlock, then you’re face-to-face with Bucky. He’s dressed down in sweats and a zip-up hoodie. He shoots you a smile and steps aside for you to come inside, there wasn’t much light offered to illuminate the room other than the ones the lamps attached on the wall between the beds and what little the TV could provide.

“Oh, thank God. You’re real.” Motherfucker. Did you really just say that?

Bucky laughed at that and you explained, honest with him, that this whole thing just felt surreal. He nodded in agreement, offering to take your jacket from you and a drink. It was alcoholic. Not denying him, you accepted it and waited to see what he would do next.

You watch him sit down on the king-sized bed with his feet up, one foot over the other. You’re standing there next to the dresser that also served as a stand for the TV he was watching a random show on. Not sure what to do, you set the drink aside, kick off your boots, leaving them next to the luggage rack, and sit on the spot next to him with a considerable amount of distance between your bodies.

It’s quiet and you’re trying to hush the voices in your head. Did he really invite you to just watch TV with him? Is this awkward for him? Oh, no. He’s going to realize I’m boring.

You feel the bed shift and you see Bucky is leaning over, opposite of you, to grab something from the nightstand. You don’t see much of what he’s doing as your view was blocked by his large back. When he changes positions, a brief spark of a flame emits from his hands. Your eyes trail up from his hands to his lips and notice it was a blunt. You were pretty sure this was a non-smoking room, but it wasn’t under your name, so it didn’t really matter in the end.

Of course, he did that kind of stuff. It was part of the lifestyle to be exposed to it. He took a steady hit and you watched as he exhaled slowly, a cloud of smoke disappearing into the air in front of him.

“Want a hit?” He asked passing and offering you the blunt.

It’d been a while since you last smoked anything. You tried it a few times and even then, you didn’t think you did it right. You stare at the neatly rolled blunt in between his thumb and forefinger, but not too long as to not let it go to waste and ash up all over the bed.

You steadily take it from him and carefully attempt to take a puff. Wrong. That puff was anything but steady. Not realizing how close you were actually sitting next to Bucky, when you tried to exhale you ended up coughing – terribly. Bucky’s face scrunches up as he braces for the impact of white smoke to hit his face.

“Oh my God,” you say covering your mouth in disbelief, but it was a bad idea because your body didn’t like that, and you ended up coughing even harder.

“I’m so sorry,” you manage to get out in between your coughing fit while passing him back the blunt and trying your best to waft at the smoke. Well, if you thought your first encounter with Bucky was embarrassing. This had to take the cake. It wasn’t proper etiquette to blow smoke in the other person’s face.

He waves it off letting you know that it wasn’t a big deal before taking another hit. He even begins to give you a few pointers to inhale in increments, until you get used to the smoke. You don’t even notice the long looks Bucky gives you hit after hit. You take a second to let the smoke stay in your mouth before you give it a second inhale, letting it process through your system before gently exhaling. It was a lot of fucking steps to remember.

“Don’t try to put too much emphasis into the exhalation,” he said as he watches you take another hit, almost perfecting it and with each puff and pass being deeper and longer than the previous, “see, you’re getting the hang of it!” He whimsically lifts his hand up for a high-five that you softly pat in return, but he seizes that moment to hold your hand instead, intertwining his fingers with yours.

The more you breathed in the more your body started to relax. All the edge was taken off and you felt good. You and Bucky continued to pass the blunt, smoking whatever was left of it and what he had with him, as you told random bits of information about yourselves to one another. By now, you and Bucky were leaning on each other, backs against the headboard, the TV barely audible as it continued to play a rerun of whatever that was on earlier.

“You know I really do remember you?” He says causing you to turn your head to look down at him. He has his gaze fixed on your hands, his thumb barely grazing the back of your hand. He’d been playing with your hand, drawing random shapes on it.  

“That’s hard for me to believe,” you answer back truthfully.  

“Why?” Bucky questions while looking up at you. He was in a slouched position, his hoodie and shirt rising up, allowing you a thin glimpse of his skin, while you sat a little higher up than him. 

You admired his handsome face, the crease lines in his forehead, the faint and not so faint marks scattered all around it, his wet lips that shone when he ran his tongue over them and the stubble that surrounded it all down to his adorable nose. Then there were those blue eyes that once put you in an overawe of intimidation, were now a bit alarming in a new sense. They were swirling and growing darker.

“You meet new people every day, Bucky. There’s no way that I could’ve been that unforgettable to you.” You just couldn’t wrap your mind around that. Staring at him, you tried to read him, but you were too faded to concentrate.  

“But you were,” he tells you in a low voice just before you notice his eyes shut and he leans in to place an experimenting kiss to your lips. He pulls back to quietly study your expression, and when you don’t show any sign of disapproval, he goes in for another.

This time with added pressure, more emotion, Bucky pulls you down by the back of your neck and casually slips his tongue in your mouth the moment your lips parted. Your heart started racing when you reciprocated his kiss, trying to keep up with him. He definitely liked to dominate. You could even slightly taste the blunt you both shared moments ago as his tongue tangled with yours.

He slips off his hoodie leaving him in a dark gray shirt. Navigating his body over yours, he pulls you down into a more comfortable position. He’s cradling the side of your face as your lips continue to move one another, getting hungrier and hungrier.

The movements cause your top to ride up, exposing your midriff. His hands wander down to caress your skin before you feel his fingers grip at the waistline of your jeans. You instantly grab his hand and stop him. This was moving all too fast for you.

Bucky didn’t press on it for too long and slipped his fingers out, running his hand back up your side and this time underneath what your tank top was covering left of your upper body. His hand snuck back out and started tugging at the material bunched underneath your breasts. When your top was finally discarded to reveal your red bra, he latched onto your neck, kissing up along your jawline and nipping at your ear, the sound of his harsh breathing sent a tingle at the contact and shivers through your entire body.

You winced when you suddenly felt one of his hands at the back of your head, yanking a handful of your hair causing your head to snap back. It gave him more access and you closed your eyes letting the sharp pain run its course and turn into something pleasurable as he practically devoured your neck. You could feel him inhale deeply, getting high on you, and possibly the lingering aroma of the drugs, and sucking tiny splotches onto your skin then licking to soothe them.  

He pushed aside the straps of your bra as his lips travelled down your shoulder before stopping at the curve of your breasts. You briefly opened your eyes to see him fixated on your chest. He uses both hands to grope them.

“You think I didn’t notice these from the stage?” He asks now looking at you, squeezing and releasing them before pulling your bra down, your breasts spilling out of the cups. He instantly latches his mouth onto a nipple, while the other hand digs in between the mattress and your back to unclasp the bra. His tongue swirled around the nub, teeth lightly grazing and sucking at the skin around it.

You run a hand through his hair, it was a little sweaty and you couldn’t blame him. It was getting hot; you could feel the heat radiating off of him. It became even more apparent after he got rid of his shirt and you feel his clammy skin on yours.

He pulls back, straddling your waist, most of his body weight falling on his knees, careful to not to crush you. Your hands cascaded down his chest and rested at his thighs. You gave them a shy squeeze, something you’ve always dreamed of doing and you were only slightly satisfied.

Bucky flashes you another smile before he braces one hand next to your head and leans back over to fish something off the nightstand. When he pulls his other hand back you notice he’s going through something on his phone. Curious, you look at his face trying to get another read at him, but this whole night was just full of surprises. He finally looks at you before speaking.

“Can I ask you something and you promise not to freak out?”

It depends.

“Yeah…” Who were you kidding? You’d gladly get on your knees for this man. He swooped in for another hard kiss, your mind turning into mush just before you could get anything else out.

“I think it’d be so hot if we recorded ourselves,” his face was so close to yours making sure that your focus was on his and only his. He must’ve felt you shift because he allowed more of his weight to drop; he was closing in on you and it was like you almost had no chance of escape. You weren’t going to lie. The way his weight was crushing you and sinking you deeper into the bed felt really nice. You were speechless. He wanted to record a sex tape with you.

“I travel so much,” he starts listing off reasons why while still cradling the side of your face again, your hand bracing his forearm, and starts kissing your face, “it gets really lonely being on the road.” At this point, he’s probably kissed every inch, “I’d love to have this...it’d be so much easier for me to come thinking about you.”

Motherfucker. His dreamy voice speaking those words into you did one hell of a number because you were aching down there plus the way his hips dragged at your still jean-clad lower region didn’t offer much relief.

“I-I don’t know,” you hesitate for a bit. What if his phone got hacked and the footage leaked?

“It’s just for me, baby. I swear,” he asks with hopeful eyes.

Sure, you could’ve had the strength to say no, but you were more than willing to be everything he desired. With your consent, he sealed it with another wild kiss. The magnitude of it setting you ablaze.

Bucky sets his phone back on the nightstand, propping it upright, camera on front face mode to display the both of you on its screen, and at the perfect angle he hits the red record button.

It’s showtime.

He revisits the mission of removing your pants and is this time successful. If you both weren’t so faded, he’d probably have an easier time taking them off, but they were tight, and you were grateful he didn’t clumsily break your ankles in the process. Chucking them somewhere off to the side, with his fingers, he traces the top pattern of the matching red lace panties you had on.

He let out a faint chuckle commenting on how red is his favorite color. Oh, you knew. You precisely chose this set just in case you got lucky. He plants kisses to your hip bones, his lips evading the area that cried out for his attention the most, and slithered down the bed, so he had your calves now placed over his shoulders.

Bucky laid gentle pecks on them and came back up to start nipping at your inner thighs, most likely leaving his mark there also, until you felt the tip of his nose hit your center. Your panties were definitely a deeper shade of red at this point. He pushed your panties to the side enough to get started.

You feel the pads of his fingers begin to rub circular motions at your clit. The first wave causing your hips to jolt involuntarily. You feel the smirk that formed on his face against your thigh at your body’s response.

“So sensitive,” he says pushing your hips back down to continue his task at hand, “and so wet,” he added while pulling his fingers away to examine your arousal that coated his long digits. You don’t take your eyes off him and you almost forget how to breathe when you watch his lips wrap around his fingers, noting his eyes closed and how his cheekbones become more prominent on an already perfect jawline as he sucked them off clean.

When Bucky opens his eyes, they’re darker than before, clouded with lust. He roughly yanked at your panties, still in his other hand, effectively tearing the overpriced garment. After giving it a few more tugs, it was long gone. Headfirst in between your legs, Bucky craved for more of you. He licked a broad strip, down up, to your clit. His tongue teased your folds before dipping inside you, the intrusion causing you to gasp. Your body withered around desperately searching for a path to release. Bucky kept at it, his nose nudging your clit with each plunge his tongue made.

Not denying you of a finish, he adds his fingers into the mix, curling them to find that spot. Noting that your eyes had closed sometime during the act, he stills, and you whine at the sudden halt. Your hand aimlessly reaches out to his face. When you find it, you open your eyes and pick your head up to find out why he had stopped. Bucky offers one of his hands for you to hold on to before speaking.

“Baby keep your eyes on me,” he orders, and his eyes don’t leave yours as his head lowers back down to your pulsing heat. You struggle to keep your eyes open and head from lolling back in ecstasy because you desperately wanted to come. Fuck, he was so talented.

The noises as a result of his onslaught were downright sinful. Bucky’s hips started to ground into the bed trying to relieve some friction of his own. His moans tremble across your entire body. There’s no warning when you come, and you don’t even give him a chance to escape your thighs that clamp around face. Not that Bucky minded, feeling you clench around his fingers as he drank in more of what your body had to offer. Bucky only then emerges when your legs fall limp against the bed.

He plops back down next to you, but as he does so, he pulls you on top of him. Your lips reattach themselves with his and the raw nature of tasting yourself on his lips drive you both mad. He hadn’t even wiped around his face, so you feel the wetness on his chin scrape across yours, staining you with your own arousal.

Your hands moved on their own from planting themselves on his firm chest then working their way down the ripples of his abs, through the trail of hair leading to the top of the waistband of his sweats. You tauntingly pulled the drawstring to loosen it before letting it go and instead grip him through the soft material. Bucky grumbled at your actions, but let you carry on.

You palmed him, getting a feel of how thick and long he was. Bucky was growing whiny with each passing move your hand made, he took matters into his own and grabbed your hand, shoving it into his pants. Your hand instinctively wraps around his hard cock and you give it a light squeeze and a few strokes, generating long drawn out moans to spew from Bucky’s mouth.

His cock felt even better with nothing separating you two. Bucky’s pants and boxers easily slide down his muscular legs, which spread apart to give you room. You maneuver south to lie on your stomach, still in between his legs, and grab his member that was curved resting at his stomach and bring it your face.

“Wait,” he says almost breathlessly. Your mouth is only inches away from the head already weeping profusely. He sits up to rest on his elbows and retrieves his phone from the nightstand. Oh.

“Okay, smile for me,” he directs, and you follow his lead before your tongue darts out at his slit and follow the ring around the tip of his cock. You pull back to savor his taste for a moment, your hands spreading the pre-cum around his shaft. Your strokes are then accompanied by the long licks you give at the sides and to his balls that your other hand had been playing with. Bucky’s head rests on his pillow so his other hand could rest on the back of your head and guide you down his length. Your mouth immediately started to water, but it made it easier for you to bob up and down. He let you move at your own pace for the most part. Bucky pushed your hair off to the side, away from your face to get a better view of the outline of his cock poking at the inside of your mouth. You let his cock drag across the inside of your cheeks a few times until it audibly popped out of your mouth.  

“Fuck me. I knew you’d be perfect.” His words mixed with his incessant moans were like honey pouring into your ears. He loved the way your eyes looked directly at him through the camera lens when you come up with a long tantalizing lick to the underside of his cock and crawling back up to straddle him.  

Bucky gets a good shot of your flushed face and breasts that had some of your drool combined with his pre-cum running down your body before dropping his phone beside him. He sits up causing you to fall back down at the other end of the bed. He picks out a condom from the nightstand and you watch as it rolls down the length of his cock. You bite your lip watching it twitch.

He’s on his knees, but sitting on the balls of his feet, you are lying down patiently waiting for him. He swipes his cock through the wetness of your pussy, prepping himself to slide in. He’s watching your reaction with each pass his dick makes. Your body is yearning for him to be inside of you, to hit that fucking spot over and over.

Just when you think he’s about to do it, he’s reaching over for that damn phone again. Out of habit, you cover your face with your hands. Not only showing the last shred of humility you had left, but also because you probably looked like a fucking bitch in heat.

Bucky pulls your hands away, he still has the phone in his hands, and he’s got it angled to playback from his point of view before he finally pushes into you. He’s big, much bigger than what you’ve experienced, you think you need a moment to adjust, but he never gives you that opportunity and you find that it doesn’t matter when he feels so good. Too good that you find it hard to breathe with each thrust he’s making because he’s hitting it so deep. You push your hands out in front of you to his lower abdomen and attempt to slow him down. Bucky shakes his head and knocks your hands out of the way.

You let out an abrupt yelp at his retaliation to your failed efforts in trying to stop him with a particularly harder and much forceful thrust. Instead, your hands grab fistfuls of the hotel bed’s white blankets and just let him have his way.

“So beautiful,” he says spreading you further then coming down on you to reclaim your lips with his. He rips your hands from their tight grips on the bed sheets to pin them down next to the sides of your head. You don’t care where his phone went, just happy to have both his hands on you. The skin-to-skin contact just hit different sometimes.

The kisses become so feral you start to feel a burn around your mouth from his stubble. Bucky rolls his hips into yours deliciously, a damn true artist, the rhythm he’s got going sends you just about over but never fully beyond the edge to prolong the climax.

Much to your dismay, Bucky withdraws away from you again, back into his previous position, a new idea popping into his wicked mind. With his hard cock still inside you, he slides his hands under your hips and hoists your lower half up towards him, resting your ass on his thighs, effectively bottoming out. You don’t hold back at the way that made you feel and let out an embarrassingly loud moan. He holds still for a second and you’re not quite sure why. You try to move by wiggling your hips, but he holds you still.

He’s staring at how close your bodies are, connected, he moves just the slightest. It causes your pussy to contract and your stomach to tighten up. He does it again in different intervals, his eyes surveying the entire thing. The next push is a little harder and when you see the devious smile breakthrough his face, he does it even more. The thrusts are much sharper and almost painful, but it quickly subsides when you feel the head of his cock probe at the right spot.

Bucky lifts your hips up higher, your back arching in bridge fashion you weren’t aware you could even do until he resumes his new pattern of thrusts again. This new position aided his cock in hitting your sweet spot a little better. He’s filming you again and resting one of his palms on your stomach. He’s not only watching, but he’s feeling the bulge in your belly from the distension caused by the jabs of his cock.  

“That’s my girl,” he praised, continuing to pound into you, “you take this cock so well.” The sight boosts Bucky’s ego and for you it actually probably wasn’t a good thing, but you’d be damned the angle did so many wonders to you right now.

“You love watching your cock go deeper and deeper inside me, Bucky?” You ask trying to look up at him from that position. Where did that come from? Your words cause him to freeze momentarily, but you could still feel his cock throbbing inside of you. He liked that.

Another impish thought running through his head, Bucky pulls out, picking you up so you’re also knee-height with him, giving you another searing kiss, then he’s behind you. He gently pushes you down, you on your elbows, Bucky leans over behind you, his soaked cock sliding up your ass resting on the small of your back as he places his phone back on the nightstand in the same position it had been in the beginning.

You don’t dare look at the screen in front of you, so you look down until you feel Bucky enter your pussy once more from behind. Your head rises and it wasn’t due to the surging pleasure, but because Bucky uses your hair as a rope to bring your body upright with his.

He thrusts up into you while he mutters incoherent slurs and lewd noises into your ear. He peppers the side of your face with wet and uncalculated kisses, his hands massaging your breasts before one of them migrates down to cup your pussy. His fingers dip in and starts another assault to your clit. You’re already tethering off the edge and on the brink of succumbing to him, but he just knew when to let up and keep you starved for more.

“Look at you,” he says, using his other hand to turn your head to face the small screen, the numbers continuing to go up. “You’re such a fucking slut for my cock,” you don’t argue with him and instead moan his name. “You like watching yourself fuck this huge cock, don’t you?” You couldn’t lie to yourself anymore; watching the two of you was hot. Your uncontrollable moans now muffled into Bucky’s palm. And he just kept egging you on, “I know I do. It’s gonna remind me just how tight this fucking pussy is.” Damn him. 

“You want to come, baby?” He asks, the speed of his fingers picking up a notch.

You pull down Bucky’s hand to respond, “Mmm, yes. Fuck! Please let me come, Bucky,” you don’t know what has possessed you, but it spurs the both of you on even more. Your next words do it for Bucky, “I want to come all over your cock,” and he’s immediately coming and spilling into the condom, still inside you, you feel his release pump through him. He’s biting your shoulder, some of his weight coming down on you, his thrusts becoming erratic, but one did the trick for you and you finally let go.

And what drives Bucky even more wild, is that you don’t stop. You keep rolling your hips into him, riding it all the way out. Bucky’s trying to hold on, with a bruising grip on your waist, his forehead resting on your back; the aftershock of his release proving too much. Your release pours out freely, you feel some of it slide down the inside of your thighs mixed with sweat.

You sag against Bucky, each of your body weight balancing against the other. You feel him scatter lazy kisses up your back and pull your face towards him to press one against your lips, moaning in satisfaction. He slowly pulls out of you with a low groan, your body feeling numb when you fall forward to lie down on the bed. Bucky discards of the condom and shuts his phone off before settling next to you.

He pushes the hair out of your face, and you, facedown, peek an eye open. He has a more than content look on his face, you notice his eyes were back to their normal color. He allows some time to pass for you both to calm down. Sleep wants to overcome your body, but it doesn’t when Bucky’s touch puts you on notice again. He runs his hand up and down your back. He’s insatiable, but he didn’t anticipate your comeback in the end and put him in a daze. He could get addicted to you.    

“Is it weird if I fly you out to Brooklyn?” He said out of nowhere. Brooklyn was thousands of miles away from where you lived. He wanted to pay your way to see him again. It was such an outlandish request. You’re starting to regain a more balanced sense of perception and thought, and you ponder on this for a few seconds. “Never mind. You think it’s weird,” he says lifting the blanket over his head turning his back to you. You could tell he was just trying to be cute.

“Oh, come on! You caught me off guard. You can’t blame me!” You respond, but he doesn’t budge. You muster up enough strength to sit up to lean over the side of his body, resting your chin on the top of his shoulder, and try to grab at the blanket. You pull it over his head and see the lazy smile etched across his pretty face. All you do is return the smile and close your eyes, basking in the post-coital bliss.  

“Stay for the night,” came as his last request and turning to lie on his back, wrapping his arms around you.

You don’t think about your car, that’s still parked nearby or care if the parking rate is probably going up by the hour and start eating at your bank account. You don’t think about how pissed your friend would be when she wakes up in the morning and you’re still not back in time. You just think about how tomorrow he’d be far away. You scoot up to give him one more kiss before laying your head to rest on him and make the best out of the present. Happy that you went with your gut on this one.

A/N: This could flop. At first, it was easy to write, but then the ending tripped me up. & while I have your attention, please let me know, anonymously or not, if there’s an interest in a Chase Collins fic? Charles Blackwood smut, anyone? Anyway, I hope this delivered! Thanks for reading!

[19tozier]

alone together (mike hanlon)

warnings: swearing, allusions to sexual content, takes place before events of chp. 2, there’s room for a part 2 if anyone wants it!

inspired by the song alone together by fall out boy

[losers&reader are adults in this]

if you weren’t in such a predicament, you think you’d be able to laugh at your situation.

as it is though, you’re so angry the edges of your vision bleed a little red and there’s white static where your thoughts should be and you are absolutely going to kill your best friend.

maybe it’s not really her fault, but you sure as hell aren’t about to take the blame for this one, so it’s easier to point your fury to someone else. especially since she isn’t exactly here to defend herself.

you sigh to yourself, stabbing at your phone in an attempt to get it to work. you’re in the backseat of a shitty taxi, trying to connect to some signal to see if you can book a hotel since you apparently are on your way to the wrong derry.

really, how many tiny cities in the northeast united states are named derry? apparently a lot, you’ve figured out, since you’re not currently on your way to derry, pennsylvania, but rather derry, maine.

you sigh again, giving up with your phone. it’s not connecting at all. you’ll just have to find a hotel when you get there.

it’s ridiculous, truly. when your best friend had asked you to be her maid of honor, you were absolutely ready for all it entailed. you’ve been writing your speech since the moment she asked you, you’ve already helped her pick out her dress and everything, and you’d planned her bridal shower accordingly. when she’d said she wanted to take you on a trip back to her tiny hometown, where the wedding was going to be, you’d jumped on it.

in hindsight, you know she’s never mentioned being from maine, but you also don’t remember her mentioning pennsylvania either.

either way, now you’re coasting into the tiny, desolate town of derry, maine, stuck here until your flight tomorrow evening. your friend had just laughed at you hysterically when you’d figured it out and had promised to pick you up from the airport when you got in.

you sigh again, watching the little town go through the window. you have no idea where to go or what to do, since you can’t get your phone to work enough to look for hotels, and this place seems too small to really have something to choose from. nevertheless, the taxi makes a couple more turns before it comes to a stop outside of what looks like an old inn.

you pay him quickly, grabbing your bags and marching on into the townhouse. all you need is one room, even the tiniest they have, and you’re golden.

there’s no one around except for the little old woman behind the counter. she barely looks up at you when you hurry over, continuing whatever it is she’s doing as she tells you, “we’re fully booked.”

you pause in your tracks, your blood running cold. “what?” you say, incredulous. this tiny town that doesn’t even really need an inn is fully booked? that’s not possible.

the old woman still doesn’t look up at you. “we’re fully booked,” she repeats, the words harder now.

you want to argue, the anger simmering back through your veins, but truthfully you’re exhausted and feel on the verge of tears. you don’t think you could talk without crying, so you just nod once, grabbing your suitcase and walking back out into the cool evening air.

there’s not much around you, truth be told. you’re in what you think must be the heart of the town but even that is only a diner and a few other buildings. a handful of people meander through the streets but you feel profoundly alone.

you really don’t know what to do. you can’t get a room here in derry, and you could absolutely go back into the city and get a room near the airport but your phone still isn’t working enough to call another taxi or try to book a hotel room. unless you can find a place to call one, you’re stuck.

just as you think that, your eyes land on the library across from you.

it’s a safe bet, you figure, starting your walk over to it. you cross your fingers that it’s open. public libraries usually have phones, and if not they’ll have maps, right? or at least a working knowledge of any place you might be able to stay.

the place is quiet when you walk in, the door thankfully unlocked. you know that’s normal for libraries but it feels even more than that, like a blanket of silence has enveloped the building. it should make something inside of you shiver but it helps calm you down, especially once you figure out that there’s no one around even here.

it’s concerning, because you’re exhausted and hungry and you really just want to lay down but you can’t. at least it’s warm and comfy in here, you think, tentatively walking further in, your suitcase rolling along behind you.

the library is big and open, rows upon rows of old books spread throughout the big space. the windows show the rapidly darkening sky, the sun well on its way to going down, and the library is washed through with a dark golden light.

footsteps sound from behind you and you whirl around, suddenly terrified. you thought you were alone but you were obviously mistaken because a man is walking down from the stairs you hadn’t noticed, and your knees are suddenly weak because he is absolutely the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. he looks up when he hears your gasp, his own eyes widening. his face is warm and gentle and the smile that melts across it makes you feel at home.

“hello,” he says, his voice deep and soothing. his eyes fall to the suitcase at your side and his expression goes sympathetic. “the townhouse full, then?” he doesn’t seem surprised; this must happen a lot.

you swallow, tearing your gaze from the long lines of his shoulders and legs, nodding. your tongue feels thick in your mouth but you manage to get out, “i didn’t know where else to go.”

it comes out more raw than you wanted it to. it makes your throat tight with tears again, the reminder that you’re stranded with no place to stay, but you can’t focus on it because the man smiles again, as bright and beautiful as the sun.

“that’s alright, i’m glad you came here.” his smile shifts into something softer, more intimate, and a shudder goes down your spine. “i’m mike. i’m the librarian here.”

you offer your hand to him to shake, barely restraining your swoon when he does. his grip is sure but gentle, his hands big and warm and rough in the way you know means he’s a working man, and you ache to feel those hands elsewhere. “i’m (y/n).”

mike grins. “what brings you to derry, (y/n)?” he asks, his hand still holding onto yours. fire spreads over your skin from the contact. “not many people come here unless they have to.”

you blow out a sigh, shaking your head with a rueful grin. “i may have not realized my friend lived in derry, pennsylvania and just went for the first derry i could find,” you admit. you can take the blame a little better now with this beautiful man in front of you.

you didn’t think it was particularly funny but he throws his head back and laughs out loud, bright and sharp and gorgeous, and you decide that you’d do anything to make him laugh like that again. his eyes scrunch closed and his handsome face transforms in his happiness, so beautiful you almost can’t look at him.

“that’s unfortunate,” he agrees through his chuckles. “how many other derry’s can there really be?”

you scowl, doing your best to put on an act. you want him to laugh again. “apparently way too fucking many.”

it works exactly how you wanted it to; he laughs even harder, nearly bending over with the force of it. his hand shakes in yours and you just hold onto it tighter. you aren’t completely convinced that he’s real but you’ll be damned before you let him go.

eventually, his laugh peters out, leaving him grinning and holding your hand. he doesn’t comment on or react to the latter thing, just lets his eyes flick to the bag still at your side. something unreadable passes over his expression before it settles back into that soft look.

“this might be forward,” he says, and his thumb strokes over the back of your hand. your body lights up. “but maybe you could stay here? i live upstairs actually, and there’s enough room for you. you don’t have to if you don’t—“

“yes!” you almost yell, surprising even yourself with your volume. you struggle to get it back under control, trying to keep your composure as much as you can. “i mean, i’d like that.” you pause, your cheeks flushing, before you shyly murmur, “thank you, mike.”

his own cheeks tinge pink, the slant of his eyes bashful and pleased. he nods, tugging you with the grip he still has on your hand to the stairs he’d come down earlier. you grab your suitcase and happily follow.

the upstairs isn’t as open as the actual library. you can see it’s more of a converted attic than anything else, but there’s a refrigerator and basic kitchen utensils, a desk haphazardly covered in books and old-looking papers, and there’s a big, soft looking bed pushed into one corner. sure, there are boxes everywhere too, but it feels homey enough that whatever tension you were still feeling melts away. it feels like mike.

the sun has completely set by now, the only light coming from the lamp on the desk. it pools around mike’s face in a way that almost forms a halo, his features in sharp relief to his soft smile. you want nothing more than to tackle him onto the bed, but he clears his throat and drops your hand before you can. you miss his touch like a phantom limb.

“i know you probably have clothes with you,” he says, nodding at your suitcase, “but i have shirts if you want them? some shorts maybe? i just—“ he rubs the back of his neck, that pretty flush stealing over his cheeks again. “it might be more comfortable.”

it makes something inside of you warm. this gorgeous man, however much of a stranger he is, is trying so hard to make you comfortable. you don’t think you’re imagining the way he looks at you, nevermind how he held your hand, and so you decide to go for it.

you step forward, putting your hand on his chest and looking up at him through your lashes. he audibly swallows. “i’d like that,” you all but purr.

mike almost stumbles with how quickly he tries to get clothing for you, something that you’re hopelessly endeared by. you catch the t-shirt he throws to you but ignore the shorts that come with it. hopefully, you won’t need them.

when you turn around after you’ve changed, the hem of his shirt falling to your thighs, you’re surprised and a little in love to see he’s deliberately turned away, giving you privacy to change. you wanted to draw this out, maybe learn a little bit more about him, but now you’re completely overcome by the need to kiss him.

he must hear your footsteps because he says, without turning, “you can take the bed if you want, i’ll sleep—“ but you don’t let him finish, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around to kiss him as hard as you can.

he makes a noise against your mouth, caught off guard, before his arms wrap around your waist. he pulls you in against his chest, kissing you so deep you feel lightheaded. this close, he smells like some spicy cologne that is doing wonders for you, and his lips are both soft and firm against your own. you never want to stop kissing him.

“i think the bed is big enough for both of us,” you mumble against his mouth, licking against the back of his teeth.

mike growls deep in his throat, kissing you even harder. he curses when his hands sweep down your sides and discover you aren’t wearing the shorts, just your lacy underwear under his big t-shirt. you inwardly smirk to yourself.

he pulls away, his eyes dark and his chest heaving. you barely restrain a whimper at the sight. “i’m really glad you went to the wrong derry,” he murmurs, letting his lips trail down your jaw and neck. you shudder, gasping, clutching at his shoulders. you let yourself be walked backwards to the bed. you’ve barely bounced onto it before his weight is on top of you, comforting and delicious and exactly what you want.

your friend isn’t going to believe this, you think as his hand slips up under your shirt and his lips press to your neck. you’re going to have to send her a fruit basket for this golden opportunity.

you are so glad you went to the wrong derry.

[lonbergwrites]

CIA Man

This is part of a multi-part review and commentary on the book Notes From A Young Black Chef by Kwame Onwuachi.

…

So 18 weeks have passed quickly... actually, I got the audiobook back from the library much sooner than expected... so let’s get back to it, shall we?

I’ve struggled since last reading and writing about this book with some of the things that I’ve said about the author and chef. I had a lot of harsh words for his brashness and braggadocio from the previous chapters. I turned his life and experience into stories out of a novel. A little part of that is that I’m thinking a lot about novels right now, as I prepare to get back to writing one... but that’s not really it...

I cannot believe how different life is now from when I started writing this series. “Back then” I couldn’t believe how different life was from what it had been earlier this year. I was out of work and a full-time house spouse, taking care of my two young kids day in and day out. And then the events following the death of George Floyd.

I may know the streets where so much ache and hurt and unjustice overflowed in Minneapolis, but I don’t know the lives of those that suffer at the hands of unjust authority. I don’t know that much about the lives of the black community. I’m a member of an interfaith, multi-church, multi-racial organization that works to lift up everybody in my community, and do racial justice and healing. I’m not the most ‘woke’ person I know by any means, but I am really trying.

... but reading Chef Kwame’s description at the end of this chapter - a metaphor for consomme representing his life - it struck me that I was showing my privilege. I had judged him for his “lack of experience” and grouched about having worked with people with that kind of mentality. I hope that didn’t come across as “those kind of people” - I didn’t intend it to have racial overtones, because in fact I was mostly thinking about white kids (because honestly, most of the chefs I’ve known and worked with have been white people - white men in fact). But a little of my unconscious racism showed through.

Chef Kwame talks about how all of his experiences made him the perfect student - cooking with mom, learning in a high stress environment in the Gulf, slinging drugs, then candy, and then catering. He’s not wrong. He’ll admit that he bit off more than he could chew... but he went back for that education to take his life and his profession seriously... and honestly, what high achiever hasn’t bit off more than they could chew? But more than that, how many of those people make good on the bluster and suit up for the task like a professional? Quite few.

I read the last chapters’ reviews that I wrote, and I mention that:

“That’s the hubris that a lot of the people that I went to culinary school (possibly myself included, though I wasn’t too full of myself, I’d like to believe) who hit the wall and learned a lot of humility real fast when getting into a real kitchen.”

Obviously, I was - and often can still be - full of myself. I don’t know if Chef Kwame will ever read this - I know that he’s at least seen the start of these reviews as he’s liked the first few on Twitter, and has retweeted the first installment - but if I was harsh or did harm, I’d like to formally apologize. You are raw and honest, and I hope to read with a more open mind moving forward.

... back to the chapter...

The bit that brought home this chapter to me was the line: “Daytime was for consomme and braising, nighttime was for quesadillas, tacos, and espazotes.” [note here: since I’m reading on audio, I couldn’t look up the word ‘espazotes’. I’m personally not familiar with this term. I speak some Spanish, so I wrote it out phonetically, but I was unsuccessful googling it with various spellings. All I was able to get to was the herb, and I don’t think that’s what he was intending.]

When I was in culinary school, I worked a restaurant gig at night. At first it was Applebee’s. Believe me when I say that I was making nothing as fancy as he was at that indy Mexican restaurant where things were done from scratch. I was grilling steaks, thrown as I was at the highest-ranking station right away because I was in culinary school (the only other culinary student at the place was on the fryer [the lowest station on the brigade], which surprised me because of his tenure - but shouldn’t have because he was one of the few Latino cooks, most of his compatriots being dishwashers and bussers).

Within a few weeks I was quickly shown a new station because I refused to weight steaks to get them done faster, so my ticket times were too high. I later worked ‘mid,’ which was the flat top station that made the quesadillas among other things. That was a rough, sweaty, hurried place. It helped me build my hussle, even though my feelings here hurt because it was a demotion - not in pay, but in prestige.

When I left Applebee’s, I was told that it was a good thing I was going to a different style of restaurant. The Kitchen Manager said I wouldn’t make it as a career cook there because while I did have attention to detail, I didn’t do things the corporate way. I’ll huff and puff and shit on the place because what he did honestly mean was that I took my time and did things right (right not being right to Applebee’s standards), but I couldn’t keep up with the other cooks. He wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t the place for me, and I’d never survive a lifer gig there. But I was fortunate in that I didn’t need to.

After Applebee’s I worked at a small chain of mid-level Italian restaurant in what is now called the fast casual mode. Everything was from scratch (or at least from scratch at the central corporate kitchen that aided in upping the larders for the dozen or so locations in the metro area), and I was using real techniques alongside more (technically) skilled cooks, most of whom were also in various culinary programs. Here I did fit in. Here I was fast enough.

I did ruffle a few feathers on the pizza station. I worked at a Pizza Place all through college. It was the small-chain kind that did some things in a more traditional way. One of those things was tossing the pizza crust. I was really, really good at it, so on our busiest nights on the weekend, I almost always worked the pizza station because not only was I good at it, but I put on a good show in the open kitchen. An assistant manager hated me doing it - it was actually “against the corporate rules” - but the main manager and the kitchen manager loved it, and so did the crowd of families (and especially the kids) who came in every weekend. I think the other cooks saw me as a bit of a show-boater, and they weren’t wrong. But I was good at the pizza station, no one could argue that. I don’t always do things by the book, but fortunately in the right kind of environments (for me), you don’t always have to.

This point in my life the work married the studies. Chef Kwame mentions how be brought uniformity in the guise of mirepoix to his Mexican restaurant (where he was working as sous chef during culinary school - no small feat). He taught the cooks to sear their big chunks of meat before braising. This Italian place was the proper place to use my new skills in a way that Applebee’s certainly wasn’t.

The awe that Chef Kwame shows towards culinary icons, institutions, and restaurants is one I understand. It is one I’ve felt. But the thing that really struck me - especially reading this in the wake of the death of George Floyd and this much-needed tipping-point in American culture - was the section where he’s arrested coming back to school at 2am after closing at the restaurant where he worked nights.

(side note: this man was also running his catering company in NYC on the weekends! How many hours does he have in a day? Mad respect. Mad respect.)

Being pulled over by the cops if you’re black can be a death sentence in the US. He got arrested and booked because he had some outstanding parking tickets. The officer: “seemed like the kind of guy who wanders around with his hands down his pants making sure his dick is still there.” I’ve seen those officers, and it was visceral to me. I viscerally dislike and do not respect people like this. But I can do that safely. It is an eye-opener to hear the lived experiences of our brothers and sisters of other skin tones. We need to do better in America.

All of these “stories” that throw me are the lived experiences of our neighbors. We need to get in tune with what’s going on. We need to listen more. I need to listen more. There is a lot of work to be done. I’m truly looking forward to continuing on this journey with Chef Kwame.

~BPL

[timelinewrestling]

WWF RAW Jan. 11, 1993

The very first episode of Monday Night Raw opens on the street outside of The Manhattan Center with Sean Mooney explaining to Bobby Heenan that he can’t go inside because he’s been replaced on commentary by Rob Bartlett. Sean Mooney was a play-by-play commentator and studio anchor but was not long for the company after this appearance as he leaves in April. During this time, Bobby Heenan was not managing full time and mostly did work on commentary. He worked with Ric Flair on his current WWF run as well as another character that we will discuss later on. His main goal for this episode is to make it inside and take his job back.

A very 90’s intro package plays and we are inside with Vince Mcmahon, “Macho Man” Randy Savage, and Rob Bartlett. Vince was the lead commentator at this time and also conducted in-ring interviews. The rumor on Randy is that he was saddled with commentator duty even though he wanted to be in the ring full time. However, according to Bruce Prichard, Randy wanted to wind down his career and only wrestle part-time. Bartlett was a comedian and radio DJ who apparently didn’t know anything about wrestling except how to bury the wrestlers, the fans, and the company every chance he could.  After reading up on Bartlett, I am happy to see that most people at the time hated his commentary as much as I do and he didn’t stick around the WWF very long. Vince tries his best to make Bartlett seem funny but it soon becomes apparent that he is regretting his decision to hire him. It looks like Randy just tries to ignore him. 

There are two dark matches before the televised show begins. First, we have Damien Demento losing to Bob Backland by DQ and then Johnny Rotten losing to The Cheetah Kid. Later on, Demento would also wrestle in the main event of the night against The Undertaker. He started with the company several months earlier in October of 1992 and only lasted about a year, leaving in October of 1993. Backland had also just recently returned to the company and found himself stuck in the midcard as he wasn’t getting over with the younger fans who didn’t remember him. Johnny Rotten and The Cheetah Kid would later work together as Johnny Grunge and Rocco Rock respectively, forming the team “The Public Enemy”.

Our first televised match of the night is Koko B. Ware VS. Yokozuna, or “Yokozuma” as Bartlett calls him. At this time, Koko is one half of High Energy with Owen Hart.  This was near the very end of Koko’s WWF career and he left the company a few months later. Bartlett jokes that Koko looks like Gary Coleman. Yokozuna makes his entrance alongside Mr. Fuji. Some girls in the ring offer flowers to Yokozuna in what I assume is sumo custom, as Bartlett makes fat joke after fat joke, followed by more fat jokes, specifically one about Yokozuna eating Koko’s bird, and also the term “Big Butted Oriental”. Vince notes that up to this point, Yokozuna is undefeated and hasn’t even been knocked off his feet. The three commentators keep trying to sell Raw’s motto, that it is “Uncooked, Uncut, and Uncensored” but they botch it several times in these first few episodes. They also mention that both Yokozuna and Macho Man will be participating in the upcoming Royal Rumble match. This match itself is a squash. What little offense Koko gets in is no-sold by Yokozuna. The best spot of the match is when Koko goes for a splash and ends up draped over the ropes. Yokozuna drops a leg on him, picks him up, chokes him into the corner, splashes him, climbs onto the 2nd rope and finishes him with a Banzai Drop. 

We then get a short ad for the Royal Rumble and then our first look at one of the “Raw Girls”. These women were Vince’s take on boxing’s ring girls who would take a lap and hold a sign showing the number of whichever round was coming up. This woman’s sign simply reads “Monday Night Raw”. As beautiful as they may be, I’d rather see wrestlers. Vince throws us to a pre-taped segment featuring Bobby Heenan discussing his client “Narcissus”. Of course, he is actually talking about Lex Luger’s new gimmick “The Narcissist”. They just hadn’t settled on that name yet I guess. It’s a little grating to hear Bobby and Vince say “Narcissus” over and over so I understand why they went with a different name. In Bobby’s promo, he tells Mr. Perfect that Narcissus is better than him in every way and it would be like comparing ice cream to horse manure. 

Back in the ring, our next match is about to start. It’s a tag team match between The Steiner Brothers and The Executioners. There were several different incarnations of “The Executioners” in wrestling. These particular guys are played by Barry Hardy and Duane Gill, who would later go on to be Gillberg. They would also portray The Toxic Turtles, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle gimmick for at least one match. The Steiners, however, were destined for bigger things. Rick and Scott were both accomplished amateur wrestlers and came to the company the previous year after leaving WCW. Randy mentions that the Steiners have a match at the Royal Rumble against the Beverly Brothers. Bartlett asks which Steiner is which and Randy no-sells him. Scott and his immaculate mullet start the match and quickly lay the smack-down on one of the Executioners. We also get Vince’s first “What a maneuver!” on Raw. At this point, we see Doink the Clown running around in the audience. I hate this distraction. It could have waited or just happened between matches. More on Doink later. Rick tags in and decimates the Executioner. Commentary is very bad during this match. They talk about Doink, Bartlett makes “jokes”, and Vince suddenly announces that football player Mitch Frerotte is coming to the WWF, which never actually ends up happening. Scott tags in and almost kills his opponent with a belly to belly suplex and then throws him into the corner. The other Executioner tags in and Scott hits him with a double under-hook power-bomb. He gets him up on his shoulders for Rick to jump off the top turnbuckle with a bulldog headlock. Scott hooks the leg and wins. It was good for a squash match, but Doink and commentary really took away from it. 

We cut back to Sean Mooney on the outside as he confronts Bobby Heenan who is dressed in drag and being held by security. That’s the whole gag. Heenan is charming and I’m sure this was funny at the time but I just don’t need it right now. The duality between this type of kid-friendly comedy and the whole “Uncut” thing they were going for is just confusing to me. But that’s just Vince, I guess. Next up, Vince conducts an in-ring interview with Razor Ramon. The Bad Guy comes out wearing my favorite shirt that I’ve ever laid eyes on and he is oozing machismo as always. They discuss the Royal Rumble and Razor’s upcoming match against Bret Hart for the title. Razor mentions how it took Bret 8 and a half years to get where he is and it only took Razor 8 and a half months. We see how Razor attacked Owen Hart on WWF Mania just to be cruel to Bret. Razor throws his toothpick at Vince and exits. As he leaves, Randy promotes the WWF and Red Cross’s “Headlock On Hunger” campaign to aid the hungry in Somalia. We also see a taped segment with Tatanka. Not a lot to say about that. 

This is Raw’s first title match as Shawn Micheals defends against Max Moon, who is played by Paul Diamond and NOT Konnan as some people believe. The gimmick was made for Konnan, but he left the company soon after. Since the gear fit, Diamond got the character. Shawn Michaels won the IC Title from The British Bulldog in a match that took place on October 27th the previous year but wasn’t aired until November 14th. At this time he had split from Sensational Sherry and was feuding with former partner Marty Jannetty. This is the best match of the night as you might expect. Shawn and Max Moon are both quick and effective. During the match, Vince mentions that Sherry will be present during Shawn Vs. Marty at the Royal Rumble, but it is unknown whose corner she will be in. Bartlett is fucking awful during this match. He does a Mike Tyson impersonation that goes on way too long, but Vince and even Randy just keep selling for him.  Doink is also present once again. After a two count, Shawn kicks out and unleashes a super-kick, followed by his finisher at the time, a teardrop suplex. He pins Moon to retain. 

We are shown some ads and then the Royal Rumble Report, presented by Gene Okerlund. This is Gene’s last year with the company until his return in 2001. He hypes up various matches for the upcoming Pay-Per-View, including HBK Vs. Marty Janetty and announces some names for the Rumble match itself. Shawn cuts a promo on Marty, calling him a simpleton and that Sherry will definitely be in his own corner. Marty cuts a promo back hinting that maybe Shawn doesn’t know Sherry as well as he thinks he does. Some more pre-taped promos are shown including Mr. Perfect, Mr. Fuji and Yokozuna (Fuji also calls him “Yokozuma”, just like Bartlett did.), and Hacksaw Jim Duggan. All of them are just proclaiming themselves the winner of the Rumble. 

Back to Mooney on the outside and this time Bobby is dressed up as a Hasidic Jew, still trying to get inside. Bobby then decides he will try to get in from the roof of the building. I’m over this bit. McMahon shills some tickets and botches the “uncooked” thing again. Then he throws us to the last episode of Superstars where Komala turns face on his Manager and Handler, Harvey Wippleman and Kim Chee and sides with Reverend Slick as his new manager. I’ll look more into these guys in the future when they actually appear on the show. Our main event is next. 

Damien Demento Vs. The Undertaker is the first main event on Raw. Demento is billed from “The Outer Reaches of Your Mind” and that sounds about right. The gong sounds and The Undertaker makes his way to the ring with Paul Bearer. The Undertaker would soon begin the feud that would lead to his most underwhelming Wrestlemania match ever, but tonight it’s only Damien Demento. The bell rings and Demento is on the offensive until Taker slams his head onto the mat. Taker hits all the signatures here. Old School, Shakespeare, and he finishes Demento with his Tombstone Piledriver. Dominant but not a complete squash, this was a pretty good main event. After the match, Vince advertises...Woody Allen Vs. Mia Farrow in a steel cage for next week’s episode, which is not funny and pretty disgusting. 

After the commercial break, Vince is interviewing Doink about how he likes to make kids cry and how Crush has warned him about that. Crush enters, tells Doink off, says “brah” and “brudda” a few hundred times, chases Doink around and then stands tall in the ring. Why was this here? It should have been before the Taker match at least. Finally, we see Bobby Heenan again and Mooney informs him that he’s finally allowed to go inside. After the show is over. 

There is a dark main event featuring Crush Vs. Bam Bam Bigelow that Crush wins by DQ, so I guess that is why the Crush/Doink segment was placed where it was, I just feel like it should have been handled differently. 

That was the first episode of Monday Night Raw. Overall it was an okay show. It’s not what you’d expect as a modern wrestling fan. I’d expect some bigger names on the first show, but there were decent enough matches. The only real gripe I have is that commentary made some of the show unwatchable. Shawn Vs. Max Moon was really good, but Rob Bartlett just made me want to skip it. I would recommend watching this show, just try to tune the guy out.

[andymull]

WWE SummerSlam 2019 - Preview & Predictions

Brock Lesnar (c) vs Seth Rollins – Universal Championship Match

Again, yeah. If its not Lesnar/Reigns then its this and it will continue to be this as they thinks it’s the best way to put Rollins over but don’t realise its their actual booking that’s the main problem.

Seth gives Brock the opportunity to have a really fun match with a guy that can go who will sell great for him too, but, the storyline we’ve been given here is that Rollins took a hell of a beating the other week and isn’t 100% going into the match so he’s going to be badly selling for a lot of this match then ignoring the injury to hit all his moves.

It will still be an ok match but could be more, as I imagine this to be more of a storyline match rather than a full on normal match if you get what I mean. In terms of the winner I was pretty set on Lesnar keeping the title but with Seth giving that weirdly poor promo on Raw had him pretty much guarantee the win, so who knows. My ultimate dream here is Rollins being too injured to fight and Riddle debuts to brawl with Lesnar after being backstage for Watch Along, its Riddle’s hope to retire Lesnar at some point and I need that to happen as it will be such a hard hitting bout with tons of technical moves along the way - ROLLINS

Becky Lynch (c) vs Natalya – Raw Women’s Championship Submission Match

With the Toronto crowd I expect to see an Austin level reaction in Canada from them towards Becky which she will love, it’s a shame she’s facing Nattie here as I feel she isn’t at the tip top level anymore but can still go and should be fine here.

I see the finish to the match being Becky working over the arm of Nattie but Nattie gaining the advantage, she goes for the sharpshooter but cant apply it properly as her arm hurts and as she is pausing Becky reverses it into a dis-armer for the submission victory - LYNCH

Kofi Kingston (c) vs Randy Orton – WWE Championship Match

A match next where the title change should have happened what 11 years ago? Now though this match really doesn’t do much for me at all. Orton majorly feels in cruise control the past few years and truthfully would do wonders leaving the company for alittle while for something new and fresh if he still has the desire. But remember, he hasn’t been around properly for weeks for this, a title feud, as he’s been on holiday so……

Still not feeling the Kofi title run sadly, and its gone from me thinking they may change the belt quickly to then have him chase it back to gain some momentum back to him being someone’s pet project backstage and they will keep on trying to make him seem/feel a top guy until the fans really get bored of it – KINGSTON

Bayley (c) vs Ember Moon – Smackdown Women’s Championship Match

Another women’s match with no real excitement behind it, which sucks as Ember getting her first big singles match on the main roster should be a lot more important. But the way she’s been handled since debuting has made it so hard for fans to take her serious as a deadly threat, she should be handled the same as an Undertaker or Aleister Black in making her seem mysterious and special, not having her backstage joking with others, maybe when she’s accepted as one of the main women in the company but definitely not before that.

Honestly outside of like the top 5 women on the main roster a lot of the others haven’t been made to feel special at all, then when they get an opportunity the crowd isn’t fully with them and management lose faith in the woman when really it’s the overall presentation of the character that’s sorely missing. And the reason I say this is because Bayley’s title reign has mostly been against women of this level to keep her away from the Charlotte feud to run that later in the year, so its really harming Bayley as well as the others looking to get their chance. I know most people were in favour of the women getting their own tag team belts but honestly when there isn’t much depth in the singles division this NEEDS to be the focus, just having Asuka and Kairi Sane as singles competitors booked as a threat would make the whole scene feel better but instead they are a bit of a joke team around to give Paige something to do. Lets get Asuka/Moon running again on Smackdown and really show some competition in going for Bayley and her belt to make her feel more important too – BAYLEY

Kevin Owens vs Shane McMahon

If Owens loses he will be forced to quit……..I hate these match stipulations I really do, I fully imagine they may go the route earlier in the show of having pressure put on Shane to put his role on the line too. Otherwise whats to stop someone like Elias coming in and punching Shane for Shane to then win instantly by DQ and have Owens fired? That’s why these match stips are awful lol

The talk of Shane going for the title have thankfully died down as of late so hopefully someone important has reconsidered that idea, don’t be surprised if it returns though……

Owens should be doing something a lot better than this, no offense to Shane but his deal was a fairly big one and they feel the need to use him a lot to make the most out of their money - OWENS

Trish Stratus vs Charlotte

Now this could be a very interesting match, the last it seems of Trish’s career and also the way they came up with to not have Charlotte miss out on the show and payoff. Not that im cycnical here or anything but this feels like something Charlotte asked for knowing she wasn’t in the title picture but knowing this match would feel a lot more important than the actual title matches on this show…..

Hopefully there wasn’t anything to it on Raw with Trish being in the tag match and never tagging in, felt alittle suspicious at the time but also could just be their way of putting it off till the actual show (no idea why they felt the need to have in the tag match though?).

I imagine the finish here being really hot with the Canadian crowd but with Charlotte taking the victory then having Trish either shake her hand or raise her hand, to point out who the real star of the women’s division is in managements eyes….. - CHARLOTTE

Goldberg vs Dolph Ziggler

The booking of this has been weird and full of strange decisions, but ultimately to me this is a favour to Goldberg after his awful match with Undertaker the company has quickly given both guys the chance to get back out there and show that isn’t the condition they currently are in and can do a lot better still. Taker teamed with Reigns to pick his spots and Bill here fights Ziggler to steamroll through and hit all of his spots without being knocked funny beforehand.

Expect Ziggler to go straight back to the Miz feud on Raw and never mention Goldberg again after this weeks tv, honestly, I fully expect this to have been forgotten VERY SOON - GOLDBERG

AJ Styles (c) vs Ricochet

At last we reach what should be the match of the show, interference aside, both guys will be looking to make a big impact to be seen as the best and also help get Ricochet over huge. Ricochet seems to be one the projects that Heyman is taking on in his new role on Raw, getting big wins and good angles as well as being on screen around the likes of Lesnar so that it doesn’t feel weird when he finally earns the chance to step in there for a title match down the road.

Its an interesting time for AJ and the OC, Gallows and Anderson are finally getting the tv time and attention they deserve after signing new deals but Styles needs to be around the world title picture and feels alittle stagnant around the secondary title scene. Hopefully they continue to get good spots and move up the card, ideally for me we see Balor join them after his break and come back as a heel to see a four man group just destroy people on both shows to really get the club noticed big time. Then after a year you can go the route of Styles and Balor arguing over the leader role and who sides with whom which should be great – RICOCHET

Finn Balor vs ‘The Fiend’ Bray Wyatt

So, no demon means no win for Balor, The Fiend makes his debut and has to win simple right?

From what we hear Finn is taking some time out after the show so a win really is vital tonight, Wyatt taking the win is vital and also lets them set up a rematch down the road with Balor back as the demon - FIEND

Drew Gulak (c) vs Oney Lorcan – Cruiserweight Championship Match

And finally, the cruiserweight title match, featuring Oney after winning a six pack challenge match on 205 Live. Should be a fun, fast paced match with Lorcan looking to push the pacing while Drew tries his best to slow it down to his pace and submission style. Would be fun for Lorcan to get the title but doesn’t feel time yet as he still is more of a tag guy on NXT than a singles guy on 205 Live for me – GULAK

 Just added to the pre show:

Alexa Bliss & Nikki Cross vs The IIconics

Apollo Crews vs Buddy Murphy

Both matches should be fun, l love Billie :), and that second match should be real fast paced and great to get both guys a showcase of what they can do.

Should be a good show and hopefully not too many more matches/angles get added as these PPV’s really are too long lately, to the point that a number of matches in the middle of shows are facing quiet crowds who are dead. It used to be that match before the main event was the tough spot to be in as everyone was there to see what happens when your match ends, but now its exhaustion from 5 hour shows upto 7 hours sometimes with pre-shows.

The main thing I expect is something added for Reigns, there are so many other guys in this company that dont have a match its dreadful when you think about it

Im not sure we will see many surprise tonight, both from the matches or from debuts or run-ins, as this feels like it may close out afew feuds with the build to Survivor Series starting over this weeks tv. Hopefully im wrong as everyone loves a good surprise or two on a big show to get everyone talking and speculating.

Enjoy the show

Bye for now

Andy

[padme4amidala]

Feels like home

Description: After the events of the Reichenbach, Moriarty is still alive and is still playing with Sherlock’s mind yet he has someone else to entertain him.

Pairing: James Moriarty x Reader

Word count: 1,989

Warnings: Fluff, Angst

A/N: To be completely honest, I don’t really know what this is, except that it’s an one shot (if people like it I might do a part 2???). I wrote it because one of my friends keeps encouraging me to get out of my comfort zone with my creativity. It’s my first piece of creative writing I’ve done in a few years so feedback is more than appreciated. Hope you like it 💙

This side of London has always been more humid, at least in her opinion. It smelled like fish and water weeds. The air was suffocating due to the heatwave that had hit earlier that month. It felt like being trapped in a fishnet.

Luckily enough, the business building she spent most of her time in was at the exact opposite pole.

Stale rooms.

Chemical smell of detergents clinging to the air. A bit of "fresh computer" notes too.

Always cold and crisp.

In this particular office though, the aroma of a scented candle masks the artificial feeling of the whole scene. The March sun shines weakly but it's a welcomed change from the white neon.

As she stepped closer to his desk, her high heels echoed, making him a little more aware of her presence. He turned away from the window as she sit on one of the chairs and took in the view in front of him.

"You should really quit smoking, you know. It taints you"

She looked him in the eyes, daring him to continue, mostly to satisfy her own curiosity.

"It's like taking a bite of an apple. Then you discover the worm inside"

"But isn't the apples with worms the healthiest ones? Away from all the chemicals and genetic modifications? Raw and pure through their own tainted nature?" Her words were calm and steady. She was just pointing out the obvious, after all.

He chuckled and stepped closer, bent down to kiss her cheek and lingered for a moment.

Sweet Chanel perfume- his gift for Christmas.

Faint smell of menthols.He wouldn't admit, but he felt like home being so close to her.

"I missed you"

"I missed you too"

Ah, there it was. The strong espresso she adored.

He sit next to her, instead of choosing his chair on the other side of the desk. He wouldn't admit, but her presence was simply intoxicating.

"How was it?"

"Same old. Though, if you'd agree, at once, to come with me, I'd probably see it differently"

There was a short pause before she added:

"It rained a lot. Everyday, actually"

"Good. Then next time I'll come."

Ten years ago, when they'd first met, it was in Dublin.

It was downpouring.

She was wearing a navy tailored suit with a white shirt and high heels. Her butler was holding a black umbrella for her while she was taking a drag out of a cigarette. Her crimson lips stained the filter while she was observing the city life through the lenses of her Holly Golightly sunglasses.

"I like here"

Her butler nodded as she threw the butt of her cigarette.

Inside, she was welcomed by the aroma of a scented candle and a man behind a mahogany desk who raised from his chair the moment she entered the room. Alone, of course. Her butler was to wait until the business was done.

The man shook her hand and they quickly started talking about the reason she was there.

"I shall send my people to take care of this and if you are ever in need of my help again, Mr Moriarty, do not hesitate to pay me a visit at my headquarters in Paris."

The man nodded and smiled-a genuine smile that resonated in his eyes, to her surprise.

"It's James"

Her smile though, didn't reach her eyes. This was just another client and business was simply business.

She could sense his cologne as he walked her to the door, strong yet subtle, sweet and woodsy blending perfectly with the lavender aroma of the air.

"Goodbye Mr Moriarty"

"How’s the Royal contract?"

“ Full of sissies. There’s a lot of unsolved drama between the brothers” She said, taking  a sip of her tea. “It’s going to take a while but I’m a patient person. How’s Sherlock? Still thinking you had left Easter eggs for him everywhere?

“And you mean I didn’t? C’mon Y/N don’t insult me.”

“I’m not actually, You just got too...attached to this project. If it wasn’t for Eurus…”

“Is that jealousy I sense Y/L/N ?”

“Hardly”

She finished her tea in silence before quietly mentioning that she would leave for Denmark in two days.

“Anything I should know about? ”

“No”, she answered softly, not meeting his gaze.

The candle in this room had a flowery scent, not unusual, though. It was March.

"Let's go home, then "

The drive to their apartment was short. The two-levels flat was a few minutes away from their main building, in case something was to happen and they were needed there. It was simple yet delicately decorated, they both had chosen the furniture on their way to London after a weekend in Paris, four year ago. She had decided to move most of her work to England and had to get some last things from her French office.

They had dinner, and then cuddled in their bedroom while watching some old movie. She fell asleep after a short time,  the smell of soap and cologne from James' warm form lulling her to the land of dreams.

He looked at her adoringly while playing with her hair. He saw himself  King and now he has found his castle, and his castle was anywhere she was. She warmed the thick stone walls and turned them into a home whenever he was around.

This was home.

Three loud knocks on the door disturbed their peace, though.

"Kill whoever disturbs us before I do, James" she said, voice full with sleep.

He grabbed his robe, climbed down the stairs and opened the door.

One man he hadn't seen in a really long time was before him and it was no one else but Mycroft Holmes.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure, Mr Holmes? Please come in. Shall I put the kettle on?"

"My visit is short and precise, Moriarty."

"Yes of course. Ice man has a lot of important things to do. Why here and now?"

" There is someone with a soft spot for your .....partner, to say so"

"Who wouldn't? Have you seen her?"

"This someone is the CIA, Moriarty"

"With the right people, they'll forget her. A few willing participants and I was found not guilty after stealing the crown jewels in plain daylight"

"I wouldn't have come if I didn't consider it a serious matter"

There was a long pause and conflict was written over Moriarty's face. Why should he believe Mycroft? Then again, why would Mycroft lie?

"They already have the arrest warrant"

"On what grounds?"

"All of them. From tax evasion to first degree murder"

"We have countless ways of solving this"

"There is rumour that, whoever is after our dear Y/N, wants her out of the game. She is eligible for death sentence. "

"When?"

"Two days from now"

In the morning, their chef made breakfast- black coffee, croissants and oatmeal porridge for the lady and a full Irish breakfast for the man.

“Are you playing with Sherlock today?”

“No. Why? You act like he’s my mistress”

A heartfelt giggle came from her at his words.

“It’s not that, I was just wondering if we could enjoy some…. What do they call it...domesticity? Yes. Domesticity. Too much has happened lately, I need a breath of fresh air before I start again.

”“ Don’t tell me you’ve gotten soft, Y/N”

“ Years of criminality, and suddenly you’re “soft” for wanting to spend some time with your significant other. Unbelievable

”He chuckled then kissed her hand.It was 6 am and yet here she was, in front of him, like a porcelain doll.

“Look who’s soft now”

She played the piano that day.

Started with Bach, to lighten the mood.

“This is for you, my darling. I promise, it’s better than Sherlock’s boring violin. Piano’s more personal”

“You really have to get over your obsession with him, sweetheart.”

“Only after you do.” she said with a grin.

Partita no 1, then Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and her favourite- Vivaldi’s Seasons.

He abruptly interrupted her when he put ABBA on their speakers.

“Really?” she asked cocking her eyebrow.“I can’t have you playing when I want to dance with you”

They started waltzing around the room and he was keeping her close, so very close, as if he was scared someone would barge in and steal her from him.

“JAMES MORIARTY, CRIMINAL MASTERMIND, AN ACTUAL ROMANTIC. Wait till the newspapers hear it”

“Nah, they wouldn’t believe it”

He didn’t dare kissing her. No. He just held her in his arms, in the middle of the living room, admiring her, his most precious prize. She could actually keep him entertained, and proof was their decade of mischief.

He took in her scent- he was sure he would have to cling only to that for a while. He knew. This contract of hers would keep her away for some time. He was in a similar position at that moment, the difference was that he had to stay away from the youngest Holmes and his friends not from her.

Sweet Chanel perfume.

Faint smell of menthols.

This was his.

The next morning he woke her up at the crack of the dawn.

“Pack a bag. NOW. You're going to Tibet. or Brazil. You choose. Where's Edwin? I already have a boat ready. He's coming with you.”

“James. Calm down, you're giving me a headache. Why do I suddenly need my butler when I’m in my own apartment? What time is it?”

“Mycroft told me. You have to leave NOW”

She sat up in the bed.

“I was wondering how long it’d take you to find out. Calm down, now. Sit with me. Let’s have tea”

By now Moriarty was furiously packing. When he heard her words, he had the eyes of a mad man, not that he wasn’t, but this time, all the elegance was gone. He was like the sea on a stormy day, unsettled and terrifying but she kept going.

“All they have is receipts with fake names. Personas with strong backgrounds.”

“THEY HAVE A WARRANT, DUMMY”

“And since when are we afraid of that? Since when are YOU?”

“We are in no control over this. We CAN manage it but-”

“But, what? What name is on that piece of paper, exactly? Samantha Albridge, the one who owns the building uptown? or Marcie Page, the french redhead with the shop in Paris? Natasha Kristoff, who killed the Ukranian diplomat in Krakow? Which one?”

“Mycroft said they're after you.”

“Mycroft IS JUST A PAWN.”

“Not to the CIA”

She scoffed at his words.

“We are a few steps behind. We need time to catch up.”

“ I am in full control over this, just like you were over Saint Bartholomew.”

She winked at him and went into the bathroom.

They spent the rest of the day in silence. They had lunch, then she packed and ran some last errands.

He met Mycroft. Royal security and his own snipers should be a good backup plan.

At midnight they left together towards the private plane in separate cars.

“We can’t risk people to see us together, you’re still dead. It’d blow up years of this plan” she said to him before kissing his cheek and getting into her car.

The total drive was 17 minutes.

He was 5 late due to his chauffeur avoiding a drunk driver.

When he got off, he saw her getting on the plane.

2 minutes later it blew up.

He felt like he falling yet his destination wasn’t permanent as he no longer had one.

He got so entranced with this woman during their time together, he felt angry and highly annoyed at her stunt, gasoline and the smell of fire filling his senses.

There was a fire in front of him yet the one inside was stronger.

“My dear, you better thought this through.”

He got into the car and called off the backup men.

It rained heavily that night.

[kuriquinn]

Penthesilea [19/20]

Cover & Disclaimer:

Chapter Summary: No one will notice if he disappears after all of this is writ into law. He is, after all, notorious, and even his own people likely want to forget that he exists. Naruto aside, there’s no one among the Senju forces left to see him as anything but a monster.

Chapter Beta: None beyond my own two eyes and at the moment. Since I’m finishing the fic this week, I’d say all edits will be forthcoming within the next few weeks as my beta has time to look through everything.

AN: Welp. We’re nearing the end. One more chapter and possibly an epilogue to go.

Sasuke wakes to the smell of antiseptic in the air and the sound of hushed voices. Somewhere to his left, Naruto’s chakra is calm and familiar, yet a sense of surprise and dismay washes over him.

“You idiot,” he rasps. His voice is raw and gravelly, and it hurts to talk. “You were supposed to kill me.”

“Well, I gave it my level best,” the other man says dryly, “but a certain healer we both know had a more convincing argument. I happen to like my head where it is.”

Sasuke opens his eyes—and he can see again and inclines his head to the left. It hurts more than he likes but he fixes the blond man with a glare. Naruto sits beside him, face covered in bandages but smirking at him nonetheless. It irritates him.

“I was meant to die,” Sasuke slowly, as if talking to a particularly stupid child. “If I live, it makes it possible for the war to continue. You’ve allowed sentiment to jeopardise that. I thought you understood.”

“Oh, I understood,” Naruto mutters. “I thought it was stupid, but I understood. Everything with you Uchiha is death and sacrifice and drama…” He waves dismissively. “You got what you wanted—the world saw me kick your ass. And then they saw Sakura show up and save it.”

Sasuke can’t find his voice at this, and can only stare at Naruto in surprise.

“Mm-hmm,” the other man nods. “The people were calling for your death, and she stepped in and said that peace should not be begin with the spilling more blood. That you’ll be tried for your crimes, and an appropriate—and useful—punishment will be found for you.”

Sasuke frowns in thought.

Exile or hard labour, most likely.

He stares up at the ceiling of the large tent overhead; in the distance, he can still hear the sound of rushing water. He thinks they must have set the tent up around him, which means his condition was serious if he couldn’t even be moved. And yet…

It doesn’t escape his notice that a certain individual is conspicuously absent. He wonders if he might have dreamed her presence before he passed out for the last time.

He has to stop himself from asking about her. Instead, he wonders, “Why can I see?”

“While she was healing you, Sakura found out you had the same thing as Itachi,” Naruto tells him. “But she knew what to do this time. And she had Tsunade-baachan and Rin helping. I’m still healing so I wasn’t much help.” He indicates the bandages on his face. “It’s a good thing she did heal you, because she found something in the process. Something about the nerves attached to your Sharingan putting pressure on part of your brain. The part that’s responsible for decision-making and rational thought. So basically, you were batshit crazy, but it wasn’t your fault.” He snorts. “Maybe that’s why you came up with such an extreme plan…oi! Sasuke! Are you listening to me at all?”

“Where is she?” Sasuke returns, finally losing the fight against asking.

Naruto’s open expression turns troubled for an instant, and then he beams. “Well, you can’t really expect her to hang around for something stupid like you, right? I mean, eyes aside, you heal pretty fast. And there’s a lot of legal stuff that needs doing that she’s responsible for now. You know she was made Tsunade-baachan’s heir a few weeks after the conclave disaster.”

“Hn.”

He was aware, but the answer doesn’t satisfy him. There is something false in Naruto’s voice that makes Sasuke’s stomach clench in dismay. He can easily interpret the truth.

Clemency aside, Sakura does not want to be around him more than necessary.

There is movement beyond the tent and then a familiar head pokes in through the flap.

“Well, you two have done it now,” Kakashi says dryly. “You know they’ll be talking about your little spat for generations.” The rest of him enters the tent. “I’m pretty sure they’re writing songs about it as we speak.”

“Hah. Just make sure they mention Sasuke’s bad hair,” Naruto quips.

Sasuke ignores him, gazing upon his former teacher. He isn’t sure how to apologise or bring up what as passed between them, and can only manage a flat, “You’ve survived.”

He doesn’t bother hiding the relief in his tone.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” Kakashi responds, surveying him with a critical eye.

Sasuke’s heart clenches again as he recognises the gesture as one Itachi used to perform when he thought he couldn’t see. He has forgotten over the course of the past year just how close Kakashi was to Itachi—and how grateful he once was to have the man as a mentor. He expects to face anger and repudiation for his harsh banishment of the man, but instead Kakashi’s eyes soften a little

“It seems you’re a lot more like your brother than any of us ever imagined,” he tells him quietly. “Just do us a favour and don’t try to pull something like that again?”

“I doubt there will be a need,” Sasuke says, lying back on his pallet.

“Well, about that…There’s some, er, unrest out there,” Kakashi says. “Official peace can’t be declared without the presence of the Senju and the Uchiha leaders. Which would be you, since you didn’t die and, apparently, Obito goes by Nohara now?”

He raises an eyebrow at Sasuke, who manages to remain carefully blank-faced this time. Perhaps taking note of this expression, Naruto tries to draw the older man’s attention. “Who’s officiating?”

“An emissary from the Land of Iron,” Kakashi says, naming a country that has been neutral since the first days of the war generations earlier. “Some samurai named Mifune.”

“Guess that means we have to get pretty-boy here ready,” Naruto snorts.

“He’s not the only one,” Kakashi points out. “The Uzumaki and the Hyūga are expected to be present as well.”

“Aw, shit…”

Naruto’s impending whining is interrupted as the tent flap rustles again, and Sai arrives bearing an armful of robes.

“This was the best we could find you both on short notice,” he says blandly. “Some overbearing Yamanaka woman insisted you not show up covered in each other’s blood.”

He sounds as if he doesn’t know why that would be an issue.

“Sounds like Ino,” Naruto snorts as he reaches for one of Sai’s offerings. “I didn’t know she was back.”

“She and an envoy from the Land of Wind arrived the day before yesterday, as soon as they heard the news,” Sai says. “In fact, many of the people from departed clans and from the surrounding villages have gathered.”

“It’s Sasuke’s fault…he’s been out of it for days. If you’d woken up sooner, we wouldn’t have to make such a big deal of this,” Naruto complains, while Sasuke silently accepts his own bundle of robes. He blinks in surprise when he notices that someone has taken the time to sew the Uchiha kamon onto the back and sleeves of the formalwear.

“Today is an historic event, and everyone wants to see it,” Kakashi points out. “You shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

“Yeah, yeah…though someone’s going to have to help me put this stuff on. The last time I wore montuki I was six…”

Sasuke chooses to struggle into his own, trying to ignore stiff limbs and aching bones. He suspects that he will have to get used to dressing by himself for the rest of his days, and so there is no reason to get used to someone else helping.

Sakura’s lack of presence seems even more pronounced just then, but it’s not as if he can blame her. Their last meeting before his battle with Naruto was poisonous. If she can’t forgive him, what hope does he have of the hundreds – maybe thousands – of people who suffered the ravages of this war because of him and his clan?

For the first time in his life, his feet itch to run fast and far away.

戦国時代

The valley down below the ruined waterfall teems with people. Even standing so far above them all, Sasuke finds himself overwhelmed by emotion. People cheer and cry and hold onto each other – friends and family and former enemies, wearing every colour and crest that he’s seen on the battlefield. He hears celebrations and speeches about dreams for the future and all good things to come.

Another tent has been set up on an outcropping above the valley, at the best vantage point for the people below. It is draped in the colours of the main clans and their vassals, and surrounded by representatives from each. When he and Naruto draw near, the excited murmuring goes quiet. Their eyes fly to the leader of the Uzumaki and there is awe; when their attention falls to Sasuke, it is distrust and wariness. Even the gazes of his own former vassals are cold.

He can’t blame them. If not for his grief-fuelled madness and his relentless pursuit of peace on his own terms, they might have had peace for almost a year. The rest of his clan, with the exception of Obito, might still be alive.

Sasuke clenches his fist, trying to fight down the sudden overwhelming desperation to leave. As he sees it, he has done his duty – he has ceded victory to Naruto and everyone knows it. There will be peace between the remnants of the Uchiha allies and those of the Senju, as well as their vassals. It’s a bright future – the one Itachi wanted – but not one Sasuke intends to be a part of.

No one will notice if he disappears after all of this is writ into law. He is, after all, notorious, and even his own people likely want to forget that he exists. Naruto aside, there’s no one among the Senju forces left to see him as anything but a monster.

Not any more at least.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Naruto says quietly, interrupting his thoughts. “And that’s not part of the agreement. Even if you’ve still got to go on trial, you’re supposed to get a second chance at a future, too.”

“There’s nothing left to build a future with.”

“I bet you’re wrong about that,” Naruto smirks. “And I can prove it.”

Sasuke frowns. “Whatever you think you know is wrong.”

“Oh yeah? So, there’s no one alive who you wouldn’t consider staying for?”

Sakura’s face flashes to the forefront of his mind, first the softly-smiling image he always carries close to his heart, and then the one of utter devastation that haunts his nightmares.

Chains from a failed past, he thinks grimly.

“Listen, just do me a favour,” Naruto continues. “Stick around at bit after all of this. Once we sign the treaty, there’s something you need to see. And if after that still decide it’s not enough to stay here, I’ll let you go without a fight.”

Sasuke narrows his eyes, wary, but he nods incrementally. Naruto lets out a triumphant hah, claps him on the back, and jogs ahead.

“No sense of decorum, that one,” Kakashi says appearing beside Sasuke in his usual unexpected fashion. “But he’s got a point.”

Sasuke side-eyes him, taking note of the way the man’s eyes glint in amusement. Not just at Naruto’s antics, it would seem.

“You know what he wants me to see,” he realises.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“No.”

“You’re maddeningly unhelpful.”

“You deserve to stew for a bit.”

He can’t argue with that.

They cross the rest of the distance to the festive tent, where more and more of the clan representatives gather. Far down below, the crowds of people continue to swell, spreading across the fields of battle that have been littered with the dead and dying since the days of Madara and Hashirama.

“The Valley of the End,” Kakashi reminds him.

“An apt name.”

“It’s like I said. People are already turning you into legends. Are you sure you two didn’t plan this?”

Sasuke sighs and stares up at the sky, counting down the hours until sunset. “This part wasn’t planned.”

The crowd of clan representatives and witnesses part as they come through, and he can see that inside there are several sombre looking individuals. Hyūga Hiashi stands there, with his daughters on either side, and there is a young man – barely old enough to shave – loitering nearby in the colours of the Sarutobi clan. He glares about as if challenging anyone to remark on his presence there. Suigetsu is there as well, dressed in the Hozuki colours, his dead brother’s sword sheathed behind him, while the redheaded Uzumaki woman—Karin, Sasuke supposed—scowls at him across the way.

Sasuke takes up his place beside the Hyūga clan, most of whom glare at him with undisguised dislike, while Naruto stands opposite him. A serious-looking man waves for everyone to quiet down. The vassals and allies of the various clans take their places behind their respective leaders, but Sasuke notices that someone is missing.

“Where is Tsunade?” he asks. The peace cannot happen without agents from both sides.

Naruto looks sheepish. “Yeah, uh…about that…”

And that’s when Sasuke tenses.

He can sense her before she even enters the tent, with that same otherworldly awareness he has always had of her.

“Senju Tsunade has exhausted herself healing this man and is resting,” a familiar, albeit cool, voice says from behind him. “There’s no telling if she will ever wake again. But the fact that her last act was to heal her traditional enemy should tell you where she stands. As it is, before she fell into her sleep, my honourable adopted mother bestowed upon me legal agency. I am to negotiate on her behalf and on behalf of all her vassals.”

Slowly, Sasuke turns to acknowledge the speaker of these words, and when he finally sees her he feels as if he can’t breathe. He has never been one to care overly much about a woman’s looks, even after involving himself with the one facing him. And yet he can’t help be in awe by the sight of her now.

He has never seen Sakura clothed in anything other than her armour or disguised as a common villager. This figure before him is neither the warrior or the healer, but a regal politician. Her pristine white robes bear emblems of the Senju, although the obi she wears has a circle stitched into it – her own clan emblem. Her hair has been pulled back into two twists on the side of her head – not for fashion, he suspects, but to draw attention to the seal on her forehead. Finally, a gold kanzashi sits upon her crown; it’s old, he can tell, and suspects it may have belonged to a distinguished Senju ancestor.

No doubt a reminder to any who might question her status.

“I take it there have been witnesses to this granting of agency?” the samurai from the Land of Iron asks, moustache bristling in annoyance at the change to protocol.

“That’d be me,” Naruto interjects. “And before any old fogies want to bitch about needing Senju blood present for this, Tsunade-baachan and I are cousins, so kinship-wise I’ve got both the Senju and the Uzumaki covered.”

He grins, utterly irreverent and unrepentant in the face of such a serious occasion. Hinata smiles shyly at him, stars in her eyes, but Sakura’s face remains carved of marble as she stares down Mifune.

“I suppose that’s permissible,” he mutters, clearly uncomfortable.

“Then if you’re not opposed, let’s begin,” Sakura says. “The Senju wish is to sue for peace. Are the representatives of the other honoured clans in agreement with this?”

“The Uzumaki stand with the Senju,” Naruto says.

“As do the Hyūga,” Hiashi declares.

Everyone pauses, staring at Sasuke, but he ignores them. He has no intention of speaking until she looks at him, but she barely inclines her head in his direction. Despite her confident bearing and the set of her jaw, he senses apprehension. It’s clear in the way her fists move beneath her voluminous sleeves – as if they are clenching and unclenching.

“Uchiha-sama,” Mifune interrupts, voice tense. “It may simply be formality at this point, but what is the position of the Uchiha clan?”

Sasuke continues to stare at Sakura, silently requiring some sign of her acknowledgement before anything else happens. She must sense this, because slowly her gaze is drawn to his. At first, she focusses her eyes somewhere to the right of his jaw, but gradually, as if drawn by a magnet, they meet his own.

Everything beyond the two of them fades out, and Sasuke’s lungs feel too tight. The bewitching irises that were burned into his soul the first day he met her arrest him, searching him with something that is wary and tentative and hopeful all at the same time.

For a moment, they appear to find what they seek, but in that same instant she looks away, an angry flush of colour in her cheeks.

“Sasuke?” Naruto prompts.

“The Uchiha clan wishes for harmony,” Sasuke says, turning away from Sakura. “It is desired that there be peace in this land, now and into the future.”

It is as if the entire room breathes a collective sigh of relief.

“I will enter into this agreement under the condition of equal respect and trust with the Senju,” he continues. “Much of the onus falls upon those of my blood…and I will accept the consequences of my actions thereof. But the sins of the past cannot be erased either. There must be full penance from both sides before we move forward. To this end, I wish to convey the contrition of myself and my clan concerning the lives lost and pain caused. The slights we have all endured – both real or imagined – have no place in the future.”

Sakura looks back at him now, eyes calculating.

“Before any amends can be made, I would ask the forgiveness of the honourable representative of the Senju,” he concludes, “for any injuries incurred by the actions of my ancestors or myself.”

Naruto’s jaw actually drops, having not expected this. Sasuke is half in agreement, having not intended to say much today. He tries to blame the fact he is still recovering from his injuries, but when Sakura’s eyes suddenly begin to shine with something like hope, he stops trying.

“The Senju accept the apology of the honourable representative of the Uchiha,” she says quietly. “Though no words can expunge the past, we will do all in our power to build the future you speak of – and let old hatreds be buried with our dead.”

They gaze at each other a beat longer, and he feels an element of the same, unnameable force that has connected them all this time.

“Then we will now discuss the terms of this concord into law,” Mifune interrupts with a clearing of his throat. “It is hoped that from this day forward there will no longer be discord between you, but harmony and –”

A high-pitched, screeching wail interrupts Mifune’s words.

Sakura freezes, and her gaze leaves Sasuke’s faster than he can ever remember it doing. As the people gathered search for the noise – a crying child, it appears – and mumble at the inappropriate interruption, Sakura’s face flickers with a desperation he doesn’t understand.

Naruto is also suddenly uneasy.

“Sakura,” he says cautiously, although his eyes flit to Sasuke.

She doesn’t reply, instead bolting from the gathering of peacemakers.

“Senju-sama!” Mifune calls out in protest, but she ignores him, stumbling to the edges of the tent as quickly as her elaborate robes will allow. Sasuke moves to go after her, but Naruto’s hand stops him.

“It’s not what you think,” the blond man says, and is that amusement in his tone?

Sasuke’s head whips back to observe Sakura, who is reaching desperately into the crowd and – apparently – arguing with someone. He has to strain his ears to hear her.

“ – not the time, my lady –”

“ – don’t care if it’s a serious affair,” she snaps, “hand her over, she needs me!”

“ – Sakura-sama, it’s not decorous to –”

“I don’t care about decorum!”

“You can’t just –”

“I’d give her what she wants,” a blond woman standing beside Sai remarks dryly.

“Shizune, if you don’t hand me my daughter in the next thirty seconds, I guarantee you that peace will be the last thing on my mind!” Sakura growls.

Instantly a swaddled, wriggling and crying bundle is laid in her arms, and she holds it tight, making shushing noises and rocking it back and forth. The entire world has fallen away and she appears to be aware of none of it.

Sasuke can relate.

At that exact moment, everything else seems superfluous in the face of the truth he watches unfold before him.

Sakura has a child.

Sasuke’s heart clenches in his chest, and he has trouble breathing, but this time it isn’t due to awe for the woman before him. The last hopes he had of rekindling what they had dies away.

Because it has been a year, and what did he expect? That she would wait for him to come to his senses after he singlehandedly ripped apart every possible path leading to a future they could share with one another? She had people to heal and lead, and at the end of the day, she deserves to be with a man who can make her happy. He has utterly failed in this, and so he can’t even protest the gutting sensation ravaging him now.

She…deserves to be happy, he tells himself.

Long minutes of awkward whispering follow, with Sakura unable to quiet the fussing child. People are exchanging judgemental glances, and Mifune shifts in annoyance. Eventually, Sakura sets her shoulders, and stalks back to re-join the delegation, still cradling the baby. As she ducks into the tent, she bestows an expression of challenge anyone to criticise the sudden addition of crying child to the proceedings.

Sasuke suspects that it is only a general, healthy respect for what her fists can do which keeps anyone from protesting.

When Sakura’s eyes fall on his, something like dismay and apology enters them, confirming his worst fears. Then her demeanour becomes serious again and she strides forward, eyes on him and still bouncing the crying baby.

Her gaze never wavers, and it feels as if she’s using him as an anchor; he wishes she wouldn’t. The closer she gets, the more he must steel himself, refusing to look down at the child. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it or the idea of Sakura’s features blended with some other man. Instead, he does his best to meet her searching gaze without flinching.

Then she smiles a little, bouncing the infant.

“This isn’t exactly the way I imagined today would go,” she admits to him, as if they aren’t standing in the middle of stalled peace talks or being watched by the representatives of clans from both sides. As if these aren’t the first personal words she’s spoken to him in almost a year.

Or that the heart he spent his life pretending didn’t exist isn’t being shaved into a million tiny slivers as the seconds go by.

“The baby is a surprise,” he replies weakly.

She shoots him an urchin’s grin. “I imagine so.”

“Probably not as much a surprise at the other thing,” Naruto pipes up.

Sakura shoots a side glare at him. “Shut up, Naruto, this isn’t the place!”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s much choice of that right now,” he grins down at the baby. “She’s got a flare for the dramatic.”

“I suspect she comes by it honestly,” Kakashi remarks from several paces away. His visible features show no surprise, and Sasuke feels a sudden burning anger rising within.

Kakashi knew.

He and Naruto both knew about this, and they said nothing to him. And they had the gall to think he would be happy about it? And Sakura –

Sasuke knows that he has a long way to go in earning her forgiveness – perhaps he even deserves some pain for what he did to her – but this? He has never believed she would be the type to rub his face in his mistakes or remind him of that which he will never obtain.

One year can certainly change a lot, he thinks darkly.

“I suppose you’re right,” Sakura sighs now, apparently unaware of his inner turmoil. “It’s not like everyone won’t figure it out eventually.” 

“In case none of you are aware, we’re in the middle of something important,” Mifune bites out.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Naruto snorts, while Sakura bites her lip and the baby fusses louder.

“Shh, Sarada…sweetheart, don’t fuss now,” Sakura murmurs softly. “I think it’s making your father nervous.”

Sasuke instinctively looks to Naruto, expecting him speak up or joke or confirm his relationship to the child, but the blond man simply continues to laugh and shake his head as if the whole situation is highly entertaining. There is no other man around them that looks concerned for the child in the way a parent might – curious, perhaps, and possibly irritated judging from the expressions of the older delegates – but the father of Sakura’s child does not appear to be in the vicinity.

It makes sense, and his frustration must show on his face, because Sakura suddenly laughs.

“Is something about this funny?” he asks her.

“Sasuke-kun…” she sighs, shaking her head like he’s missing something. Maybe he is, because the familiar way she says his name takes his breath away. He barely notices her moving closer, putting herself and the infant into his personal space. “Would you like to hold your daughter?”

There’s an instantaneous collective intake of breath all around them, as the implication of Sakura’s words sets in. Then, everyone is talking at once – exclamations of disbelief and demands for clarification and Sasuke doesn’t hear any of it beyond the first explosion of his noise, because his own brain has stalled.

“Sasuke-kun, would you like the hold your daughter.”

Daughter.

His daughter.

“It’s not…it’s not possible…” he murmurs faintly, staring at Sakura in a silent, desperate request for explanation.

Sakura purses her lips and raises an eyebrow at him in challenge. And he knows exactly what she would say if they weren’t in such esteemed company.

Because the reality is, they were never careful. He always assumed that she was taking some form of preventative measures – after all, the battlefield is a dangerous place, especially for women. Unwanted advances are common, whether from the enemy or even amorous comrades. While it’s highly unlikely anyone could ever force themselves upon someone as strong as Sakura, it would be irresponsible of a female medic to compromise her usefulness by falling pregnant.

And yet…

Even if she was, there’s always a small chance…

In the background, Mifune tries to demand order, while the various clans and their vassals dissolve into confusion. The Hyūga seem apoplectic with shock and indignation (not Hinata, however).

“Uchiha Sasuke,” Naruto snorts. “The dumbest genius in the land—ow!”

He ducks an elbow from his redheaded cousin, who also seems unsurprised by the proceedings.  

Sakura lifts the fussing infant closer, and this time, Sasuke can’t stop himself from gazing down on her. The minute his eyes meet the baby’s, any infinitesimal shred of doubt vanishes as if it never was.

Because they are completely black.

It’s a distinctly Uchiha trait, possibly related to their dōjutsu, but Uchiha babies never have light eyes – even at birth. In addition to the inky black hair, Sasuke can already see smaller versions of his own features – nose, chin and cheekbones – and the way her face scrunches in displeasure at being held away from her mother. She appears to notice him looking down at her because she stills, and then he finds himself the subject of a direct, appraising look.

His heart stutters at the sight, because that look has been levelled at him before – first by his father, and then by his brother – only this time it’s with eyes identical to his own.

Sasuke doesn’t notice much more than that, however, because it is at this point that he promptly passes out.

つづく

Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated! Also, if you are in a supportive mood, I have a ko-fi button at the top of the page, or you can find my tip jar here.

Thanks for your interest in my work!

クリ

Next Chapter

[wendyhermansongeller]

Lukas Graham Frontman Talks Politics, Fatherhood, and '7 Years' Worth of Grammy Nominations

The list of 2017 Grammy Award nominations, revealed in December, was filled with a handful of dominant and expected pop royalty, most of them female and in need of only one name. But then, there was a name that popped up three times among the Beyoncés, Adeles, and Rihannas: Lukas Graham.

That name, as fans well know by now, does not denote a single person, but rather a group of four Danish young men who tickled our ears for most of 2016 with the ubiquitous single “7 Years,” a raw tune with heartfelt lyrics, soaring vocals, and a cultural presence that ultimately scored Grammy nods for Record of the Year, Song of the Year, and Pop Duo/Group Performance.

Frontman Lukas Forchhammer not only lends his first and middle names to the band — he also serves as a flesh-and-blood personification of the multifaceted charm its music delivers. He grew up honing wrong-side-of-the-street smarts in a Copenhagen-area collective, while simultaneously developing his ethereal soprano as a classically trained choirboy. As one might expect, he’s an equally flexible conversationalist, tossing well-thought-out opinions on everything from music to politics in quick order.

Yahoo Music sat down with the singer to get his thoughts on this year’s Grammys, the band’s next direction, and his very favorite event of 2016.

YAHOO MUSIC: You’re up for three Grammys next month. How many musicians from your country have been nominated for Grammys?

LUKAS FORCHHAMMER: Eleven Danes have been nominated, three have won, and the most prominent Grammy was won for best rock ‘n’ roll piece in 1962 — by Danish composer/piano player Bent Fabricius-Bjerre with the melody “Alley Cat.” The funny thing about that story is he didn’t even go to the awards ceremony, because he was up against Elvis Presley and he was expecting not to win! So when he won, he was in Denmark. He jokes about it still, he’s like 92 years old now: “Well, that would have been the highlight of my career, but I missed it!” [laughs]

Hopefully you plan to be there this year!

We definitely going to be there, just to experience an award ceremony — for not one, not two, but three Grammys! We’re very satisfied with just being nominated. It feels very, very heartwarming to be voted by peer-by-peer voting.

Given what an explosive year you’ve had, did those nominations actually come as a surprise?

I was very surprised. But also, two months before our nominations, I became a father. So that’s like the biggest and most crazy thing for me to happen in 2016 — having a little daughter. The Grammy nominations were like icing on the cake. I’m driving through eastern Ohio, western Pennsylvania, in the tour bus with my baby girl, and I’m getting the news of being nominated for these Grammys — it was a little too magical of a moment. It was one of those moments: “Something’s gotta go wrong in the next hours, otherwise this is too crazy great.” [laughs]

Plus, the unreality of it all must have been magnified by that fuzzy, sleep-deprived new-parent stage…

You don’t get much sleep, but there’s also so much love, all these love hormones. And all these thoughts about the future and your own childhood. And then suddenly three Grammys on top of that while you’re touring America (laughs), it’s an unfathomable feeling. I didn’t know that you could add on to that wonderful feeling of being a parent.

“7 Years” is a standout song in the Grammy categories it’s nominated in. What do you think is the main element of its extreme and universal appeal?

Speaking in hindsight it’s always easy to figure out what is the good part of a song or why are we listening to it. But it’s also a very dangerous path to go down. I think very simply the song is so different from everything else on the radio that it stands out naturally. But also it talks about a subject that is so close to heart — it talks about family, and dreams, and ambitions as you’re growing older. It made it very understandable to the musical audience. It’s not very pretentious.

It’s also unique in that it really doesn’t have an easy hook. Rather, it has a prolonged buildup, which you don’t find often these days in pop music.

It’s all a hook. If you think further back, to like folk musicians — if you take a Woody Guthrie song, “This Land is My Land,” the way the melody keeps repeating itself…It is basically back to country ballads. It’s what we would call Bise in Danish — a basic folk structure where the retentive melody makes sure you remember what you’re supposed to be singing. I just like different song structures and styles, being a classically trained soprano soloist, growing up with a lot of folk music, rock ‘n’ roll, British invasion bands, rap music. I just find it annoying that people say “Oh, but a song has to sound like this, grow like this.” Why does it have to do that? Why can’t we change the structure because we feel like it?

In one interview earlier last year, you mentioned that you don’t even think “7 Years” is your best song.

I don’t, but then again, it kind of changes which song I’m happiest about performing or singing or just listening to myself. I’m a very prolific writer and I think I have better songs in me to come, definitely. Now that I’ve become a father I’ve got this new dimension to love, life, and my writing.

Do you ever worry, then, that “7 Years” might become the centerpiece of your career, given its tremendous popularity?

I think that if we let ourselves be afraid of a song like that [becoming] the paramount experience of my career, then it will be. If I let it control us, it will be a problem. But instead, I think we’ll just brush it off and keep going.

It may be too soon to ask, but do you have an idea of where you want to go with your next album?

I don’t ever really do that. We’re not the kind of guys who sit down and say “We need six songs that sound like this, and then two in this direction.” [“7 Years”] was just a sneak peek into my life between the ages of 18 and 20, and 30. The next album is going to be my life now as a parent, a touring musician, and a citizen of this world.

I’ll probably be a little more political on the next record, probably talk about some gender politics, role model politics, maybe have a song about how are we communicating with each other. Because, to be honest with you, I find most of our public communication and media communication is so ugly that it really sickens me to my stomach.

Touring America during the period preceding the presidential election must really have sickened you, then, given the extreme vitriol being hurled around.

The political conversation took this turn because the political elites failed to recognize there is a world outside the major cities. And it’s the same in Europe, and Denmark — political and economic elites keep forgetting at the end of the day a democracy is a lot of things. And you need to take into consideration what goes on in rural parts of America and Europe. Small hillbilly towns also need to be heard. It happened too much in American and European history that we dismissed the poor white population as being stupid and ignorant. But the fact is that they are very much there, and they’re a huge part of political life.

You have seen a lot of this first-hand growing up and getting into your share of what some would term juvenile delinquent acts, yes?

I have indeed seen a lot of it first-hand and participated in a lot of juvenile delinquency first-hand. And I would have to say that juvenile delinquency comes from a society and culture that is not valuing what these young people have to offer. I mean, if you look at all our celebrities, they’re supposed to look young and act young and be young, but we’re not letting our young people be young. Kids aren’t allowed to be kids, but everyone’s getting Botox and fake tits.

It’s interesting, because it seems the natural musical outlet for a rebellious childhood would be a genre like punk, or gangsta rap — something with anger. Lukas Graham isn’t anything like that.

I spent so much of my life being angry, being afraid, and feeling downtrodden and sorry for myself. Be it the way that the police treated me as a teenager, or the way schoolteachers treated me in primary school and high school, or be it the way other kids’ parents looked at us. Because of the way we spoke, everyone knew where we were from, and we just weren’t welcomed everywhere like most normal kids were. When you grow up like that, at some point you become either permanently angry, festering, or you switch it up and do something about it.

Speaking of switching it up: A totally different topic. How are you managing to balance fatherhood and a musical career? It must be difficult.

No not at all, I find it very easy to balance work and my child. But then again, I’m from Denmark — my girlfriend went on maternity leave for a full year from her college. She’s basically getting a state-funded scholarship, which everyone in Denmark gets for a certain amount of time when you study. So for a full year she’s getting $600-800 a month while she’s taking care of the baby and on tour with me. The system that we grew up in Denmark facilitates parenthood and bonding with your child. Fathers in Denmark can choose to do paternity leave up to eight months. So my country is definitely making it a lot easier to be a new father.

That’s wonderful, but, still — a career in entertainment has logistics that are just naturally challenging to blend with parenting.

I grew up in a world where I saw everybody making hindrances for themselves. Everything becomes more and more problematic: “Oh, we can’t do this because of that…oh, this is going to be difficult.” Or else you just do it and make it work. Make that decision to make your life easier rather than more difficult. Make that decision to facilitate things rather than not.

And, it’s my girlfriend who makes sure that I can do this. If she wasn’t in on it—if she wasn’t prepared to facilitate me being a father, it would be very difficult and I wouldn’t see my child for three weeks at a time. So I’m very grateful that she wants to go on tour with me, and live this lifestyle for a while. Ask me again in a year when she’s back studying her masters, and I can’t just bring the baby on tour.

“7 Years,” as well as the rest of your album, was largely inspired by the death of your father. What do you think he would have thought of these songs if he had been able to hear them?

I think he would have liked them; that I took a turn and started writing more personal lyrics. Real songs about real life. I think he’d be very proud of what we achieved. But it’s a Catch-22 question, you know, because if my father hadn’t died when he died, I wouldn’t have written the songs that made me travel all around the world. We can’t get everything. And it’s OK. [There’s] a lovely Japanese proverb written as a haiku: “You can’t catch all the falling leaves in the autumn.”

Back to the Grammys. Is there any one of your three nominations that you would most particularly like to win?

Song of the Year definitely would mean more — I mean, I don’t even dare to hope for one — but Song of the Year because it is in celebration of the writing process and the creative process leading up to the song being released. I like to be acknowledged for the fact that I write my own music, and that I have a hand in the creative process. But any of the three, I mean c’mon! It’s winning a Grammy!

What if you win all three?

If we get all three, I’ll shave my head. On the Grammy podium (laughs)

[samanthasroberts]

5 Insane True Stories Of Buying The House From Hell

I’ve worked in the home improvement industry for over a decade, and as a result of that, I will never own my own house. I know people who seem to manage it just fine, and some who even thoroughly enjoy it. Maybe you’re one of them and are laughing at me right now. It’s just that there are so many abject terrors a house of your own can casually cast on you. I’ve seen too many folks left with their asses hanging in the breeze. So whether you’re planning to build a house or scoff at the very idea, at least do yourself a favor and read this. You won’t be sorry.

(You will be sorry.)

#5. Poop Lurks Around Every Corner

One of the worst nights of my entire life can be handily summed up by the first minute or so of this scene from Dogma:

Yes, it’s the shit demon scene, and yes, it’s a damn documentary.

There I was, blissfully enjoying the fact that I was not currently covered in human shit, when suddenly I heard a gurgle from the bathroom. Confident that it was just another gremlin infestation, I sighed, got up, and went to give them a karate or two. What I found instead was poop. So very much poop, coming out from all the available orifices the bathroom had to offer. This was noticeably less sexy than it sounds.

There are good moves and bad moves in this situation. The good move: whimper a bit and call an expert. The bad move: panic, flush.

Have you ever seen a poop geyser? I have. It was thankfully less spraying and more bubbly than you’d expect, but still far below what an average person would consider glorious. By the time I was done containing the spillage from the fine raw sewage backup I had just experienced, I was literally scooping shit in tiny cardboard party cups because they were the only barrier I had between liquefied feces and my hands. Note: There is no amount of gloves in the world that can make that job any more pleasant.

Hot chocolate, anyone?

Two deservedly sarcastic plumbers, some extremely spirited cleaning, and several very, very careful showers later, things were finally more or less back to normal. My only positive memories of the event are the several, for once not hyperbolic “I can’t make it tonight, got caught up in a shit storm” messages I got to send out.

That specific incident made me realize that poop is everywhere. Poop is running under our streets, poop is under the floor, and poop is in the walls, in the ceiling, and in the sea. We used poop to build the world, then shoved it unceremoniously out of sight like the unwelcome neighbor it admittedly is. And like that same creepy neighbor, it’s just biding its time to pop up to say hi and hang out in our house for a while.

There are many reasons Poop Napoleon could suddenly descend on your shit hole like it was Austerlitz. Clogging from sanitary products and too-many-ply toilet paper. Tree roots that decided to tear through your main sewer line. Floods. Construction errors happen: I’ve seen sewer lines that do their level best to climb uphill and thus start barfing finely aged terror farts (and sometimes more) at you during wet seasons. Maybe you bought a house that was built before the 1980s and your sewer lines are made from bullshit 19th-century wood pulp piping known as Orangeburg pipes.

Really? Orange? That’s the color springing to mind here?

Still, as unnoticeable as most of these issues are until it’s too late, when they do happen, taking care of it is as simple as calling your landlord and saying, “Your house just exploded in a geyser of shit.” But if you own that house, you are now stuck with the choice of paying several thousand dollars to fix it or wading through a literal sewer in blind hope that it’s something you can take care of on your own (Hint: You cannot).

#4. Older Houses Feel Haunted For A Reason

You’re sleeping in the house you own as the lord/lady of your domain, with no worries in the world save for the crushing mortgage, when suddenly the loudest noise you’ve ever heard jerks you back to the waking land. After calming down, you put it down to a sleep jerk or whatever and slowly start drifting back to sle-

BOOM!!!

OhGodohGodohGod! What in the everfucking shit was that? It’s like someone literally dropped a wrecking ball on your house. And then it happens again. And again. As you sprint to what you insist is your panic room but is really just a pillow fort in the corner of the study, you fully expect WWIII to have kicked into full gear and brace yourself for the inevitable invasion of space Nazis.

“Don’t be silly. We’re not due until 2018.”

Sorry, no extraterrestrial fascists for you tonight! That shit was just a frost quake — a wacky phenomenon where cold weather contracts your house’s building materials, causing them to groan and bang and turns the whole place into an audio bomb. Did the seller forget to mention this? Don’t worry! It’s totally harmless. Usually. If your house is well-built. Which it totally is, right? Right?

Frost quakes are just one of the many bullshit things you can encounter during your house-owning endeavor that there’s no real way to brace yourself for. According to a friend of mine who used to work as a building inspector — we’ll call him Frank Buildinginspector — there are so many ways to encounter insane bullshit, the world would run out of trees if all of those ways were put on paper.

Did the previous owner have at least two males in the family? You can rest assured there is some extremely localized water damage in the bathroom. Or maybe the piping (including sewer lines, because, like I said, poop lurks everywhere) has been constructed in such an asshat way that it’s borderline impossible to inspect or maintain, leading to situations such as the one Frank names as the worst in his career: extremely elderly sewer pipes, directly attached to the ground floor and long since burst because of fucking course, managed to render both the ground floor and the soil underneath into hazardous waste. The owner of the house only thought to inspect the situation because of a “kinda funny smell.”

“Also, is it a little warm in here?”

And then we have the outright horror-movie scenarios that Cracked has already told you about, like the mold in old houses that can make you see ghosts and malfunctioning fans that can … also make you see ghosts.

In fact, you know what? Just outright embrace all that shit. Even if there’s no way you could peacefully live there, I’m betting if you combined the ghost stuff with the frost quakes and strange smells, you’d make a killing by turning the place into a haunted house.

#3. Poison Is Potentially Everywhere

I realize I’m running the risk of sounding less like a fun, harmless-when-not-too-drunk-and-at-dropkick-distance Internet columnist and more like a screeching fearmonger, but poisonous houses are totally a thing, and I think we can all agree that it’s better you hear it from me than a reliable, certified expert, because hard facts are easier to swallow when laced with liberal dick jokes. Hehehe. “Hard.” “Swallow.” “Dick.” See?

If you’ve ever even glanced at a house with a twinkling intention to throw money at it, you’ve probably heard about radon, an odorless, colorless, and fucking radioactive gas that lurks in soil and may seep in through any ol’ crack or seam. Smoking aside, it’s the biggest culprit for lung cancer we know about (we’re talking 20,000 lung cancer deaths per year), it can’t be detected without a special test, and an estimated one in 15 houses have radon leakages in the U.S. alone. Are you feeling lucky, punk?

“Sure. They threw in this suit; have you any idea how much these things cost?”

Luckily, even if you wind up buying a house without insisting on the test, the issue is fairly simple to fix with radon removal systems (if you notice it, that is). That fixes a minuscule damn fraction of your poisonin’ issues. There’s still carbon monoxide (400 deaths and up to 20,000 ER visits per year), potentially poisoning you from leaky heating systems and blocked vents. Does your house still have all the original surface materials, you hipster, you? Fuck — you might be looking at a lungful of hazardous lead paint, or fiberglass insulation, or plain old asbestos, or formaldehyde, or random pollutants from carpeting. Or mold. Or that goddamned ghost mold I mentioned earlier, why the hell not?

“I’m made up of the souls of the previous homeowners.”

I’m not trying to paint a picture of every house as a poison-filled death trap that is just waiting to take your money and your life. I’m not here to fearmonger — tons of people live in their own houses and are so happy they joyfully cry tears made out of Skittles. Still, I feel it’s worth pointing out all the weird bullshit that might bite you in the ass somewhere down the line if you don’t do the shit out of your homework before signing on the dotted line.

Besides, if I wanted to really monger fear, I wouldn’t be talking about pesky bullshit like poison seeping through the walls. I’d be talking about stuff like …

#2. Your Neighbors Are Crazy

I went into this column with the assumption that I’d be writing exclusively about how even the most dream-fulfilling, expensive house can turn into a shit soup at a moment’s notice, sometimes literally. However, the more I talked with house owners, the more a certain trend presented itself: In the house-ownin’ world, hell is not the occasional renovation. It’s other people.

I’ve heard many stories detailing the horrors of owning a house and being surrounded by the wrong kind of people, but for the purposes of this entry, we’ll focus on the one that best embodies them all. Consider the story of a friend of mine, whom we shall call Diana Womanhead. A few years ago, a relationship that for obvious reasons would not last (we’ll get to that in a minute) took her from the life of a big-city apartment-dweller to that of a small-town house owner.

“So, do I have to provide my own banjo, or are they complimentary?”

The first shock was the neighbors. You’d assume that having a house of your own would provide you with some sense of privacy and security. Not so: Almost immediately, neighbors started borderline forcefully introducing themselves, ambling to the house despite locked gates and cracking open a beer on their front porch. Sometimes, they had a six-pack. Other neighbors liberally used their yard as a toilet for their dog and occasionally screamed at them for “making too much noise.” Sometimes, they had an ax. While Diana was somewhat concerned by this, her guy was cool with literally anyone tumbling in. This included his many friends, who abused the situation by turning up unannounced for a barbecue, emptying the fridge, and occasionally sneaking into their guesthouse to pass out after a boozy Saturday night.

“The pillow mints were the perfect refresher after vomiting on the front lawn. Five stars.”

And then it turned out that the guy barely had enough money to deal with the house, let alone any interest to keep it in any kind of shape. He just happened to come from a culture where it is customary to own one, so he had to have one.

Still, at least Diana managed to get out without too much undue hassle. But remember Frank Buildinginspector from earlier? A friend of his bought a house with her significant other, only to be cock-slapped with a limp pecker of divorce. One day, when she was out, her soon-to-be ex-husband chose to torch the place, because fuck you. Too bad the dude was still one of the owners, so although he was caught for arson, the lady isn’t going to receive a dime for insurance.

#1. And Chances Are You’re Crazy Too

I am a terrible neighbor. I’m a long-haired, bearded man with serious resting bitch face syndrome who dresses almost exclusively in black and is generally too reserved and/or preoccupied with whatever deadline I’m wrestling to even say hi to my neighbors. I’m positive at least one of them thinks I’m a serial killer, thanks to a freak accident where my leg went to sleep when I was chopping onions in an awkward position, and I spent a good while limping around the place while still holding the knife and making nasty faces thanks to the onions getting to my eyes — only to see a horrified older woman stare at me through the window.

The clown makeup probably didn’t help my case.

But, again, I’m a humble tenant. The second the whole neighborhood inevitably grabs their pitchforks and torches to chase me back to the abyss where I belong, I can just piss off and start my reign of terror somewhere anew. No such luck when you’re financially tied to the area — if you’re the shitty neighbor, congratulations! You’re married to the house until the whole town gets tired of you and straight-up murders your ass.

“But Pauli,” you say. “Just because you’d be a pathetic, black-hearted excuse of a house owner and, for that matter, human being, it doesn’t make every potential house owner a dickhead.” That’s true, it doesn’t automatically turn you into one — only potentially.

Like The Shining but for assholes.

It’s so, so very easy to get caught up in neighbor shenanigans to the extent that you’re elbow-deep in petty dickery yourself. Sometimes, all it takes is one asshole and a situation where you both own your houses and are thus unable or unwilling to move away. Take the story of yet another one of my friends, whom we’ll call Andy Mandude. For years and years, his family was tormented by a total asshole of a neighbor who kept stoning their dogs, deliberately blocking their car on the narrow road they shared, physically picking fights, and generally acting like a five-star asshat, usually running back to the safety of his own property at the slightest chance of getting a comeuppance. Over the years, the situation escalated into a terrifying real-life version of the many imaginary battles between Donald Duck and Neighbor Jones, including (but not limited to) antics such as:

– a full-hearted attempt to chainsaw down a flagpole – ongoing, liberal verbal abuse – several physical wrestling matches – actual freaking death threats – stoning and shooting of pets

Even Biggie and Tupac kept their beef human-side.

– a reluctant, ongoing truce that Andy fully acknowledges can and likely eventually will break right back into horror shenanigans.

And that’s hardly an isolated case. Google “neighbor arguments” and you’ll find thousands and thousands of assholes you’d gladly pick a fight with if you found yourself living next door to them, or just read some of the best ones right here. Who’s the asshole in those fights? Ask both parties, and they’ll point the finger at each other. Which means that if you’re in even a mild, petty neighborhood argument, you are automatically an asshole. Even if you are in the right.

Eventually, you’ll get tired of it and decide, “Fuck every last second of this. Owning this house isn’t worth an ulcer or a heart attack.” Or you’ll get old and realize you have too much space to take care of … or you’ll have a family and realize you need more space. So you’ll sell your home and buy another one. And the person who buys your house will inherit all of the old fuckery you had to deal with. They’ll complain about your half-assed repairs and their new psychotic, dog-shooting neighbor. They’ll bad luck their way into an exploding sewer pipe and blame you for being negligent. Meanwhile, you’ll be doing the same thing at your new house. And that, friends, is the Circle of Homeowner Life.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/2017/06/24/5-insane-true-stories-of-buying-the-house-from-hell/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2017/06/24/5-insane-true-stories-of-buying-the-house-from-hell/

[adambstingus]

5 Insane True Stories Of Buying The House From Hell

I’ve worked in the home improvement industry for over a decade, and as a result of that, I will never own my own house. I know people who seem to manage it just fine, and some who even thoroughly enjoy it. Maybe you’re one of them and are laughing at me right now. It’s just that there are so many abject terrors a house of your own can casually cast on you. I’ve seen too many folks left with their asses hanging in the breeze. So whether you’re planning to build a house or scoff at the very idea, at least do yourself a favor and read this. You won’t be sorry.

(You will be sorry.)

#5. Poop Lurks Around Every Corner

One of the worst nights of my entire life can be handily summed up by the first minute or so of this scene from Dogma:

Yes, it’s the shit demon scene, and yes, it’s a damn documentary.

There I was, blissfully enjoying the fact that I was not currently covered in human shit, when suddenly I heard a gurgle from the bathroom. Confident that it was just another gremlin infestation, I sighed, got up, and went to give them a karate or two. What I found instead was poop. So very much poop, coming out from all the available orifices the bathroom had to offer. This was noticeably less sexy than it sounds.

There are good moves and bad moves in this situation. The good move: whimper a bit and call an expert. The bad move: panic, flush.

Have you ever seen a poop geyser? I have. It was thankfully less spraying and more bubbly than you’d expect, but still far below what an average person would consider glorious. By the time I was done containing the spillage from the fine raw sewage backup I had just experienced, I was literally scooping shit in tiny cardboard party cups because they were the only barrier I had between liquefied feces and my hands. Note: There is no amount of gloves in the world that can make that job any more pleasant.

Hot chocolate, anyone?

Two deservedly sarcastic plumbers, some extremely spirited cleaning, and several very, very careful showers later, things were finally more or less back to normal. My only positive memories of the event are the several, for once not hyperbolic “I can’t make it tonight, got caught up in a shit storm” messages I got to send out.

That specific incident made me realize that poop is everywhere. Poop is running under our streets, poop is under the floor, and poop is in the walls, in the ceiling, and in the sea. We used poop to build the world, then shoved it unceremoniously out of sight like the unwelcome neighbor it admittedly is. And like that same creepy neighbor, it’s just biding its time to pop up to say hi and hang out in our house for a while.

There are many reasons Poop Napoleon could suddenly descend on your shit hole like it was Austerlitz. Clogging from sanitary products and too-many-ply toilet paper. Tree roots that decided to tear through your main sewer line. Floods. Construction errors happen: I’ve seen sewer lines that do their level best to climb uphill and thus start barfing finely aged terror farts (and sometimes more) at you during wet seasons. Maybe you bought a house that was built before the 1980s and your sewer lines are made from bullshit 19th-century wood pulp piping known as Orangeburg pipes.

Really? Orange? That’s the color springing to mind here?

Still, as unnoticeable as most of these issues are until it’s too late, when they do happen, taking care of it is as simple as calling your landlord and saying, “Your house just exploded in a geyser of shit.” But if you own that house, you are now stuck with the choice of paying several thousand dollars to fix it or wading through a literal sewer in blind hope that it’s something you can take care of on your own (Hint: You cannot).

#4. Older Houses Feel Haunted For A Reason

You’re sleeping in the house you own as the lord/lady of your domain, with no worries in the world save for the crushing mortgage, when suddenly the loudest noise you’ve ever heard jerks you back to the waking land. After calming down, you put it down to a sleep jerk or whatever and slowly start drifting back to sle-

BOOM!!!

OhGodohGodohGod! What in the everfucking shit was that? It’s like someone literally dropped a wrecking ball on your house. And then it happens again. And again. As you sprint to what you insist is your panic room but is really just a pillow fort in the corner of the study, you fully expect WWIII to have kicked into full gear and brace yourself for the inevitable invasion of space Nazis.

“Don’t be silly. We’re not due until 2018.”

Sorry, no extraterrestrial fascists for you tonight! That shit was just a frost quake — a wacky phenomenon where cold weather contracts your house’s building materials, causing them to groan and bang and turns the whole place into an audio bomb. Did the seller forget to mention this? Don’t worry! It’s totally harmless. Usually. If your house is well-built. Which it totally is, right? Right?

Frost quakes are just one of the many bullshit things you can encounter during your house-owning endeavor that there’s no real way to brace yourself for. According to a friend of mine who used to work as a building inspector — we’ll call him Frank Buildinginspector — there are so many ways to encounter insane bullshit, the world would run out of trees if all of those ways were put on paper.

Did the previous owner have at least two males in the family? You can rest assured there is some extremely localized water damage in the bathroom. Or maybe the piping (including sewer lines, because, like I said, poop lurks everywhere) has been constructed in such an asshat way that it’s borderline impossible to inspect or maintain, leading to situations such as the one Frank names as the worst in his career: extremely elderly sewer pipes, directly attached to the ground floor and long since burst because of fucking course, managed to render both the ground floor and the soil underneath into hazardous waste. The owner of the house only thought to inspect the situation because of a “kinda funny smell.”

“Also, is it a little warm in here?”

And then we have the outright horror-movie scenarios that Cracked has already told you about, like the mold in old houses that can make you see ghosts and malfunctioning fans that can … also make you see ghosts.

In fact, you know what? Just outright embrace all that shit. Even if there’s no way you could peacefully live there, I’m betting if you combined the ghost stuff with the frost quakes and strange smells, you’d make a killing by turning the place into a haunted house.

#3. Poison Is Potentially Everywhere

I realize I’m running the risk of sounding less like a fun, harmless-when-not-too-drunk-and-at-dropkick-distance Internet columnist and more like a screeching fearmonger, but poisonous houses are totally a thing, and I think we can all agree that it’s better you hear it from me than a reliable, certified expert, because hard facts are easier to swallow when laced with liberal dick jokes. Hehehe. “Hard.” “Swallow.” “Dick.” See?

If you’ve ever even glanced at a house with a twinkling intention to throw money at it, you’ve probably heard about radon, an odorless, colorless, and fucking radioactive gas that lurks in soil and may seep in through any ol’ crack or seam. Smoking aside, it’s the biggest culprit for lung cancer we know about (we’re talking 20,000 lung cancer deaths per year), it can’t be detected without a special test, and an estimated one in 15 houses have radon leakages in the U.S. alone. Are you feeling lucky, punk?

“Sure. They threw in this suit; have you any idea how much these things cost?”

Luckily, even if you wind up buying a house without insisting on the test, the issue is fairly simple to fix with radon removal systems (if you notice it, that is). That fixes a minuscule damn fraction of your poisonin’ issues. There’s still carbon monoxide (400 deaths and up to 20,000 ER visits per year), potentially poisoning you from leaky heating systems and blocked vents. Does your house still have all the original surface materials, you hipster, you? Fuck — you might be looking at a lungful of hazardous lead paint, or fiberglass insulation, or plain old asbestos, or formaldehyde, or random pollutants from carpeting. Or mold. Or that goddamned ghost mold I mentioned earlier, why the hell not?

“I’m made up of the souls of the previous homeowners.”

I’m not trying to paint a picture of every house as a poison-filled death trap that is just waiting to take your money and your life. I’m not here to fearmonger — tons of people live in their own houses and are so happy they joyfully cry tears made out of Skittles. Still, I feel it’s worth pointing out all the weird bullshit that might bite you in the ass somewhere down the line if you don’t do the shit out of your homework before signing on the dotted line.

Besides, if I wanted to really monger fear, I wouldn’t be talking about pesky bullshit like poison seeping through the walls. I’d be talking about stuff like …

#2. Your Neighbors Are Crazy

I went into this column with the assumption that I’d be writing exclusively about how even the most dream-fulfilling, expensive house can turn into a shit soup at a moment’s notice, sometimes literally. However, the more I talked with house owners, the more a certain trend presented itself: In the house-ownin’ world, hell is not the occasional renovation. It’s other people.

I’ve heard many stories detailing the horrors of owning a house and being surrounded by the wrong kind of people, but for the purposes of this entry, we’ll focus on the one that best embodies them all. Consider the story of a friend of mine, whom we shall call Diana Womanhead. A few years ago, a relationship that for obvious reasons would not last (we’ll get to that in a minute) took her from the life of a big-city apartment-dweller to that of a small-town house owner.

“So, do I have to provide my own banjo, or are they complimentary?”

The first shock was the neighbors. You’d assume that having a house of your own would provide you with some sense of privacy and security. Not so: Almost immediately, neighbors started borderline forcefully introducing themselves, ambling to the house despite locked gates and cracking open a beer on their front porch. Sometimes, they had a six-pack. Other neighbors liberally used their yard as a toilet for their dog and occasionally screamed at them for “making too much noise.” Sometimes, they had an ax. While Diana was somewhat concerned by this, her guy was cool with literally anyone tumbling in. This included his many friends, who abused the situation by turning up unannounced for a barbecue, emptying the fridge, and occasionally sneaking into their guesthouse to pass out after a boozy Saturday night.

“The pillow mints were the perfect refresher after vomiting on the front lawn. Five stars.”

And then it turned out that the guy barely had enough money to deal with the house, let alone any interest to keep it in any kind of shape. He just happened to come from a culture where it is customary to own one, so he had to have one.

Still, at least Diana managed to get out without too much undue hassle. But remember Frank Buildinginspector from earlier? A friend of his bought a house with her significant other, only to be cock-slapped with a limp pecker of divorce. One day, when she was out, her soon-to-be ex-husband chose to torch the place, because fuck you. Too bad the dude was still one of the owners, so although he was caught for arson, the lady isn’t going to receive a dime for insurance.

#1. And Chances Are You’re Crazy Too

I am a terrible neighbor. I’m a long-haired, bearded man with serious resting bitch face syndrome who dresses almost exclusively in black and is generally too reserved and/or preoccupied with whatever deadline I’m wrestling to even say hi to my neighbors. I’m positive at least one of them thinks I’m a serial killer, thanks to a freak accident where my leg went to sleep when I was chopping onions in an awkward position, and I spent a good while limping around the place while still holding the knife and making nasty faces thanks to the onions getting to my eyes — only to see a horrified older woman stare at me through the window.

The clown makeup probably didn’t help my case.

But, again, I’m a humble tenant. The second the whole neighborhood inevitably grabs their pitchforks and torches to chase me back to the abyss where I belong, I can just piss off and start my reign of terror somewhere anew. No such luck when you’re financially tied to the area — if you’re the shitty neighbor, congratulations! You’re married to the house until the whole town gets tired of you and straight-up murders your ass.

“But Pauli,” you say. “Just because you’d be a pathetic, black-hearted excuse of a house owner and, for that matter, human being, it doesn’t make every potential house owner a dickhead.” That’s true, it doesn’t automatically turn you into one — only potentially.

Like The Shining but for assholes.

It’s so, so very easy to get caught up in neighbor shenanigans to the extent that you’re elbow-deep in petty dickery yourself. Sometimes, all it takes is one asshole and a situation where you both own your houses and are thus unable or unwilling to move away. Take the story of yet another one of my friends, whom we’ll call Andy Mandude. For years and years, his family was tormented by a total asshole of a neighbor who kept stoning their dogs, deliberately blocking their car on the narrow road they shared, physically picking fights, and generally acting like a five-star asshat, usually running back to the safety of his own property at the slightest chance of getting a comeuppance. Over the years, the situation escalated into a terrifying real-life version of the many imaginary battles between Donald Duck and Neighbor Jones, including (but not limited to) antics such as:

– a full-hearted attempt to chainsaw down a flagpole – ongoing, liberal verbal abuse – several physical wrestling matches – actual freaking death threats – stoning and shooting of pets

Even Biggie and Tupac kept their beef human-side.

– a reluctant, ongoing truce that Andy fully acknowledges can and likely eventually will break right back into horror shenanigans.

And that’s hardly an isolated case. Google “neighbor arguments” and you’ll find thousands and thousands of assholes you’d gladly pick a fight with if you found yourself living next door to them, or just read some of the best ones right here. Who’s the asshole in those fights? Ask both parties, and they’ll point the finger at each other. Which means that if you’re in even a mild, petty neighborhood argument, you are automatically an asshole. Even if you are in the right.

Eventually, you’ll get tired of it and decide, “Fuck every last second of this. Owning this house isn’t worth an ulcer or a heart attack.” Or you’ll get old and realize you have too much space to take care of … or you’ll have a family and realize you need more space. So you’ll sell your home and buy another one. And the person who buys your house will inherit all of the old fuckery you had to deal with. They’ll complain about your half-assed repairs and their new psychotic, dog-shooting neighbor. They’ll bad luck their way into an exploding sewer pipe and blame you for being negligent. Meanwhile, you’ll be doing the same thing at your new house. And that, friends, is the Circle of Homeowner Life.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/2017/06/24/5-insane-true-stories-of-buying-the-house-from-hell/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/162215212457

[jimdsmith34]

5 Insane True Stories Of Buying The House From Hell

I’ve worked in the home improvement industry for over a decade, and as a result of that, I will never own my own house. I know people who seem to manage it just fine, and some who even thoroughly enjoy it. Maybe you’re one of them and are laughing at me right now. It’s just that there are so many abject terrors a house of your own can casually cast on you. I’ve seen too many folks left with their asses hanging in the breeze. So whether you’re planning to build a house or scoff at the very idea, at least do yourself a favor and read this. You won’t be sorry.

(You will be sorry.)

#5. Poop Lurks Around Every Corner

One of the worst nights of my entire life can be handily summed up by the first minute or so of this scene from Dogma:

Yes, it’s the shit demon scene, and yes, it’s a damn documentary.

There I was, blissfully enjoying the fact that I was not currently covered in human shit, when suddenly I heard a gurgle from the bathroom. Confident that it was just another gremlin infestation, I sighed, got up, and went to give them a karate or two. What I found instead was poop. So very much poop, coming out from all the available orifices the bathroom had to offer. This was noticeably less sexy than it sounds.

There are good moves and bad moves in this situation. The good move: whimper a bit and call an expert. The bad move: panic, flush.

Have you ever seen a poop geyser? I have. It was thankfully less spraying and more bubbly than you’d expect, but still far below what an average person would consider glorious. By the time I was done containing the spillage from the fine raw sewage backup I had just experienced, I was literally scooping shit in tiny cardboard party cups because they were the only barrier I had between liquefied feces and my hands. Note: There is no amount of gloves in the world that can make that job any more pleasant.

Hot chocolate, anyone?

Two deservedly sarcastic plumbers, some extremely spirited cleaning, and several very, very careful showers later, things were finally more or less back to normal. My only positive memories of the event are the several, for once not hyperbolic “I can’t make it tonight, got caught up in a shit storm” messages I got to send out.

That specific incident made me realize that poop is everywhere. Poop is running under our streets, poop is under the floor, and poop is in the walls, in the ceiling, and in the sea. We used poop to build the world, then shoved it unceremoniously out of sight like the unwelcome neighbor it admittedly is. And like that same creepy neighbor, it’s just biding its time to pop up to say hi and hang out in our house for a while.

There are many reasons Poop Napoleon could suddenly descend on your shit hole like it was Austerlitz. Clogging from sanitary products and too-many-ply toilet paper. Tree roots that decided to tear through your main sewer line. Floods. Construction errors happen: I’ve seen sewer lines that do their level best to climb uphill and thus start barfing finely aged terror farts (and sometimes more) at you during wet seasons. Maybe you bought a house that was built before the 1980s and your sewer lines are made from bullshit 19th-century wood pulp piping known as Orangeburg pipes.

Really? Orange? That’s the color springing to mind here?

Still, as unnoticeable as most of these issues are until it’s too late, when they do happen, taking care of it is as simple as calling your landlord and saying, “Your house just exploded in a geyser of shit.” But if you own that house, you are now stuck with the choice of paying several thousand dollars to fix it or wading through a literal sewer in blind hope that it’s something you can take care of on your own (Hint: You cannot).

#4. Older Houses Feel Haunted For A Reason

You’re sleeping in the house you own as the lord/lady of your domain, with no worries in the world save for the crushing mortgage, when suddenly the loudest noise you’ve ever heard jerks you back to the waking land. After calming down, you put it down to a sleep jerk or whatever and slowly start drifting back to sle-

BOOM!!!

OhGodohGodohGod! What in the everfucking shit was that? It’s like someone literally dropped a wrecking ball on your house. And then it happens again. And again. As you sprint to what you insist is your panic room but is really just a pillow fort in the corner of the study, you fully expect WWIII to have kicked into full gear and brace yourself for the inevitable invasion of space Nazis.

“Don’t be silly. We’re not due until 2018.”

Sorry, no extraterrestrial fascists for you tonight! That shit was just a frost quake — a wacky phenomenon where cold weather contracts your house’s building materials, causing them to groan and bang and turns the whole place into an audio bomb. Did the seller forget to mention this? Don’t worry! It’s totally harmless. Usually. If your house is well-built. Which it totally is, right? Right?

Frost quakes are just one of the many bullshit things you can encounter during your house-owning endeavor that there’s no real way to brace yourself for. According to a friend of mine who used to work as a building inspector — we’ll call him Frank Buildinginspector — there are so many ways to encounter insane bullshit, the world would run out of trees if all of those ways were put on paper.

Did the previous owner have at least two males in the family? You can rest assured there is some extremely localized water damage in the bathroom. Or maybe the piping (including sewer lines, because, like I said, poop lurks everywhere) has been constructed in such an asshat way that it’s borderline impossible to inspect or maintain, leading to situations such as the one Frank names as the worst in his career: extremely elderly sewer pipes, directly attached to the ground floor and long since burst because of fucking course, managed to render both the ground floor and the soil underneath into hazardous waste. The owner of the house only thought to inspect the situation because of a “kinda funny smell.”

“Also, is it a little warm in here?”

And then we have the outright horror-movie scenarios that Cracked has already told you about, like the mold in old houses that can make you see ghosts and malfunctioning fans that can … also make you see ghosts.

In fact, you know what? Just outright embrace all that shit. Even if there’s no way you could peacefully live there, I’m betting if you combined the ghost stuff with the frost quakes and strange smells, you’d make a killing by turning the place into a haunted house.

#3. Poison Is Potentially Everywhere

I realize I’m running the risk of sounding less like a fun, harmless-when-not-too-drunk-and-at-dropkick-distance Internet columnist and more like a screeching fearmonger, but poisonous houses are totally a thing, and I think we can all agree that it’s better you hear it from me than a reliable, certified expert, because hard facts are easier to swallow when laced with liberal dick jokes. Hehehe. “Hard.” “Swallow.” “Dick.” See?

If you’ve ever even glanced at a house with a twinkling intention to throw money at it, you’ve probably heard about radon, an odorless, colorless, and fucking radioactive gas that lurks in soil and may seep in through any ol’ crack or seam. Smoking aside, it’s the biggest culprit for lung cancer we know about (we’re talking 20,000 lung cancer deaths per year), it can’t be detected without a special test, and an estimated one in 15 houses have radon leakages in the U.S. alone. Are you feeling lucky, punk?

“Sure. They threw in this suit; have you any idea how much these things cost?”

Luckily, even if you wind up buying a house without insisting on the test, the issue is fairly simple to fix with radon removal systems (if you notice it, that is). That fixes a minuscule damn fraction of your poisonin’ issues. There’s still carbon monoxide (400 deaths and up to 20,000 ER visits per year), potentially poisoning you from leaky heating systems and blocked vents. Does your house still have all the original surface materials, you hipster, you? Fuck — you might be looking at a lungful of hazardous lead paint, or fiberglass insulation, or plain old asbestos, or formaldehyde, or random pollutants from carpeting. Or mold. Or that goddamned ghost mold I mentioned earlier, why the hell not?

“I’m made up of the souls of the previous homeowners.”

I’m not trying to paint a picture of every house as a poison-filled death trap that is just waiting to take your money and your life. I’m not here to fearmonger — tons of people live in their own houses and are so happy they joyfully cry tears made out of Skittles. Still, I feel it’s worth pointing out all the weird bullshit that might bite you in the ass somewhere down the line if you don’t do the shit out of your homework before signing on the dotted line.

Besides, if I wanted to really monger fear, I wouldn’t be talking about pesky bullshit like poison seeping through the walls. I’d be talking about stuff like …

#2. Your Neighbors Are Crazy

I went into this column with the assumption that I’d be writing exclusively about how even the most dream-fulfilling, expensive house can turn into a shit soup at a moment’s notice, sometimes literally. However, the more I talked with house owners, the more a certain trend presented itself: In the house-ownin’ world, hell is not the occasional renovation. It’s other people.

I’ve heard many stories detailing the horrors of owning a house and being surrounded by the wrong kind of people, but for the purposes of this entry, we’ll focus on the one that best embodies them all. Consider the story of a friend of mine, whom we shall call Diana Womanhead. A few years ago, a relationship that for obvious reasons would not last (we’ll get to that in a minute) took her from the life of a big-city apartment-dweller to that of a small-town house owner.

“So, do I have to provide my own banjo, or are they complimentary?”

The first shock was the neighbors. You’d assume that having a house of your own would provide you with some sense of privacy and security. Not so: Almost immediately, neighbors started borderline forcefully introducing themselves, ambling to the house despite locked gates and cracking open a beer on their front porch. Sometimes, they had a six-pack. Other neighbors liberally used their yard as a toilet for their dog and occasionally screamed at them for “making too much noise.” Sometimes, they had an ax. While Diana was somewhat concerned by this, her guy was cool with literally anyone tumbling in. This included his many friends, who abused the situation by turning up unannounced for a barbecue, emptying the fridge, and occasionally sneaking into their guesthouse to pass out after a boozy Saturday night.

“The pillow mints were the perfect refresher after vomiting on the front lawn. Five stars.”

And then it turned out that the guy barely had enough money to deal with the house, let alone any interest to keep it in any kind of shape. He just happened to come from a culture where it is customary to own one, so he had to have one.

Still, at least Diana managed to get out without too much undue hassle. But remember Frank Buildinginspector from earlier? A friend of his bought a house with her significant other, only to be cock-slapped with a limp pecker of divorce. One day, when she was out, her soon-to-be ex-husband chose to torch the place, because fuck you. Too bad the dude was still one of the owners, so although he was caught for arson, the lady isn’t going to receive a dime for insurance.

#1. And Chances Are You’re Crazy Too

I am a terrible neighbor. I’m a long-haired, bearded man with serious resting bitch face syndrome who dresses almost exclusively in black and is generally too reserved and/or preoccupied with whatever deadline I’m wrestling to even say hi to my neighbors. I’m positive at least one of them thinks I’m a serial killer, thanks to a freak accident where my leg went to sleep when I was chopping onions in an awkward position, and I spent a good while limping around the place while still holding the knife and making nasty faces thanks to the onions getting to my eyes — only to see a horrified older woman stare at me through the window.

The clown makeup probably didn’t help my case.

But, again, I’m a humble tenant. The second the whole neighborhood inevitably grabs their pitchforks and torches to chase me back to the abyss where I belong, I can just piss off and start my reign of terror somewhere anew. No such luck when you’re financially tied to the area — if you’re the shitty neighbor, congratulations! You’re married to the house until the whole town gets tired of you and straight-up murders your ass.

“But Pauli,” you say. “Just because you’d be a pathetic, black-hearted excuse of a house owner and, for that matter, human being, it doesn’t make every potential house owner a dickhead.” That’s true, it doesn’t automatically turn you into one — only potentially.

Like The Shining but for assholes.

It’s so, so very easy to get caught up in neighbor shenanigans to the extent that you’re elbow-deep in petty dickery yourself. Sometimes, all it takes is one asshole and a situation where you both own your houses and are thus unable or unwilling to move away. Take the story of yet another one of my friends, whom we’ll call Andy Mandude. For years and years, his family was tormented by a total asshole of a neighbor who kept stoning their dogs, deliberately blocking their car on the narrow road they shared, physically picking fights, and generally acting like a five-star asshat, usually running back to the safety of his own property at the slightest chance of getting a comeuppance. Over the years, the situation escalated into a terrifying real-life version of the many imaginary battles between Donald Duck and Neighbor Jones, including (but not limited to) antics such as:

– a full-hearted attempt to chainsaw down a flagpole – ongoing, liberal verbal abuse – several physical wrestling matches – actual freaking death threats – stoning and shooting of pets

Even Biggie and Tupac kept their beef human-side.

– a reluctant, ongoing truce that Andy fully acknowledges can and likely eventually will break right back into horror shenanigans.

And that’s hardly an isolated case. Google “neighbor arguments” and you’ll find thousands and thousands of assholes you’d gladly pick a fight with if you found yourself living next door to them, or just read some of the best ones right here. Who’s the asshole in those fights? Ask both parties, and they’ll point the finger at each other. Which means that if you’re in even a mild, petty neighborhood argument, you are automatically an asshole. Even if you are in the right.

Eventually, you’ll get tired of it and decide, “Fuck every last second of this. Owning this house isn’t worth an ulcer or a heart attack.” Or you’ll get old and realize you have too much space to take care of … or you’ll have a family and realize you need more space. So you’ll sell your home and buy another one. And the person who buys your house will inherit all of the old fuckery you had to deal with. They’ll complain about your half-assed repairs and their new psychotic, dog-shooting neighbor. They’ll bad luck their way into an exploding sewer pipe and blame you for being negligent. Meanwhile, you’ll be doing the same thing at your new house. And that, friends, is the Circle of Homeowner Life.

source http://allofbeer.com/2017/06/24/5-insane-true-stories-of-buying-the-house-from-hell/ from All of Beer http://allofbeer.blogspot.com/2017/06/5-insane-true-stories-of-buying-house.html

[allofbeercom]

5 Insane True Stories Of Buying The House From Hell

I’ve worked in the home improvement industry for over a decade, and as a result of that, I will never own my own house. I know people who seem to manage it just fine, and some who even thoroughly enjoy it. Maybe you’re one of them and are laughing at me right now. It’s just that there are so many abject terrors a house of your own can casually cast on you. I’ve seen too many folks left with their asses hanging in the breeze. So whether you’re planning to build a house or scoff at the very idea, at least do yourself a favor and read this. You won’t be sorry.

(You will be sorry.)

#5. Poop Lurks Around Every Corner

One of the worst nights of my entire life can be handily summed up by the first minute or so of this scene from Dogma:

Yes, it’s the shit demon scene, and yes, it’s a damn documentary.

There I was, blissfully enjoying the fact that I was not currently covered in human shit, when suddenly I heard a gurgle from the bathroom. Confident that it was just another gremlin infestation, I sighed, got up, and went to give them a karate or two. What I found instead was poop. So very much poop, coming out from all the available orifices the bathroom had to offer. This was noticeably less sexy than it sounds.

There are good moves and bad moves in this situation. The good move: whimper a bit and call an expert. The bad move: panic, flush.

Have you ever seen a poop geyser? I have. It was thankfully less spraying and more bubbly than you’d expect, but still far below what an average person would consider glorious. By the time I was done containing the spillage from the fine raw sewage backup I had just experienced, I was literally scooping shit in tiny cardboard party cups because they were the only barrier I had between liquefied feces and my hands. Note: There is no amount of gloves in the world that can make that job any more pleasant.

Hot chocolate, anyone?

Two deservedly sarcastic plumbers, some extremely spirited cleaning, and several very, very careful showers later, things were finally more or less back to normal. My only positive memories of the event are the several, for once not hyperbolic “I can’t make it tonight, got caught up in a shit storm” messages I got to send out.

That specific incident made me realize that poop is everywhere. Poop is running under our streets, poop is under the floor, and poop is in the walls, in the ceiling, and in the sea. We used poop to build the world, then shoved it unceremoniously out of sight like the unwelcome neighbor it admittedly is. And like that same creepy neighbor, it’s just biding its time to pop up to say hi and hang out in our house for a while.

There are many reasons Poop Napoleon could suddenly descend on your shit hole like it was Austerlitz. Clogging from sanitary products and too-many-ply toilet paper. Tree roots that decided to tear through your main sewer line. Floods. Construction errors happen: I’ve seen sewer lines that do their level best to climb uphill and thus start barfing finely aged terror farts (and sometimes more) at you during wet seasons. Maybe you bought a house that was built before the 1980s and your sewer lines are made from bullshit 19th-century wood pulp piping known as Orangeburg pipes.

Really? Orange? That’s the color springing to mind here?

Still, as unnoticeable as most of these issues are until it’s too late, when they do happen, taking care of it is as simple as calling your landlord and saying, “Your house just exploded in a geyser of shit.” But if you own that house, you are now stuck with the choice of paying several thousand dollars to fix it or wading through a literal sewer in blind hope that it’s something you can take care of on your own (Hint: You cannot).

#4. Older Houses Feel Haunted For A Reason

You’re sleeping in the house you own as the lord/lady of your domain, with no worries in the world save for the crushing mortgage, when suddenly the loudest noise you’ve ever heard jerks you back to the waking land. After calming down, you put it down to a sleep jerk or whatever and slowly start drifting back to sle-

BOOM!!!

OhGodohGodohGod! What in the everfucking shit was that? It’s like someone literally dropped a wrecking ball on your house. And then it happens again. And again. As you sprint to what you insist is your panic room but is really just a pillow fort in the corner of the study, you fully expect WWIII to have kicked into full gear and brace yourself for the inevitable invasion of space Nazis.

“Don’t be silly. We’re not due until 2018.”

Sorry, no extraterrestrial fascists for you tonight! That shit was just a frost quake — a wacky phenomenon where cold weather contracts your house’s building materials, causing them to groan and bang and turns the whole place into an audio bomb. Did the seller forget to mention this? Don’t worry! It’s totally harmless. Usually. If your house is well-built. Which it totally is, right? Right?

Frost quakes are just one of the many bullshit things you can encounter during your house-owning endeavor that there’s no real way to brace yourself for. According to a friend of mine who used to work as a building inspector — we’ll call him Frank Buildinginspector — there are so many ways to encounter insane bullshit, the world would run out of trees if all of those ways were put on paper.

Did the previous owner have at least two males in the family? You can rest assured there is some extremely localized water damage in the bathroom. Or maybe the piping (including sewer lines, because, like I said, poop lurks everywhere) has been constructed in such an asshat way that it’s borderline impossible to inspect or maintain, leading to situations such as the one Frank names as the worst in his career: extremely elderly sewer pipes, directly attached to the ground floor and long since burst because of fucking course, managed to render both the ground floor and the soil underneath into hazardous waste. The owner of the house only thought to inspect the situation because of a “kinda funny smell.”

“Also, is it a little warm in here?”

And then we have the outright horror-movie scenarios that Cracked has already told you about, like the mold in old houses that can make you see ghosts and malfunctioning fans that can … also make you see ghosts.

In fact, you know what? Just outright embrace all that shit. Even if there’s no way you could peacefully live there, I’m betting if you combined the ghost stuff with the frost quakes and strange smells, you’d make a killing by turning the place into a haunted house.

#3. Poison Is Potentially Everywhere

I realize I’m running the risk of sounding less like a fun, harmless-when-not-too-drunk-and-at-dropkick-distance Internet columnist and more like a screeching fearmonger, but poisonous houses are totally a thing, and I think we can all agree that it’s better you hear it from me than a reliable, certified expert, because hard facts are easier to swallow when laced with liberal dick jokes. Hehehe. “Hard.” “Swallow.” “Dick.” See?

If you’ve ever even glanced at a house with a twinkling intention to throw money at it, you’ve probably heard about radon, an odorless, colorless, and fucking radioactive gas that lurks in soil and may seep in through any ol’ crack or seam. Smoking aside, it’s the biggest culprit for lung cancer we know about (we’re talking 20,000 lung cancer deaths per year), it can’t be detected without a special test, and an estimated one in 15 houses have radon leakages in the U.S. alone. Are you feeling lucky, punk?

“Sure. They threw in this suit; have you any idea how much these things cost?”

Luckily, even if you wind up buying a house without insisting on the test, the issue is fairly simple to fix with radon removal systems (if you notice it, that is). That fixes a minuscule damn fraction of your poisonin’ issues. There’s still carbon monoxide (400 deaths and up to 20,000 ER visits per year), potentially poisoning you from leaky heating systems and blocked vents. Does your house still have all the original surface materials, you hipster, you? Fuck — you might be looking at a lungful of hazardous lead paint, or fiberglass insulation, or plain old asbestos, or formaldehyde, or random pollutants from carpeting. Or mold. Or that goddamned ghost mold I mentioned earlier, why the hell not?

“I’m made up of the souls of the previous homeowners.”

I’m not trying to paint a picture of every house as a poison-filled death trap that is just waiting to take your money and your life. I’m not here to fearmonger — tons of people live in their own houses and are so happy they joyfully cry tears made out of Skittles. Still, I feel it’s worth pointing out all the weird bullshit that might bite you in the ass somewhere down the line if you don’t do the shit out of your homework before signing on the dotted line.

Besides, if I wanted to really monger fear, I wouldn’t be talking about pesky bullshit like poison seeping through the walls. I’d be talking about stuff like …

#2. Your Neighbors Are Crazy

I went into this column with the assumption that I’d be writing exclusively about how even the most dream-fulfilling, expensive house can turn into a shit soup at a moment’s notice, sometimes literally. However, the more I talked with house owners, the more a certain trend presented itself: In the house-ownin’ world, hell is not the occasional renovation. It’s other people.

I’ve heard many stories detailing the horrors of owning a house and being surrounded by the wrong kind of people, but for the purposes of this entry, we’ll focus on the one that best embodies them all. Consider the story of a friend of mine, whom we shall call Diana Womanhead. A few years ago, a relationship that for obvious reasons would not last (we’ll get to that in a minute) took her from the life of a big-city apartment-dweller to that of a small-town house owner.

“So, do I have to provide my own banjo, or are they complimentary?”

The first shock was the neighbors. You’d assume that having a house of your own would provide you with some sense of privacy and security. Not so: Almost immediately, neighbors started borderline forcefully introducing themselves, ambling to the house despite locked gates and cracking open a beer on their front porch. Sometimes, they had a six-pack. Other neighbors liberally used their yard as a toilet for their dog and occasionally screamed at them for “making too much noise.” Sometimes, they had an ax. While Diana was somewhat concerned by this, her guy was cool with literally anyone tumbling in. This included his many friends, who abused the situation by turning up unannounced for a barbecue, emptying the fridge, and occasionally sneaking into their guesthouse to pass out after a boozy Saturday night.

“The pillow mints were the perfect refresher after vomiting on the front lawn. Five stars.”

And then it turned out that the guy barely had enough money to deal with the house, let alone any interest to keep it in any kind of shape. He just happened to come from a culture where it is customary to own one, so he had to have one.

Still, at least Diana managed to get out without too much undue hassle. But remember Frank Buildinginspector from earlier? A friend of his bought a house with her significant other, only to be cock-slapped with a limp pecker of divorce. One day, when she was out, her soon-to-be ex-husband chose to torch the place, because fuck you. Too bad the dude was still one of the owners, so although he was caught for arson, the lady isn’t going to receive a dime for insurance.

#1. And Chances Are You’re Crazy Too

I am a terrible neighbor. I’m a long-haired, bearded man with serious resting bitch face syndrome who dresses almost exclusively in black and is generally too reserved and/or preoccupied with whatever deadline I’m wrestling to even say hi to my neighbors. I’m positive at least one of them thinks I’m a serial killer, thanks to a freak accident where my leg went to sleep when I was chopping onions in an awkward position, and I spent a good while limping around the place while still holding the knife and making nasty faces thanks to the onions getting to my eyes — only to see a horrified older woman stare at me through the window.

The clown makeup probably didn’t help my case.

But, again, I’m a humble tenant. The second the whole neighborhood inevitably grabs their pitchforks and torches to chase me back to the abyss where I belong, I can just piss off and start my reign of terror somewhere anew. No such luck when you’re financially tied to the area — if you’re the shitty neighbor, congratulations! You’re married to the house until the whole town gets tired of you and straight-up murders your ass.

“But Pauli,” you say. “Just because you’d be a pathetic, black-hearted excuse of a house owner and, for that matter, human being, it doesn’t make every potential house owner a dickhead.” That’s true, it doesn’t automatically turn you into one — only potentially.

Like The Shining but for assholes.

It’s so, so very easy to get caught up in neighbor shenanigans to the extent that you’re elbow-deep in petty dickery yourself. Sometimes, all it takes is one asshole and a situation where you both own your houses and are thus unable or unwilling to move away. Take the story of yet another one of my friends, whom we’ll call Andy Mandude. For years and years, his family was tormented by a total asshole of a neighbor who kept stoning their dogs, deliberately blocking their car on the narrow road they shared, physically picking fights, and generally acting like a five-star asshat, usually running back to the safety of his own property at the slightest chance of getting a comeuppance. Over the years, the situation escalated into a terrifying real-life version of the many imaginary battles between Donald Duck and Neighbor Jones, including (but not limited to) antics such as:

– a full-hearted attempt to chainsaw down a flagpole – ongoing, liberal verbal abuse – several physical wrestling matches – actual freaking death threats – stoning and shooting of pets

Even Biggie and Tupac kept their beef human-side.

– a reluctant, ongoing truce that Andy fully acknowledges can and likely eventually will break right back into horror shenanigans.

And that’s hardly an isolated case. Google “neighbor arguments” and you’ll find thousands and thousands of assholes you’d gladly pick a fight with if you found yourself living next door to them, or just read some of the best ones right here. Who’s the asshole in those fights? Ask both parties, and they’ll point the finger at each other. Which means that if you’re in even a mild, petty neighborhood argument, you are automatically an asshole. Even if you are in the right.

Eventually, you’ll get tired of it and decide, “Fuck every last second of this. Owning this house isn’t worth an ulcer or a heart attack.” Or you’ll get old and realize you have too much space to take care of … or you’ll have a family and realize you need more space. So you’ll sell your home and buy another one. And the person who buys your house will inherit all of the old fuckery you had to deal with. They’ll complain about your half-assed repairs and their new psychotic, dog-shooting neighbor. They’ll bad luck their way into an exploding sewer pipe and blame you for being negligent. Meanwhile, you’ll be doing the same thing at your new house. And that, friends, is the Circle of Homeowner Life.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/2017/06/24/5-insane-true-stories-of-buying-the-house-from-hell/

[dapaywinduh-blog]

WWF Raw Time Machine: Week Seven

Despite promising that we'd get to see the Undertaker vs Skinner match that got cut off at the end of last week's show, Week Seven of Monday Night Raw doesn't even feature a mention of that bout. Instead, we are treated to a show-long bit, where Rob Bartlett does something that I cannot in good conscience call an impression. When he shows up on camera, he is in a terrible Elvis wig, aviators and a gold jacket. Eventually we get the idea that Bartlett is pretending to be Elvis because Wrestlemania 9 will be in Las Vegas, but his impression is dreadful, amounting to a vague southern accent and stuffing his face with food. Vince sure seems to think it is hilarious, though, and that's all that matters. We start with Headshrinker Fatu and his manager Wild Samoan Afa in the ring, and WWF World Champion Bret Hart making his entrance. The crowd is super hot for The Hitman, who has a big red scab on his nose for some reason. The two work a slow, boring match full of armbars and chinlocks. Early on, Bret trips over Fatu on a drop-down, and it is so blatantly fake it can only be a playing possum spot, but Vince suggests that Bret was tripped by Afa. The camera then cuts to an angle where we see Afa on the other side of the ring, nowhere near where Bret fell. Eventually, Headshrinker Samu shows up to beat on Bret outside the ring. This breaks open the scab on Bret's nose and he bleeds. Fatu bites it which is super gross. Samu tries a Twin Magic during an Afa distraction and gets a two count. Finally, Bret fights them all off and submits Fatu with the Sharpshooter while Samu's neck is tied in the ropes. This match was too long for what it was, and it was in that weird spot WWF used to do with Saturday Night's Main Event where they'd lead with the actual main event and then fill out the back of the hour with crap. With about one month to go until the big show, we get a Wrestlemania 9 Report insert. Mean Gene runs down the card, then breaks the fourth wall a bit to address Randy Savage at the commentary desk. He asks if Macho Man's outfit was painted by Joey Buttafuoco. Please, Gene. Save those jokes for Bartlett. After a break, we get an "interview" with Crush from the beach in Hawaii. Like the fake interplay between taped Mean Gene and Savage in the last segment, this is Vince talking to a video recording. Crush does a fake Hawaiian accent, says "Shaka brah", and crushes a coconut. Next up is Crush's opponent at Wrestlemania 9, Doink (the Clown). Doink brings a present to the ring, but doesn't open it. He is facing Koko B. Ware, who is dressed in his High Energy gear, but enters to " Bird Bird Bird". Annoyingly, Elvis Bartlett makes the same joke about Koko looking like Gary Coleman that he did in Episode One. Doink jumps Koko before the bell, and jobs him out using an impressive array of holds, including a single leg crab, an STF, a Funk Family spinning toe hold, and finally a stump puller to win. Afterwards, Vince suggests Rob Bartlett interview Doink. Bartlett continues his pitiful Elvis bit, and Doink opens the present he brought and takes out a pie, which he slams in Bartlett's face. This gets huge cheers from the crowd, which is probably not what Vince wanted for the heel Doink, but everyone hates Bartlett, not just me. When we come back from a break, Vince McMahon is in the ring to interview Money Inc. Ted Dibiase shows a newspaper clipping and talks about some guy from American Express who got a golden parachute severance package. No one cares. They then address Hulk Hogan coming out of retirement last week to form a new tag team with Brutus Beefcake, the Mega-Maniacs. Dibiase is annoyed at having to hear Hogan's music again. IRS gets huge "Irwin" chants, as he dubs the briefcase he hit Brutus with the "Beefcase" (YES) and shows a picture of Hulk he has taped to it with masking tape. They accept the challenge of the Mega-Maniacs for a title match at Mania, which is really odd, because Mean Gene already said they had accepted the challenge earlier during the Wrestlemania 9 Report. That'll show them to pretape segments. Our next contest features The Narcissist Lex Luger taking on PJ Walker. "PJ Walker" is the jobber name of one PJ Polaco, who would go on to be Aldo Montoya, the Portuguese Man-o-War, and then ECW World Champion Justin Credible. He has a full head of hair and knockoff Rockers tights. During the match, Bobby Heenan does a phone interview. He does bad comedy with Bartlett and promotes All American Wrestling, his weekend show. It isn't good. Mercifully, Luger hits the loaded forearm and uses a pinky to pin the guy Paul Heyman used to make me watch have boring matches in 2000. Then Vince tells us that coming up next, we'll see the Steiner Brothers, "Rob and Scott". Good work. Our final match is The Steiners vs the team of Duane Gill and Barry Hardy. Duane Gill, of course, would go on to become WWF Light Heavyweight Champion during the Attitude Era as the shameless parody character Gillberg, and Barry Hardy looks like an uglier Al Snow. Wikipedia tells me that the Hardy/Gill team often went by the moniker "The Lords of Darkness" and my god that is a terrible name for two rednecks with matching bleach blonde mullets. Not much to talk about here, as Barry gets brutalized, then tags Duane in so he can get brutalized too. He takes the Frankensteiner and the pinfall. At the commentary desk, Vince tells us that next week we will get a tag team match between champs Money Inc. and the formidable pairing of El Matador and Virgil. Then Macho Man chimes in to mention we will also see Mr. Perfect vs Rick Martel, which is kind of a case of Vince totally burying the lede here. That is a way better match to promote than Money Inc. against Tito and Virgil! Anyway, Vince then takes it upon himself to invite Elvis Bartlett back next week. Shoot me now.

[lifeasarandomdudeknowsit-blog]

Entry #345 - I Respect You, Armchair Bookerman

Last night, I had the brilliant idea to try going to bed at a relatively early time so as to fix my sleep schedule so I would be able to wake earlier in the mornings.  I turned off all the lights at around 10:30 PM, ready to fall fast asleep and wake with my alarm.  Then my mind woke up and I could not stop thinking about things.  When I finally decided to check the time, two hours had passed.  I did eventually fall asleep, but it was nearly 2 AM when I did.  Which isn't to say that's necessarily a bad thing.  I'm fairly certain that my mind is most active during the evening hours, and going to bed before it really has a chance to get some work done is doing a disservice to myself.  We'll see what transpires tonight, I suppose.

Now, if you'll allow me to indulge in writing down what I was thinking about last night, I would like to do a bit of armchair booking the Royal Rumble, which is happening this Sunday.  My mind was racing with possibilities.  Probably my favorite aspect of not only the Royal Rumble but Wrestlemania is that there are so many variables and potential matchups that just about anything will end up entertaining me.  Keep in mind that this is something I would like to see, not necessarily what I think will happen.  I'm probably only going to talk about the Rumble itself, then do some fantasy booking for Wrestlemania.

I'm not going to break down every competitor and elimination, though I may speculate on some surprise entrants.  I think two NXT performers will enter the Rumble match: Tye Dillinger (appropriately at #10) and Samoa Joe.  Joe has been off NXT programming for a while, and he would make a hell of an addition to an already stacked match.  In fact, I would go so far as to say he may even be in my final four competitors.  If, for some reason, Joe is not in the match (which would be a huge missed opportunity), you can replace him with Baron Corbin in the final four.

As far as the end of the Rumble match goes, I would love to see this happen.  In order for this scenario to work properly, Kevin Owens has to retain his title.  If that does not happen, I don't know what to say.  Anyway, the final four would be Samoa Joe, The Undertaker, Braun Strowman, and Sami Zayn (I want to see Zayn enter at the #1 position to build the drama).  Taker eliminates Joe (or Corbin as the case may be), Strowman eliminates Taker.  This leaves Zayn and Strowman, to possibly prove once and for all who wins this feud.  Zayn gets Strowman really close to elimination, but in the end, Strowman takes Zayn out and thinks he wins the Rumble...only for Chris Jericho, who had been knocked out of the ring earlier but not eliminated, to slide back into the ring and eliminate Strowman, winning the Rumble.

The next night on Raw, Strowman demands retribution.  He is put into a United States Title match with Jericho, and proceeds to destroy Jericho and win the US Title. Strowman goes on a tear, defeating every competitor in his path, until Wrestlemania, where he is made to face off once again with Zayn.  And, in a truly chilling moment, Zayn gets the victory and claims his first main roster title.  Zayn's performance at the Rumble this year could be foreshadowing for next year, when he again enters from one of the first two spots, but next year, he wins it and goes on to face Owens again, who has recaptured the Universal Title...but I'm getting ahead of myself here.

So Jericho and Owens are destined to have a major match, and nothing would be more appropriate than the main event of Wrestlemania.  The cracks have been forming in their friendship for a few weeks now, and Jericho is already such a fan favorite that it would be silly not to break these two up.  I have the Rumble eliminations go as they do to keep Jericho a crowd favorite while also making sure that Strowman and Zayn keep their own crowd heat for their blowoff match.  Anyway, I want to see Jericho win at Wrestlemania, gain the Universal Title, then have Owens invoke his rematch clause the night after, destroy Jericho, and regain the title.  There are apparently rumblings that Jericho wants to go back on tour with his band, and there would be no better sendoff than to re-establish Owens as a monster heel.  This has the potential to be a feud of the year if properly pulled off.  Same goes for Zayn and Strowman.  But this is my fantasy booking, and I highly doubt anyone from WWE is reading this.

As far as a Wrestlemania card goes, I honestly don't know how they're going to cram everything into the show.  At least all the matches I would like to see.  Aside from the title matches (seeing as how there are NINE titles, I wouldn't be surprised if a couple of them are either defended on the pre-show or not at all, which would be a shame), there are very likely to be quite a few marquee matchups and special attraction matches.  It's nearly a lock that we're going to get Lesnar vs. Goldberg III, in which Lesnar finally conquers his last demon (and when he and Paul Heyman come out the next night to celebrate, we get the main roster debut of Shinsuke Nakamura, which will probably get the biggest crowd pop ever).  There were talks last year of Big Show facing Shaquille O'Neal after Shaq's entrance in the Andre the Giant Memorial Battle Royal last year.  There's the aforementioned Battle Royal, which basically anyone can win (maybe Rusev?).  There's Rollins vs. HHH. And then there's The Undertaker, who, at this point, could fight just about anyone and I would love to see it.  Though special mention would go to one of three men: John Cena, AJ Styles, or Samoa Joe. Any of those three would provide a fantastic foil for Taker, who is probably going to retire either this year or next.  As far as title matches, I'm hoping for a Cruiserweight Title ladder match, Bayley snapping Charlotte's singles PPV win streak, and...well...as far as the other titles are concerned (aside from the ones already mentioned), those are pretty up in the air right now.

This is why I'm enjoying the product right now.  There are no guarantees.  If Jericho doesn't win the Rumble, I'll be disappointed, but if, say, Samoa Joe, Taker, or several of the other already-entered competitors win, I'll still be satisfied with the win.  And even if Jericho vs. Owens isn't for the Universal Title, they'll still have a great blowoff match.  There is so much star power and so many amazing in-ring competitors in WWE right now, it's difficult to create a major card that doesn't have at least a few big money matches that are sure to entertain.

I thought about keeping this going, but I think I shall stop now.  It would be a surprise for anyone reading this to not only understand what I'm talking about, but manage to make it through my insane ramblings about things that more than likely will not happen.  But hey, a man can dream, right?

[atrocitycl]

GFriend - “Europe That GFriend Loves” Show Review

Sky Travel – Episode 1 Part 1 (Eng. Subtitled)

GFriend – Europe That GFriend Loves

Reviewed on January 13, 2017

Finally focusing on the review itself, although many fans (and even myself) found Sky Travel’s reality show of GFriend to be delightful on a more superficial level, I argue that if we approach the show with a more critical mind, we would find a less pleasing reality: the footages are great, but Sky Travel’s own editing is rather questionable.

Personal Message: Edit: This review was meant to be posted on January 10, but this is irrelevant to the review itself though it applies to the Personal Message. With some days off to reflect over what I wrote in the Personal Message, while I was harsher than intended during my time of writing--due to being in an emotional state--I have decided to still keep it as I find it important to be open and truthful to readers.

If I am on task, there should be at least three reviews being posted today—this included and the only “bonus.” 

Admittedly to share (and readers interested in just the review should skip ahead), I am writing this bonus review first and not after the two song reviews as I currently am not in the best state of mind; while nothing drastic occurred per se minus a very worthless argument, as I do believe in being honest and to reveal to readers I am definitely far from “perfect” or “good,” I have a rather poor relationship with my father. I bring this up as, due to a conflict we had—this being far from “uncommon” as we are bound to clash to some degree, I am simply a bit angry and thus am not thinking nor even acting as maturely as I should. Overall, my main message is that since my writing needs a “break,” I decided to write a bonus review (as I am too inexperienced to give a thorough, just review of shows) in the meantime.

I only bring up this very vulnerable, personal information because I do wish for readers to understand me as any normal human being. I am not “morally superior” or “perfect” at all contrary to how I unintentionally might make myself sound with reviews. For example, despite my own teachings of being mature and respectful to everyone, I very much myself increased my speaking volume and conducted myself in a more aggressive manner versus being calm and attempting to “talk it out”—even if he has never done such in the time I have known him. Instead, I succumbed to his inferior, barbaric level and to that I am very disappointed in myself and I know I could have and should have acted better and hope to do so in the future. (And on a side note, I do wonder if this very intimate relationship being ruined is why I tend to struggle with having close male friends, and more so with being close to my mother. Barring my brother, who I sincerely love and am incredibly close with, I find it difficult to trust and become emotionally close to males. Overall, as some readers might better understand, my situation relates to Infinite’s Hoya’s own relationship struggle with his father: we still do care for one another, but our relationship is awkward and lacks closeness.)

But, for what truly matters and for what I wish to share and teach from this digression, what matters in the end is not endlessly holding grudges against people—a rather emotionally unhealthy route; what matters most is to accept and understand one’s emotions, but to then take control of those very emotions in a healthy and empowering manner. I could let this and the past arguments ruin my day or more dramatically my entire life with wishing for the experience of a true father who did more than provide me with money, but I refuse to do that. (And on the topic of money, perhaps crudely said, I still have respect and love to him due to money being provided from his hard work—and indeed, in the far future, I will pay back money due to filial duties even if my emotional needs were never met). I refuse to let one individual have that type of negative influence in my life—this being what I wish to remind readers (and perhaps even future students). Yes, I understand where he comes from and why he behaves poorly—his own neglected childhood life from both parents—but unlike him and especially with the capacity to critically think, I know I can ethically do better: instead of spreading negativity, I know I have a responsibility to spread joy, optimism, and most importantly, to teach others to critically think. (And on a side note, this is why teachers mattered in my life; teachers have been the ones who have made me realize I am not stupid and worthless, and it is teachers who have truly emotionally and intellectually matured me.)

Pushing aside the more solemn digression and admittedly a chance for me to immaturely vent and open up more about myself, let us return to a more cheerful tone: reviewing Europe That GFriend Loves. After finally finishing the series, I knew I had to write a review for it—even if I have excessively reviewed shows with GFriend. To explain once again why this is the case, I have recently been predominantly watching shows with the ladies and thus, it is only natural that out of every show I could possibly review, GFriend is automatically the artist involved. Of course, though, given that show reviews are mere bonuses and elicit minimal discussion compared to song reviews, I hope it is not an issue with readers that as of the late all show reviews involve GFriend.

Addressing the link, unlike the usual protocol of using a YouTube video—and more specifically, a YouTube playlist of the series—I am instead using the first part to episode one on V App. Many readers should be familiar with V App, but for those who are not, it is a website that many idols use for live broadcasts or for uploading dance practices. Since I cannot create a playlist on the site, I am only linking the first episode but that said, all of the remaining episodes can be found on GFriend’s V App page. If that is not already delightful enough, indeed all of the episodes are English subtitled. Therefore, readers should all be able to enjoy the show without language barriers (though, as in the cases of all translations, there are many lost-in-translations compared to if, say, a fan-subbing team did the subtitles themselves and were able to explain the translations).

Finally focusing on the review itself, although many fans (and even myself) found Sky Travel’s reality show of GFriend to be delightful on a more superficial level, I argue that if we approach the show with a more critical mind, we would find a less pleasing reality: the footages are great, but Sky Travel’s own editing is rather questionable. _______________________________________________________

Plot Summary: Before explaining my prior point, though, let us first understand what Sky Travel’s Europe That GFriend Loves is even about.

First of all, the entirety of GFriend was to attend the show, but sadly, due to Umji having an ankle injury (if correct), she remained at home in South Korea while the rest of the members went to Europe. There, the remaining five ladies visit three countries for three days (if accurate): Slovenia, Hungary, and Austria. More specifically, however, the five members split up into three groups that then visited their own particular country: Yuju and Eunha visiting Austria; SinB and Yerin visiting Slovenia; and Sowon visiting Hungary—barring one day where she went with Yuju and Eunha to Austria. (And as mentioned, she is alone due to the fact that her would-be partner Umji was injured).

In terms of the events that occur, while I obviously will not list out everything that happened, the following is a general outline of GFriend’s activities: eating, sightseeing, visiting landmarks, attending museums and traditional activities, struggling with transportation, and so on. Ultimately, Europe That GFriend Loves directly follows, if readers have watched other traveling shows before, the very genre of “travel reality”—there is nothing new in particular to the show when compared to this genre’s concept.  

_______________________________________________________

Overall Value: 5/10 (5.0/10 raw score) - “Average”

- Entertainment Value: 7/10

- Structural Value: 3/10

_______________________________________________________

Analysis: Onto the review itself, I wish to return to what I stated earlier and to thoroughly explain what I mean. In terms of the show’s strength, what occurs in the show—the footage, essentially—is very much appealing for a variety of viewers. For example, from the perspective of GFriend’s fans, fans are able to watch the group’s usual antics. From playfully flirting with each other—or perhaps that might just be Yerin being “greasy” towards SinB (I mean this in a joking, friendly manner of course)—to learning more about the ladies’ dorm life and personalities, fans of GFriend will very much enjoy the show for it simply sharing more about our beloved members.

That said, for viewers who may not necessarily be fans or are fans who still equally care about the traveling aspect (such as in my case), the show is still a hit. While shows at most give a vicarious experience and will never replace genuine and actual traveling, Europe That GFriend Loves still manages to capture the experience well. For example, the show’s narration, of which is done by Umji, added historical context for every important figure or location. Furthermore, while GFriend members are the main focus, the show still brings attention to the surrounding and had many wonderful shots of purely locations and landmarks. Add on the final part of how the seen activities varied—traditional dances, eating, how GFriend prepared for the trip, and so on—and indeed we come to find that the raw footage to the traveling show is all appealing.

Ignoring those strengths, however, for where Sky Travel falters, on a more critical level their editing of the footages is not impressive. Rather than viewers just purely joining the ladies, for a large portion of time viewers have to equally endure repetitive, cliché messages such as—to create an example that encapsulates my point—captions that read: “And so Sowon becomes independent…learning to enjoy traveling alone…eating alone…walking alone…but in heart she is with all her members…” Even the narration—which, of course, is not Umji’s fault—contributes to the overly cliché messages.

Understandably, readers might be skeptical about me bringing up this point: Why can’t I just ignore these moments? They seem meaningless to pay so much attention to. I only bring it up because I argue it does impact viewers’ enjoyment of the show. With watching the show, it is reasonable to expect that the large majority of it consists of GFriend and their traveling. Post-interviews of course are fine—and those in specific were well implemented throughout—but when the transitions per “traveling pair” (such as switching from Yuju and Eunha to Sowon) consists of a minute of replaying the same, prior footages with the addition of cliché messages and bright, glowing filters, it does become agitating by the sixth episode. This is not to necessarily bash those messages; even if cliché, there were some important messages such as how traveling can expand one’s view of the world and so forth. The issue is how Sky Travel did such: at the expense of viewers. If the time spent on the messages were shorter, or if the footages used there were not merely replaying moments already watched, these parts would have served as great transitions. But, unfortunately, I find that these points are excessive.

Overall, Europe That GFriend Loves rates as average and to that I find that I agree. Even if GFriend is entertaining as they always are and that the events the ladies had in Europe were great, it is Sky Travel’s editing that truly reduces down a lot of appeal. Perhaps I am overly harsh, but I find that it is best for travel shows—or for that matter, even reality shows (and I refer to Korean reality shows as I recently discovered this genre significantly varies per culture)—to let the footage speak for itself: rather than Sky Travel literally writing how Sowon learned to have fun alone or that SinB and Yerin gained new insight due to experiencing another culture, I find it would have been more impactful to have the footages show that the members grew as a result. And besides, that is why the post-travel interviews were added: to add the explicit component of how the members grew. Flowery, cliché captions and narration are simply unnecessary.

Again, it should be noted this review is far from professional and is definitely a biased take as I do not understand the artistic and technical work behind producing shows and that I feel much more comfortable in the realm of music, but I do hope the review provides some insight as to why I did not enjoy the show as much as I could have. For the momentous question of whether I recommend watching the show or not, my answer is simple: for GFriend fans, this show is definitely worth watching. However, for those who are watching it because they are curious about certain European countries or wish to have a travel-orientated show, I do not recommend the show in these cases.

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This review will be one out of three that are posted today. I have many requests to do, but before reaching those review requests I plan to finish reviews I am almost finished with. As such, look forward to song reviews and I hope that this review provides some variety to the blog. Look for SHINee’s “1 of 1” and AOA’s “Excuse Me” as, if I am diligent, both will be posted along with this current one.